It appears I've focused this blog a wee-bit heavily toward my son Michael. But can you blame me? He's a groovy little kid and I delight in sharing his exploits. I've promised myself, however, that I would devote this entire posting to something other than little Michael. There is only one problem - As a stay-at-home Dad I really don't have that much to talk about.
I could delve into a thrilling account of a rather pesky pimple taking up residence on my nose. The little red bugger began visiting two weeks ago. The visit morphed into a vacation, and before I knew it, the zit was signing mortgage papers. I guess we're going to have to learn to live together.
Or, I could share the exciting news about my answering machine. I have a voice mail from Rev. Robert Fulghum saved for all to hear. That would be "best-selling author and noted minister Robert Fulghum," who wrote the timeless classic "All I really need to know I learned in Kindergarten." Apparently he suffered a spider bite bringing forth shingles before he called, and he sounds like death warmed over, but IT'S REALLY HIM!!! The esteemed Reverend has graciously agreed to visit our Unitarian church here in Boise this weekend. We can't believe our good fortune! I was lucky enough to speak with him last week, and April and I are going to attend a dinner party with Fulghum on Saturday night (nodding smugly while tugging on my tuxedo).
But who wants to hear boring tales about me having dinner with best-selling authors anyway? If there is one thing I know, it's my audience (hi Mom!), and my audience will not rest until I convey the tale of how April and I are being haunted by the ghost of our cat Smores.
Let me be perfectly clear - I've never really believed in ghosts or the supernatural. It's not that I haven't wanted to believe. I just never seem to cross paths with anything ghostly. During college April and I rented the creepiest, spookiest old house we could find. I remember moving in with giddy anticipation of witnessing chairs flying across the room, ghouls appearing in the bathroom mirror, and blood-curdling screams in the dead of night.
Only nothing happened. Not a single incident. I crept ever-so-nervously down the creeky hallway in the dark, practically begging a ghost to jump out and frighten me. I spent hours chanting "Bloody Mary" in front of the mirror. Nothing!
It's not that the house lacked terrifying entities. They just all happened to be living. You see, the house was indeed haunted, but only by hairy "hobo" spiders. Brown recluse spiders, for those of you from the east coast. They were creepy, all right, but not exactly spirits from the great beyond.
Thus I venture through life without any real belief in ghosts. So you can imagine my surprise when I realized that April and I are indeed being haunted. By our dead cat, no less.
I've written about Smores, in this blog before. She was a great pet and a loving addition to our family. Unfortunately, she suffered massive kidney failure around the holidays and ventured forth to the great scratching post in the sky.
This is where our tale crosses over into another dimension. A dimension of sight and sound and all the other Twilight Zone references I'm forgetting. Just a couple of nights after Smores passed away, April felt something stuck in her ear. She promptly reached up and pulled out a large cat whisker.
We lived with Smores for more than 10 years and neither of us ever woke up in the middle of the night with a cat whisker stuck in our ears. Spooky!
About a week later I was deeply involved in my usual dreaming -- clowns jumping on cotton candy clouds and humming "I am the Walrus" while gum drops rain from the sky -- when all of a sudden Smores casually entered the dream. She strolled up to me revealing secrets from the great beyond, only in cat language so I couldn't understand it. Thanks for nothing! She rubbed against my legs with purr-motor in full gear. I felt completely at peace and content. It was like she was saying, "Thanks Dad, I feel great here!"
She then casually strolled out of the dream and I resumed my adventures with the clowns. I woke up that morning with that same peaceful and content feeling. I am convinced Smores visited me in my dream that night to let me know everything is all right. She was not the focus of the dream. She just popped in to say, "Hi." Oooooooh!!!
Still not convinced? How about this tale -- April and I finally broke down and traded in the Corolla a couple of weeks ago for a bright-green Jeep. Yes, I know, the Corolla is dependable. It gets good gas mileage, blah, blah, blah. IT WAS BORING!! I never liked that car. Every time I exited the grocery store, I found myself tugging on the door of at least three silver Corollas before I stumbled upon my own. It was the ultimate snoozer.
April's had her eye on a Jeep since high school. A combination of winter blues, the fact we're both turning 30 this year, and pure boredom convinced us the time was right. April ventured to the dealership and picked out the greenest machine you've ever seen! (I call it "The Hulk" for obvious reasons). After signing the papers and settling in for the ride home, April noticed something laying on the seat. Stunned, she proceeded to pick up a large white cat whisker. Boogedy Boogedy Boo!!
I'm not sure why Smores felt compelled to haunt us in our new Jeep. She always hated cars. But I'm not complaining. Here's to many more hauntings Smores! We miss you, we love you, and we'll see you soon!
Be good kiddies!
- Dave
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Seeing the light
It's been a while since the last posting. I've been locked away in my laboratory feverishly typing words into a small electronic box for a "sermon" to read before the masses. Or my mom. A nice little ditty filled with nuggets of wisdom regarding bowling, labels and Elvis Presley. Deep stuff boy! Amen.
Anyhoo, I guess I'm in a spiritual frame of mind today because I just had a genuine religious experience. I attend the local Unitarian Universalist Church, and if you know anything about the UU's, we tend to shun "religious experiences." In fact we don't really like religion at all and we still go to church every Sunday. It makes perfect sense to us!
I'm relatively new to these "religious experiences" and I didn't know quite how to react. I didn't know if I should throw my hands up in the air and shout "Hallelujah!," or surrender to a fainting swoon, or run around the building and light my hair on fire. I'm new at this remember.
The funny thing is my experience didn't happen anywhere near a church. There were no crosses on the walls and no choir singing toward the heavens. There was no minister present and the only "good books" available were targeted specifically for grade-schoolers. My genuine religious experience actually took place at the doctor's office. Who knew?
I'll set the scene -- Michael and I are sitting side-by-side in your typical doctor's office. White walls, a large "super-chair" that rises to the ceiling and probably picks up satellite television, and oversized posters of various muscles and organs within the human body. A virtual epicenter of spiritual energy!
The doctor is sitting beside us, studiously jotting down notes as I relay every last detail of the "nut incident" to her. If you've read this blog, you know what I'm talking about. Newcomers should just know that April and I decided to feed Michael nuts a couple of weeks ago. We did this knowing full well that Michael is allergic to nearly every food on Planet Earth. In our defense, he had never actually tried nuts before! As you might guess, the result wasn't pretty. The ensuing screaming, vomiting and near fainting earned us a trip to the minor emergency center and took about five years off our lives.
When I finished my monologue, breathless and begging for forgiveness, the doctor calmly walked over and began examining Michael. There was a painful silence in the room, so naturally I began droning on about how Michael was diagnosed with pervasive developmental disorder and spent the past six months undergoing evaluations to qualify for a special-needs preschool. I'm still not sure why I did this. I guess the "spirit moved me," as they say.
When she finished examining Michael, she looked me straight in the eye and smiled. "He looks great! He looks so healthy! You've done such a great job!"
At that moment I had to fight back tears. A choir of angels began singing and the eternal light of the holy shone directly into the room. At that moment our doctor might as well have been The Virgin Mary herself. Placing the hand of love directly on my soul.
I was speechless.
I have been taking Michael to evaluations for as long as I can remember. There were screaming fits as a baby. Purchasing a helmet to straighten out his oddly-shaped head. An extremely rough bout of the flu resulting in a night of IV treatment. More screaming fits eventually diagnosed as severe food allergies. And finally, diagnosis of pervasive developmental disorder and six months of various evaluations.
Each appointment consisted of meeting with "experts" and pondering the various matters "wrong" with Michael. What needed to be poked at. Prodded. Fixed. I can't remember a single time when one of these "experts" said anything remotely positive about Michael or myself.
Until today.
Our doctor took a moment to see Michael for who he truly is. To see the beaming three-year-old with wavy hair, bright brown eyes and an infectious laugh. She didn't see problems. She saw beauty. And she paid a complement to the tired, confused, and overwhelmed parent spending every waking moment trying his best not to screw everything up.
I want to praise this doctor from the bottom of my heart. For showing me anew the beautiful boy I am raising. For pulling away from the negative and shining light on the positive. It may have been an innocent comment in her eyes, but it resonated with a certain overwhelmed Dad seeking reassurance.
I should have said these things earlier today in the examining room. Said them in person. But like most people caught in the throws of a religious experience, I was too overwhelmed for speeches. I simply responded with the most spiritual, loving phrase I could think of.
"Thank you."
Be good kiddies.
- Dave
Anyhoo, I guess I'm in a spiritual frame of mind today because I just had a genuine religious experience. I attend the local Unitarian Universalist Church, and if you know anything about the UU's, we tend to shun "religious experiences." In fact we don't really like religion at all and we still go to church every Sunday. It makes perfect sense to us!
I'm relatively new to these "religious experiences" and I didn't know quite how to react. I didn't know if I should throw my hands up in the air and shout "Hallelujah!," or surrender to a fainting swoon, or run around the building and light my hair on fire. I'm new at this remember.
The funny thing is my experience didn't happen anywhere near a church. There were no crosses on the walls and no choir singing toward the heavens. There was no minister present and the only "good books" available were targeted specifically for grade-schoolers. My genuine religious experience actually took place at the doctor's office. Who knew?
I'll set the scene -- Michael and I are sitting side-by-side in your typical doctor's office. White walls, a large "super-chair" that rises to the ceiling and probably picks up satellite television, and oversized posters of various muscles and organs within the human body. A virtual epicenter of spiritual energy!
The doctor is sitting beside us, studiously jotting down notes as I relay every last detail of the "nut incident" to her. If you've read this blog, you know what I'm talking about. Newcomers should just know that April and I decided to feed Michael nuts a couple of weeks ago. We did this knowing full well that Michael is allergic to nearly every food on Planet Earth. In our defense, he had never actually tried nuts before! As you might guess, the result wasn't pretty. The ensuing screaming, vomiting and near fainting earned us a trip to the minor emergency center and took about five years off our lives.
When I finished my monologue, breathless and begging for forgiveness, the doctor calmly walked over and began examining Michael. There was a painful silence in the room, so naturally I began droning on about how Michael was diagnosed with pervasive developmental disorder and spent the past six months undergoing evaluations to qualify for a special-needs preschool. I'm still not sure why I did this. I guess the "spirit moved me," as they say.
When she finished examining Michael, she looked me straight in the eye and smiled. "He looks great! He looks so healthy! You've done such a great job!"
At that moment I had to fight back tears. A choir of angels began singing and the eternal light of the holy shone directly into the room. At that moment our doctor might as well have been The Virgin Mary herself. Placing the hand of love directly on my soul.
I was speechless.
I have been taking Michael to evaluations for as long as I can remember. There were screaming fits as a baby. Purchasing a helmet to straighten out his oddly-shaped head. An extremely rough bout of the flu resulting in a night of IV treatment. More screaming fits eventually diagnosed as severe food allergies. And finally, diagnosis of pervasive developmental disorder and six months of various evaluations.
Each appointment consisted of meeting with "experts" and pondering the various matters "wrong" with Michael. What needed to be poked at. Prodded. Fixed. I can't remember a single time when one of these "experts" said anything remotely positive about Michael or myself.
Until today.
Our doctor took a moment to see Michael for who he truly is. To see the beaming three-year-old with wavy hair, bright brown eyes and an infectious laugh. She didn't see problems. She saw beauty. And she paid a complement to the tired, confused, and overwhelmed parent spending every waking moment trying his best not to screw everything up.
I want to praise this doctor from the bottom of my heart. For showing me anew the beautiful boy I am raising. For pulling away from the negative and shining light on the positive. It may have been an innocent comment in her eyes, but it resonated with a certain overwhelmed Dad seeking reassurance.
I should have said these things earlier today in the examining room. Said them in person. But like most people caught in the throws of a religious experience, I was too overwhelmed for speeches. I simply responded with the most spiritual, loving phrase I could think of.
"Thank you."
Be good kiddies.
- Dave
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
The journey begins
Huge development at the Ward castle! After three and a half years of hanging out with his Dad in our boring house, Michael has made "the leap" and begun attending preschool! Can you believe it? I apologize for the lengthy break between blog postings, but the process to get Michael into preschool was lengthy and accomplished only through vows of silence. Well, after two weeks, the powers that be have granted permission to lift that silence.
Allow me to indulge you in The Chronicles of Michael - The Preschool Saga.
Our tale begins two weeks ago on a snowy afternoon. I opened my mailbox to find a plain brown envelope with the words "ACME" stamped across it. I knew by its inconspicuous nature that it must be the Navy SEALS attempting to contact me. You might recall that Michael's first evaluation for the preschool program was conducted by "therapists" that I am convinced were actually Navy SEALS with the ability to disappear at will. They left no trace of their presence, and instructed us to "wait for further instructions."
I received those instructions one week later via the envelope. They informed April and I that Michael was indeed being considered for the developmental preschool program, and to "wait for further instructions." The message then immediately caught fire, disappearing within seconds.
A few days later the phone rang and a mysterious voice inquired about Michael and his program. This voice instructed April, Michael and I to attend a top-secret meeting at the local elementary school at a specific date and time. I couldn't make out the rest, because a surge of white noise overtook the phone. An obvious attempt by the Communists to intercept the call. Or, it could have something to do with the fact that we bought our phone on sale at Target for around 99 cents. Either way, we knew this was important stuff!
The afternoon of our top-secret meeting featured yet another round of Idaho snow flurries. This constant barrage of the white stuff reminds me of an old joke-letter I read once. It features a Californian who moves to Idaho and is extremely excited while witnessing his first snow storm. He remarks how beautiful the white powder is, and what a "winter wonderland" he is enjoying. The letter features several journal entries over the course of a winter, with each entry growing more angry and resentful of the snow. His final entries feature nothing but cursing and berating the "winter wonderland" that just won't go away. That is exactly how I feel when I wake up each morning and see more of that @$%%^$# snow falling from the #&*%$# sky!!
Anyhoo, April and I stuffed Michael into the Zamboni and plowed through 15-foot snowbanks uphill both ways to school. When we arrived we were quickly ushered into a small conference room and told to "wait for further instructions." A few minutes passed before the school principal, nurse, preschool teacher, psychologist, janitor, and lunch lady all entered the room and sat down at the conference table. It is rumored that the head of the CIA, several members of Congress, and former President Bill Clinton were all scheduled to attend the meeting, but could not make it for various reasons. Regardless, it was quite the professional affair for a single kid pondering preschool. But who am I to question the ways of the world?
What followed was a 30-minute session with adults seriously scrutinizing the inner-workings of a three-year-old, while said three-year-old sat a few feet away in blissful ignorance, drawing pretty pictures with markers and rolling around on the floor.
All parties agree to let Michael attend the developmental preschool for a few days, while being observed by "experts." After Michael attends these classes, the super official ones will decide whether little Michael qualifies to attend the program full time.
So here we are! Michael attended his first preschool class yesterday morning. He spent two and a half blissful hours playing with clay, eating snacks, looking at books in the library and hanging out with fellow peers. Today he went on his first field-trip to the bowling alley, where he mastered the art of rolling a bowling ball and twirling around in a circle simultaneously.
After hearing about all of the fun he's been having, I immediately called the Navy SEAL "therapists" and asked if they had a preschool program for bored stay-at-home parents, but that darn white noise overtook the phone again before I got an answer. Leave me alone, commies!
Thus concludes the first chapter of The Chronicles of Michael - The Preschool Saga. Stay tuned for future chapters as the little guy embarks on more adventures while Dad remains bored and blogs all day!
Be good kiddies!!
- Dave
Allow me to indulge you in The Chronicles of Michael - The Preschool Saga.
Our tale begins two weeks ago on a snowy afternoon. I opened my mailbox to find a plain brown envelope with the words "ACME" stamped across it. I knew by its inconspicuous nature that it must be the Navy SEALS attempting to contact me. You might recall that Michael's first evaluation for the preschool program was conducted by "therapists" that I am convinced were actually Navy SEALS with the ability to disappear at will. They left no trace of their presence, and instructed us to "wait for further instructions."
I received those instructions one week later via the envelope. They informed April and I that Michael was indeed being considered for the developmental preschool program, and to "wait for further instructions." The message then immediately caught fire, disappearing within seconds.
A few days later the phone rang and a mysterious voice inquired about Michael and his program. This voice instructed April, Michael and I to attend a top-secret meeting at the local elementary school at a specific date and time. I couldn't make out the rest, because a surge of white noise overtook the phone. An obvious attempt by the Communists to intercept the call. Or, it could have something to do with the fact that we bought our phone on sale at Target for around 99 cents. Either way, we knew this was important stuff!
The afternoon of our top-secret meeting featured yet another round of Idaho snow flurries. This constant barrage of the white stuff reminds me of an old joke-letter I read once. It features a Californian who moves to Idaho and is extremely excited while witnessing his first snow storm. He remarks how beautiful the white powder is, and what a "winter wonderland" he is enjoying. The letter features several journal entries over the course of a winter, with each entry growing more angry and resentful of the snow. His final entries feature nothing but cursing and berating the "winter wonderland" that just won't go away. That is exactly how I feel when I wake up each morning and see more of that @$%%^$# snow falling from the #&*%$# sky!!
Anyhoo, April and I stuffed Michael into the Zamboni and plowed through 15-foot snowbanks uphill both ways to school. When we arrived we were quickly ushered into a small conference room and told to "wait for further instructions." A few minutes passed before the school principal, nurse, preschool teacher, psychologist, janitor, and lunch lady all entered the room and sat down at the conference table. It is rumored that the head of the CIA, several members of Congress, and former President Bill Clinton were all scheduled to attend the meeting, but could not make it for various reasons. Regardless, it was quite the professional affair for a single kid pondering preschool. But who am I to question the ways of the world?
What followed was a 30-minute session with adults seriously scrutinizing the inner-workings of a three-year-old, while said three-year-old sat a few feet away in blissful ignorance, drawing pretty pictures with markers and rolling around on the floor.
All parties agree to let Michael attend the developmental preschool for a few days, while being observed by "experts." After Michael attends these classes, the super official ones will decide whether little Michael qualifies to attend the program full time.
So here we are! Michael attended his first preschool class yesterday morning. He spent two and a half blissful hours playing with clay, eating snacks, looking at books in the library and hanging out with fellow peers. Today he went on his first field-trip to the bowling alley, where he mastered the art of rolling a bowling ball and twirling around in a circle simultaneously.
After hearing about all of the fun he's been having, I immediately called the Navy SEAL "therapists" and asked if they had a preschool program for bored stay-at-home parents, but that darn white noise overtook the phone again before I got an answer. Leave me alone, commies!
Thus concludes the first chapter of The Chronicles of Michael - The Preschool Saga. Stay tuned for future chapters as the little guy embarks on more adventures while Dad remains bored and blogs all day!
Be good kiddies!!
- Dave
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
