SuperBall

Yesterday was a beautiful day here. We did some wrestling in the morning while it was still cool. Tigger and Mongo both enjoy wrestling, but they have different ideas about it. Mongo likes to run up, and then just sort of fall over on me. Not too big a deal. Well, Tigger is named so for a very good reason. He doesn't understand subdue. He only knows annihilation. So he's all knees and speed. But there was justice.

...

Later in the day, when my neck stopped feeling so stiff, and my headache had diminished some, Tig and I went out in the driveway to play with a SuperBall that he had. He is boundless in his determination and exemplary attitude. At this point. I enjoy playing these kinds of semi-athletic games with him. He has adopted a habit of encouragement and affirmation while playing such games, whether it's with me or with his little brother, Mongo. He also tends to be somewhat self-depracating, making comments to the effect that he's still too little, and that someday when he's bigger for skateboards, and whiskers too, that things will be different. I refuse to tell him that no, they won't. He'll find out on his own soon enough.

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As I toss the ball in his direction he loves to watch it bounce, and encourages me to bounce it over his head. And I think he wants to catch it, but it isn't happening for him. I mean, it's not like he's getting close but he just can't close the deal. It's more like he is completely not even anywhere close to being remotely in the realm of catching the ball. It has hit him on a soft bounce right in the ribs. But, being a superball, it bounces off. The thing I see isn't a lack of desire. And he's demonstrated athletic prowess before in areas like bike riding, walking, and falling. No. I think the problem is that he's looking at his hands the whole time. Don't take your eyes off your hands.

...

I started to wonder, as I watched him, how many times I've gone through the day with my eyes on my hands. I started to wonder how many times has my Father lobbed me a soft one and giggled a little as it bounced off my ribs. I kept throwing the ball with Tigger, mostly because I enjoy playing with him. Not in a cat playing with a mouse way, but a father and son sort of way.

...

Not to leave you hanging. Earlier I said there was justice. Later that same day, I heard a new noise from the back room. This is what I found. Sweet, sweet justice, roll on like a mighty river.

It's all about the Pizza (part 2)

Previously, on it's all about the pizza...
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Having completed our shopping, we headed towards the main task of our visit: Pizza.

I bought 3 pieces of pizza and one berry smoothie. One piece for the each of us, and we'd just split the smoothie between the boys, because I pretty much never drink when I'm eating. And I don't like my food to touch either, except in certain circumstances, like mashed potatoes, which mixes with anything, and ... ANYWAYS...

Now, as I was headed towards checkout I vaguely remembered my sweet, sweet Sugar-Momma giving me some tips. She told me that you could pay for lunch at the checkout aisle. She also said something about keeping the receipt to show the guy with the hairnet, and something else---something about silverware.

We get through checkout easy enough, cause we didn't have all that much stuff. But it wasn't home free yet. We get into line, and both boys are nearly frothy with anticipation. They are all kinetic energy, and the restraints are blanching. Frightened now, I begin to notice the line forming behind my small hunting party. I hate that! I always make bad decisions when lines form behind me. I don't know why.

So the kid asks me what kind I want, and I order two pepperoni and one cheese. He must have noticed the line too because he practically threw all 3 pieces at me. I look and each piece is hanging off the plate, almost all the way around. If you can imagine seeing a piece of cherry pie served to you, no, wait, 3 pieces of cherry pie, in generous portions, served to you on the lid of an 6 oz. yogurt container. That's what we're talking about. And then he hands you the smoothie. Which hand do I pick that up with?

So thinking quickly, and again noting the line forming behind me, I put a piece of this bronto-sauras pizza in the cart behind Mongo, who had been reaching for it since we pulled up to the counter, and reach out for the Berry Smoothie with my newly freed hand. In my other hand I am balancing 2 yogurt lids (I used to wait tables, so I'm experienced like that).

So here I am, two pieces of flaccid pizza-pie in my left hand, berry smoothie in my right hand, Mongo in the cart attempting to pick up 3rd piece of flaccid pizza, and Tigger just sort of watching. Pizza guy has moved on, accustomed to the look on my face. That's fine for him, but that also means that based on precident, there will be somebody ready to stand where I am standing and recieve his pizza in just a few seconds.

The next few seconds are a blur now, looking back. Somehow, I retrieved the limp pizza from Mongo before the whole of the goodness slid off into our groceries. Costco security guards have been called onto the scene because of the pile-up at concessions. And of course, beings as their Costco guards, they're HUGE, and there are 3 of them banded together. Sort of like the disney version of Alice in Wonderland's TweedleDee & TweedleDum, only now there's a TweedleHuge too. So it's like a Marx Brother's movie. In color.

So we manage to evade incarceration, and I decide that getting the table furthest from the scene of the crime is a good idea. So we get there. The last table. Deep breath. AHhhhhhhhh. I'm ready for pizza. So.

(look around).

no napkin. no silverware. no help.
...

MUTINY!

It's alright----don't call the police yet. I thought it was Somali pirates, but it was just my boys, Tigger and Mongo. But it was an honest mistake. The degree of their mutiny varies from day to day, but it's always there.

Today I am deeply in angst over the matter of corporal punishment. Human wisdom says that there is a disconnect in the process of spanking a child. You are in effect saying "don't hit" while in the midst of striking the child on the softest part of his body. But the Bible also says the wisdom of the wise is foolish in God's economy. So I'm left wondering.

I haven't ever been overwhelmed with a sense of righteousness when compelled to spank my children. However, I do fear the overwhelming sense of failure and self-loathing if/when one of them runs out into the street. Scripture says that a Father who loves his children does not spare them the rod. It also says that a Father who loves his son will chastise him for the sake of righteousness. So there's that.

Tigger and Mongo both seem to forget on a daily basis that pulling the stuffing out of the cushions on the front porch is a sin in the eyes of their father. They do however have overlapping gaps in their memories, and will frequently narc the other out. And here is the where the friction really begins for me.

I have instructed Tigger that Mongo is his little brother, and therefore, will look to him for protection, advice, safety and shelter. And that Tigger is partly (along with his Mama and Papa) responsible for his well being and good upbringing. And this is mostly to instill in him a sense of self-respect as an older brother, and a sense of protection over his sibs, rather than a sense of, oh, say, COMPETITION and antagonism. Follow me?

And that's all fine and good until he sees himself as a disciplinarian. Right? So as I walk around the corner I see Tigger slap Mongo on the back, as 'go is pulling a giant wad of stuffing out of a pillow. ARGH! Can depravity never be halted!!! Hateful sin, I DESPISE THEE!

Now, on the other hand, had he come into the house and told me that Mongo was being naughty, I may very well have said, "Thank you for telling me, but be careful not to tattle." So, that's helpful isn't it?

Don't take matters into your own hands, and don't be a tattle tale. Hmph. And then I wonder when I see apathy. Where is there left for me to go with a four year old and a two year old? I am somewhat at a loss for how to proceed. Because this will just keep coming.

Certainly the apostles chided the young churches. But I am unable to arrive at a firm position based on a specific biblical example. And I'm not altogether comfortable assuming the role of God the Father to Israel, as portrayed in the prophets and annuls of the Kings, for I am righteous only by virtue of Christ, and not myself. So...

TMI? (part 3) a rectification

Ok. I feel like I need to clarify something. I can't stop thinking about this post. 2 reasons: I feel like I am coming off super-bitchy/preachy, and there is nothing really redemptive offered.

Competition is not solely evil. It drives us to hone our skills, and pushes us to new levels of excellence. It is the solace when your muscles burn, and your eyes are watery and tired. It is food when you are dirty and mentally exhausted.

But I long for relationships. I desperately ache to know and to be known. I want to share my weakness with you so that you can understand me better. I need your perspective. God sounds like you sometimes. You know? God sometimes feels like you. Does this register?

And I think that if I understood your sorrows better, I'd be able to love you better. I could help you where and how you need help, as I desire to. And I could be funny with you without worrying if I accidentally hurt your feelings. Nor would I feel like you were trying to hurt me sometimes.

...

I guess what I'm coming around to is that God intended for us to live together under Him. And I have in my life frequently felt the pain of being misunderstood, and groaned for the time when all things are made right, when we live in Shalom, fearing nothing, and needing nothing because the Father has fulfilled all of our needs. I long for the peace of God's Kingdom...

TMI? (part 2)

(disclaimer: The following interview(s) are the opinions of the blog-writer only, and may be interpreted as whining, pissing, moaning and/or groaning, and if that is the case it is the sole prerogative of the writer to maintain such views and positions, and the sole prerogative of the reader to skip along on his merry way...)

There always seemed to be competition. I mean it was a lot like high school sometimes. But as time passed and the shop got bigger it just got worse. And I know that competition is present in other companies as well. I mean, we're taught to compete from the cradle if we have siblings. Me and my little brother ("Tigger") competed for my Dad's affections, I'm sure.

I don't want to overstate the heinous-ness of competition. I mean, let's be fair. Competition can be healthy. But it gets to a point where it is interfering with relational truthfulness.

Proposition: If you and I demonstrate our weaknesses to each other, trusting the other not to attempt to capitalize on it for self-gain, and also trusting each other to attempt to compensate for each other's weaknesses with our own strengths, is the cable stronger? or weaker?

I know I'm getting preachy. Sorry. I have gotten SO frustrated with bragadaccio, with pretense, with disdain, and arrogance that it causes an almost allergic reaction. In my brain.

Because I see it slithering through the CHURCH doing the same damn things that it does at work. Not to the same degree, but even just a little bit is enough.

TMI? WTF?

I just read an article in the news paper, printed in the careers section. The title was simple: TMI? It cautioned the reader against revealing too much of himself to his coworkers. As I read, it listed things such as discussing medical issues, like illnesses that had been treated in the past, or things being treated now. Also listed: religious views, money issues, morality issues, child disciplining or relationship problems. And the message was clear. Don't talk about it. Don't be "overly" emotional. That's not what a "professional" does.

I worked in the trades. Most of the people I worked with would rather eat a hive of bees than talk about their "feelings" (unless you include urges, compulsions and jokes as feelings). I often wonder at how competition or competitiveness in general helps and hinders us in the shop-does it create hostility and create barriers? or does it drive us forward, striving towards the perfect blend of efficiency and artful creation?

For my part, I don't really want to be in a competition. It brings out the worst parts of my character. There is a duplicity that goes hand in hand with competition and I wanted none of it. I have decided that it is easier for *me* to be just one person. There's just one thing: it pretty much sucks. Big time.

When I first started working at my shop, I was determined to be different. Not in a whiney, alt-alt gen-x manner, but in a decidedly counter-cultural sort of way. I was going to have an honorable sense of work-ethic, and sense of humor. I was going to talk about and think about things that were going to lift up and edify culture in the shop. And I didn't think I needed to be militant about it or anything. In fact, I didn't want to be. I just selected the roles I'd take up in conversations as carefully as I could manage. And conversely I un-selected conversations that didn't seem to be headed in a good direction. Why? Was it to put myself in a category *other* than that of my co-workers? No. Was it to make somebody else feel bad or like I was looking down my nose at them? No. I was simply taking responsibility for the sounds going into and coming out of my head.

...

Apparently I'm judgemental and think that I'm better than you. I happen to know otherwise, but that's the conventional wisdom.

When I began to hear that CW, of course I wanted to do something to repair that. Not so much for my benefit, at least that's how I've judged it to this point, though I could be mistaken. We don't always have sound judgement when it comes to our own judgement...

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On a somewhat lighter note--it's all about the Pizza...

As a newly christened stay-at-home dad, there are several...shall we say...baptisms ahead for me and my boys. There's food preparation, and rule-making / enforcing. There's diaper changing. There's diaper rash. Wash, folding, cleaning, craigslisting (ok, that probably doesn't belong here), utilizing teaching moments, picture-taking, and inevitably (screeching, smoking, crying halt) the food runs out. And therein lies the unspoken and highly-feared challenge.

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One popular "warehouse-retailer," which shall remain nameless (name starts with "C" and rhymes with "ostco") has wisely placed a food vendor by the exit channels of its stores, as well as many strategically placed food-sampler kiosks throughout the store. The bait is in place, the trap is set.

...

It is time. Having faced the facts about my mortality, and girded my loins for battle, the boys and I headed out to forage, hunt, and bring home the trophies of our pursuits.

We arrived early. The wind was ferocious and had the keenest edge. Here is where the true veterans are shown, and the weaklings begin their rapid descent. Do the boys have appropriate attire? NO-THEY'RE MEN. But alas, they are but wee small men.

Fortunately it is a short but God-forsaken walk to giant overhead doors. There is a brief, but heated discussion about cart preferences. Cooler heads (bigger heads) prevail, and having established some cart-protocols, we enter the store for our pat-downs, security-clearance badges hanging from our mouths, and hands raised non-confrontationally over our heads. As we enter this grand palace, this shining mecca, this, this, hu-MONGOUS bountiful place, and the arc-sodium lights dazzle our eyes, we wander, dazed for the first several steps. The large-screen TV's, glass display cases, and large men's winter coats, sleeping bags, camping chairs, and ice-chests with espresso-makers right in the lids!

Once our eyes were adjusted we began our search. List in hand, we wandered past the 8lb jugs of mixed nuts, inflatable amusement parks (I'm serious as a heart-attack), and worked our way through the store. My youngest son, #2, well, he eats. I'll put it into perspective. I'm 32, weigh around 165lbs, and we'll eat the same plate of food. And he'll beat me. His older brother- his almost 2 years older brother-only weighs about 5lbs more than he does. So all those food kiosks-they speak to him mightily.

Of course I feel weird feeding my kids with the kiosks. I mean I'm the one buying stuff, and the kiosks are supposed to make me buy stuff, right? so just giving the food straight to the kid without even trying it is kind of taking advantage of the kiosks-right? So I will take a nibble of the garlic-chicken weight watchers pizza, available in the freezer section for...and then pass it right over to the kids. Of course, Jack is totally offended at the meager portions, and as soon as I begin to walk away from the kiosk begins to act as if this is the first time he's had food in a week. So, anyways, back to foraging...

...

Have you ever tried to find a package of dry-yeast at a place like that? Well, we are milling through the store, as the clock creeps ever closer to lunch-time (read: that's when #2 goes from pumpkin pie to rotten pumpkin sitting on the steps right before Christmas-in Arizona). Now it seems like every ten steps it's "We've got Crystal Light with extra sugar mixed in" and "Low-fat yogurt with fresh frozen blueberries," and "we've got these microwave burritos and hot-sauce that will fry the hair right off your hobbity little feet, available in large, extra-large, supercalifragalistic-expe-FREAKIN-al-i-docious." And everytime, #2 reaches out with both hands, and the perennial teardrop perched so precariously on his lower left eyelash. And then, not to be outdone or left out of the discussion, #1 says, again, "Papa? are we gonna eat lunch about the store, papa?" And I throw that bait out into the deep, deep waters again..."We will, but only if you are a well-behaved helper..." knowing full well that if I don't buy him a slice of pizza when this is done, all of hell's great fury will bring itself to bear in my grocery cart.

And so...having checked off all the items on my list we head for the checkout aisles...

The Road to Emmaus

I think it's funny. People didn't recognize Jesus when he stood right in front of them. I mean, not "Ho-ho, that's spankin' my knee hilarious!" just-shake my head in amazement.

and after he was starved of food and water, kept up all night, beaten half to death-strike that, most the way to death, made to drag a board the size of two railroad ties a couple miles-uphill, and then nailed through the arms and feet (kinda like when you bang your funny bone, only instead of a table edge or door jamb, it's more like re-bar, and instead of going away after five minutes, it just goes on and on and on...) to those same railroad ties, then left to starve in the wind and sun, and then when the weather turned bad and people got tired of waiting for him to die already, they went ahead and poked him through with a spear---after all this he was probably barely recognizable.

Then, after a few days on a cold slab in a cave, with rags stuffed into his mouth and wrapped all around his neck and head, after absolutely no medical attention or consideration, he got up, alive, and more real than anything else in the entire world. More real than anything else in the entirety of all that exists. And people still didn't recognize him.

Even now. I frequently don't recognize him. And then by his grace he opens my eyes. And usually it's after he's tried to explain it to me, after he's tried to show me. After. I turn around and look again, realizing it was Jesus! IT WAS JESUS! How could I have missed that?!

Just by being a human I guess.