Insomnia sucks, but it gives me an opportunity to make note (once again) of the Young Daughter's seventh birthday. (At one point in the evening, when she felt like someone else in the house was getting a little too much attention, she said to no one in particular, "Don't you have something to say to me?" Yeah, kid, nobody has said "happy birthday" to you in the last five minutes. Sorry about that.)
The crushing inability to sleep also, however, gives me a chance to say happy birthday to my friend TLC -- who is the first of my high school classmates (at least, the first of the ones who matter) to turn 40.
(The dateline above suggests I'm a day late. Screw that. As I write this, it's still Oct. 23 in her time zone.)
She was the first to get a driver's license; she was the first to turn 21; and now, she's the first to peek behind the door of the Fifth Decade. Which makes her Older than Us. But not much.
Ain't nothin' but a number, y'all. Happy birthday, TLC.
Showing posts with label Time marching on. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Time marching on. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Sunday, October 21, 2007
It's been a long time
October 2001 was a long, long time ago. Since then:
* I've moved from one major metropolitan area to another, then another yet.
* I've executed a career slingshot -- took a small step backward that led indirectly to a huge step forward.
* I've watched three Mini-Humans grow from tiny little semi-functioning beings into full-fledged children. Back then, the oldest of them was 7. In two days, the youngest of them will be 7. The oldest is now a teenager.
A lot of things have changed since I banged in that first post at my desk at the Very Large Metropolitan Newspaper, the one with the cubicle where the window looked out on the concrete jungle of the nation's eighth-largest city.
I type this post looking out into my backyard, with the towering playset and the big pool. The girl who "celebrated" her first birthday in rather dubious fashion during that first month of this forum -- by learning that she has a neurological disease -- is now 7, outwardly perfectly healthy, and interrupting my typing every few words with some other question.
In the last six years, my two remaining grandparents have died. My father was diagnosed and has largely beaten colon cancer. The last remaining member of my mother's immediate family passed on. My sister had a baby and got married, in that order, after years of quiet desperation.
The original inspiration for this forum left his cubicle for things I suspect even he can't yet fully comprehend; a chance to become fully immersed in something he dearly loves. I've sensed a bit of "Be Careful What You Wish For" in some of his writing. I've had that thought more than a few times myself over the last 2,191 days.
Sitting here this morning, I've come to realize this: "Careful" people don't ever find what they want. They're too busy being careful. A "careful" quarterback racks up a 70-percent completion rating but never makes a big play. A "careful" politician can hold on to his seat for 35 years without ever having an accomplishment with his name next to it. A "careful" mom raises perfectly average kids.
Screw being careful. Throw that long pass, quit that job, say something that people aren't going to agree with, and write it all down so you can refer back to it later or perhaps help somebody else through a similar situation. That's what I've learned since 2001. And I've learned it largely through expressing myself in this forum, and through following others through similar forums along the way.
It's important to learn. It's important to share. Thanks to all of y'all for sharing with me.
--
I noted in yesterday's post that there is nothing else in my life that is six years old or more, other than my wife and children. There is some truth to that. I have one prized possession that predates 2001: A black-and-white Telecaster, purchased with my first paycheck as a full-time sports writer in 1988.
I'm a big fan of committing to things that matter. I made a commitment to a young woman in the fall of 1990. Now I'm growing old with her. (Odd how she isn't growing old; it's just me. How the hell does that happen?) It has been everything for which I could have possibly hoped: To spend my life with a beautiful woman with charm, energy, intelligence, and wit.
The story of Us makes little sense to those who were not a part of it (i.e., everybody but her and me.) I've tried to recount it here in the past, but the story transcends the words available to me to tell it.
Over the course of the six years of writing stuff down here, we've moved from Years 11 to 17, which I guess aren't exactly milestone years. But know this: Every day is a milestone, and for me, every day is another day in which I'm getting better than I deserve.
That's what wakes me up every day. That's what makes me want to write it down. Can't wait to see what happens next.
* I've moved from one major metropolitan area to another, then another yet.
* I've executed a career slingshot -- took a small step backward that led indirectly to a huge step forward.
* I've watched three Mini-Humans grow from tiny little semi-functioning beings into full-fledged children. Back then, the oldest of them was 7. In two days, the youngest of them will be 7. The oldest is now a teenager.
A lot of things have changed since I banged in that first post at my desk at the Very Large Metropolitan Newspaper, the one with the cubicle where the window looked out on the concrete jungle of the nation's eighth-largest city.
I type this post looking out into my backyard, with the towering playset and the big pool. The girl who "celebrated" her first birthday in rather dubious fashion during that first month of this forum -- by learning that she has a neurological disease -- is now 7, outwardly perfectly healthy, and interrupting my typing every few words with some other question.
In the last six years, my two remaining grandparents have died. My father was diagnosed and has largely beaten colon cancer. The last remaining member of my mother's immediate family passed on. My sister had a baby and got married, in that order, after years of quiet desperation.
The original inspiration for this forum left his cubicle for things I suspect even he can't yet fully comprehend; a chance to become fully immersed in something he dearly loves. I've sensed a bit of "Be Careful What You Wish For" in some of his writing. I've had that thought more than a few times myself over the last 2,191 days.
Sitting here this morning, I've come to realize this: "Careful" people don't ever find what they want. They're too busy being careful. A "careful" quarterback racks up a 70-percent completion rating but never makes a big play. A "careful" politician can hold on to his seat for 35 years without ever having an accomplishment with his name next to it. A "careful" mom raises perfectly average kids.
Screw being careful. Throw that long pass, quit that job, say something that people aren't going to agree with, and write it all down so you can refer back to it later or perhaps help somebody else through a similar situation. That's what I've learned since 2001. And I've learned it largely through expressing myself in this forum, and through following others through similar forums along the way.
It's important to learn. It's important to share. Thanks to all of y'all for sharing with me.
--
I noted in yesterday's post that there is nothing else in my life that is six years old or more, other than my wife and children. There is some truth to that. I have one prized possession that predates 2001: A black-and-white Telecaster, purchased with my first paycheck as a full-time sports writer in 1988.
I'm a big fan of committing to things that matter. I made a commitment to a young woman in the fall of 1990. Now I'm growing old with her. (Odd how she isn't growing old; it's just me. How the hell does that happen?) It has been everything for which I could have possibly hoped: To spend my life with a beautiful woman with charm, energy, intelligence, and wit.
The story of Us makes little sense to those who were not a part of it (i.e., everybody but her and me.) I've tried to recount it here in the past, but the story transcends the words available to me to tell it.
Over the course of the six years of writing stuff down here, we've moved from Years 11 to 17, which I guess aren't exactly milestone years. But know this: Every day is a milestone, and for me, every day is another day in which I'm getting better than I deserve.
That's what wakes me up every day. That's what makes me want to write it down. Can't wait to see what happens next.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
13
I'm the parent of a teenager, as of today.
The Old Daughter is 13. I'm not sure we're ready for that. I know we don't get a choice.
She is 100 percent as perfect as one can expect a 13-year-old girl to be. Which is to say that she's often a pain in the ass, but not so often that it's the first thing you say about her. She's smart, which is to say that in some moments, she's not as smart as she thinks she is, and at others, she knows way more than she gives herself credit for. She's beautiful, which is to say she's beautiful.
I'm the parent of a teenager. I need a few minutes to digest that.
The Old Daughter is 13. I'm not sure we're ready for that. I know we don't get a choice.
She is 100 percent as perfect as one can expect a 13-year-old girl to be. Which is to say that she's often a pain in the ass, but not so often that it's the first thing you say about her. She's smart, which is to say that in some moments, she's not as smart as she thinks she is, and at others, she knows way more than she gives herself credit for. She's beautiful, which is to say she's beautiful.
I'm the parent of a teenager. I need a few minutes to digest that.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
No greater love
Back in the late '80s, the high-school girl who would become my wife was simply a tall, skinny girl named N, who was around our house a lot, a friend of my little sister. N and my sister were part of a larger group of girls, whose main recreational activity during their junior year in high school involved driving around in somebody's 1965 Mustang and teasing fraternity boys at college parties.
Among this group of girls was a girl we'll call Marie (not at all her name, but it's better than a pronoun.) Marie was a bit spoiled, and she knew it, and she was OK with it, best I could tell. I didn't know Marie as well as I knew my sister's other friends, but what little I knew of her suggested she was the one of that group with the "reputation."
She was also the one who ended up pregnant that year.
Marie was by no means the only person I knew in high school who became pregnant. She was the only person, however, who ever showed a visible sign of it. Marie chose to carry the child the term.
I can't imagine this was an easy decision, even for a girl who herself was adopted. She had to put up with the stares and the pointing and the ostracism and the talk of those who simply said it confirmed her "reputation." None of that mattered to her.
As the rest of the group drifted away from Marie, N stuck by her. This foreshadowed the adult N, by the way; the girl who stuck by her friend in a tough situation became an intensely loyal woman, a woman who people can depend on no matter what. This is cool, and is one of the things I love about my wife. Back in 1987, though, she was just a girl who was trying to do the right thing.
Marie's child was born on N's 17th birthday. N was there for her at the hospital. I'm pretty sure he was the first newborn boy she ever held.
A few days later, Marie's child was headed home, home with his new parents. Marie went home, too, back to her parents. She was back in school a few weeks later.
Even at 17, a girl has maternal instinct, and that instinct would rebel mightily against separation. Marie had to be convinced that he was going to a better place, a place with people more qualified than she was to provide what that baby needed. I can imagine nothing more beautiful, and more painful.
Life went on. Marie never quite reconnected with that group of girls; she had been forced into adulthood, and acted accordingly. She and Natalie were still close, sort of, but nobody would ever fully grasp what Marie had been through, and it probably didn't matter to Marie if they did. They all graduated from high school a year later and went their separate ways.
Marie contacted my wife by e-mail several years ago. The electronic reunion was brief; a couple of messages exchanged, then life moving on.
Natalie still mentioned Marie's boy on his birthday the first few years we were married, but hadn't for many years. As I was giving the new Dixie Chicks album its 249th spin on my iPod, I gave a close listen to "Voice Inside My Head," a heart-shredding song from the perspective of a woman who gave a child up for adoption.
Immediately I thought of Marie, a person who I hadn't thought of since we received that e-mail four computers ago. I did some quick math, and I said to Natalie: "Remember Marie's baby?" She said, "Yeah, he was born on my birthday."
I said, "Yeah. He would have just graduated from high school a few weeks ago."
"Oh. My. God."
My wife has recently developed excellent research skills. If your name has ever been snared by Google's spiderbots, she'll find it. She found Marie. Marie is now living in a large East Coast city; she married exceedingly well, has two little girls and by all accounts wants for absolutely nothing. They're exchanging e-mails again.
That little baby boy that N held is off to college, or a job, or the military, or whatever. We'll probably never know. Life went on, and it went on very well for Marie, which is as it should be.
Marie called upon some serious strength that day 18 years ago, and that strength is having to carry her through the rest of her life. I admire her, and other women who made the same decision. Unplanned pregnancy brings up complex questions that can't be answered the same way for every person. They most definitely cannot be answered politically, or through legislation.
The 16-year-old Marie, even though she likely didn't know it at the time, came up with the right answer for her situation. Things worked out for her. Hopefully they worked for that little boy, too.
I still have to think that no matter how gilded your life is, though, that's gotta be a hard memory to carry with you, and that you wouldn't be able to help but wonder how things might have been different if ...
Among this group of girls was a girl we'll call Marie (not at all her name, but it's better than a pronoun.) Marie was a bit spoiled, and she knew it, and she was OK with it, best I could tell. I didn't know Marie as well as I knew my sister's other friends, but what little I knew of her suggested she was the one of that group with the "reputation."
She was also the one who ended up pregnant that year.
Marie was by no means the only person I knew in high school who became pregnant. She was the only person, however, who ever showed a visible sign of it. Marie chose to carry the child the term.
I can't imagine this was an easy decision, even for a girl who herself was adopted. She had to put up with the stares and the pointing and the ostracism and the talk of those who simply said it confirmed her "reputation." None of that mattered to her.
As the rest of the group drifted away from Marie, N stuck by her. This foreshadowed the adult N, by the way; the girl who stuck by her friend in a tough situation became an intensely loyal woman, a woman who people can depend on no matter what. This is cool, and is one of the things I love about my wife. Back in 1987, though, she was just a girl who was trying to do the right thing.
Marie's child was born on N's 17th birthday. N was there for her at the hospital. I'm pretty sure he was the first newborn boy she ever held.
A few days later, Marie's child was headed home, home with his new parents. Marie went home, too, back to her parents. She was back in school a few weeks later.
Even at 17, a girl has maternal instinct, and that instinct would rebel mightily against separation. Marie had to be convinced that he was going to a better place, a place with people more qualified than she was to provide what that baby needed. I can imagine nothing more beautiful, and more painful.
Life went on. Marie never quite reconnected with that group of girls; she had been forced into adulthood, and acted accordingly. She and Natalie were still close, sort of, but nobody would ever fully grasp what Marie had been through, and it probably didn't matter to Marie if they did. They all graduated from high school a year later and went their separate ways.
Marie contacted my wife by e-mail several years ago. The electronic reunion was brief; a couple of messages exchanged, then life moving on.
Natalie still mentioned Marie's boy on his birthday the first few years we were married, but hadn't for many years. As I was giving the new Dixie Chicks album its 249th spin on my iPod, I gave a close listen to "Voice Inside My Head," a heart-shredding song from the perspective of a woman who gave a child up for adoption.
Immediately I thought of Marie, a person who I hadn't thought of since we received that e-mail four computers ago. I did some quick math, and I said to Natalie: "Remember Marie's baby?" She said, "Yeah, he was born on my birthday."
I said, "Yeah. He would have just graduated from high school a few weeks ago."
"Oh. My. God."
My wife has recently developed excellent research skills. If your name has ever been snared by Google's spiderbots, she'll find it. She found Marie. Marie is now living in a large East Coast city; she married exceedingly well, has two little girls and by all accounts wants for absolutely nothing. They're exchanging e-mails again.
That little baby boy that N held is off to college, or a job, or the military, or whatever. We'll probably never know. Life went on, and it went on very well for Marie, which is as it should be.
Marie called upon some serious strength that day 18 years ago, and that strength is having to carry her through the rest of her life. I admire her, and other women who made the same decision. Unplanned pregnancy brings up complex questions that can't be answered the same way for every person. They most definitely cannot be answered politically, or through legislation.
The 16-year-old Marie, even though she likely didn't know it at the time, came up with the right answer for her situation. Things worked out for her. Hopefully they worked for that little boy, too.
I still have to think that no matter how gilded your life is, though, that's gotta be a hard memory to carry with you, and that you wouldn't be able to help but wonder how things might have been different if ...
Saturday, June 24, 2006
20 years now; where'd they go?
Rumors keep circulating that my high school class is going to have a 20-year reunion this summer. A few days ago, I received an e-mail detailing the program. Looks like a lot of fun; a golf tournament, a cookout, a trip to a Class AA baseball game in Anytown. I'm still not sure I can bring myself to go.
For one thing, we're 1,400 miles away, and even with the absurd amount of airline miles I've amassed in my recent travels, it's not enough to get all five of us there. I'm not sure I can pull off going to Anytown without my wife and kids; the rest of the extended family back in Anytown would be profoundly disappointed. Plus, I have a fair amount of business travel scheduled for July. Since my recent promotion, I'm not doing as many five-day trips, but I still have to do a lot of one- and two-day schmooze-fests, and I have many of those in July.
For another, I don't need people pointing out that 20 years ago, I had hair past my shoulders and weighed 100 pounds. I have dramatically less of the former and quite a few more of the latter now. I'd take the under on how quickly I get sick of people pointing those facts out.
I rather liked most of my high school classmates. I had a lot of friends in high school, many friends who crossed many of the different strata of a high school class. You remember The Breakfast Club? At one time or another, I would have hung out with all five of them.
I'm kind of ashamed of myself for not having kept better track of these people over the last two decades. I've done quite well over the last 20 years, in my career, as a husband, as a father. The thing I sacrificed to do all that was my friends. Truth be told, I was like that before I left Anytown, probably, but I became even worse when I could use distance as a weak excuse. I'm a shitty, awful, rotten friend. Too busy for this, too busy for that, too busy to send a simple e-mail or Christmas card.
In short, I suck. I'm not sure how squarely I want to face that fact.
So I toss this out for feedback: Should I go, or should I clean out the garage that weekend?
For one thing, we're 1,400 miles away, and even with the absurd amount of airline miles I've amassed in my recent travels, it's not enough to get all five of us there. I'm not sure I can pull off going to Anytown without my wife and kids; the rest of the extended family back in Anytown would be profoundly disappointed. Plus, I have a fair amount of business travel scheduled for July. Since my recent promotion, I'm not doing as many five-day trips, but I still have to do a lot of one- and two-day schmooze-fests, and I have many of those in July.
For another, I don't need people pointing out that 20 years ago, I had hair past my shoulders and weighed 100 pounds. I have dramatically less of the former and quite a few more of the latter now. I'd take the under on how quickly I get sick of people pointing those facts out.
I rather liked most of my high school classmates. I had a lot of friends in high school, many friends who crossed many of the different strata of a high school class. You remember The Breakfast Club? At one time or another, I would have hung out with all five of them.
I'm kind of ashamed of myself for not having kept better track of these people over the last two decades. I've done quite well over the last 20 years, in my career, as a husband, as a father. The thing I sacrificed to do all that was my friends. Truth be told, I was like that before I left Anytown, probably, but I became even worse when I could use distance as a weak excuse. I'm a shitty, awful, rotten friend. Too busy for this, too busy for that, too busy to send a simple e-mail or Christmas card.
In short, I suck. I'm not sure how squarely I want to face that fact.
So I toss this out for feedback: Should I go, or should I clean out the garage that weekend?