Swing Life Away

Otto loves big kids...

this pic didn't fit in the Tyler B-day entry but still wanted to share it.  I have thousands of pictures of my boys that I'd like to share.  Come on over.  Bring a lunch.

Tyler is 10

My life has become a series of irritating benchmarks.  The other day I was rambling on about looking for my first car TWENTY YEARS AGO and I nearly pulled over to cry.  My brain had done the math unconsciously and, for once, correctly, and the sum spit out like it was nothing more than a number.  But once I realized what I said, and reeled in its death-joke-at-a-funeral brutality, I got a little whoozy that it indeed has been twenty years since I was sixteen.  We were driving when I was broadsided by the math and Sarah, grinning from the passenger seat, had to ask if I was OK. 

No god dangit.  Somebody needs to look into this.  It needs to take national precedence.  Stephen Hawking and Bill Gates need to chair a panel.  There needs to be a national holiday where we all sit and watch clocks.  McDonalds could give away Big Macs and do a Hamburgler/Timeburgler cross-promotion thing to celebrate our national day of sedentary moment seizing.  It might turn out like those ghost hunter shows where they sit in the dark and come away with nothing, but for once we'd be in charge: Oh, hello time.  I guess you thought you'd sneak by.  Is there anything I can do for you?  No?  Well, why the hurry?  You got somewhere to be?  We should hang out for a while...it'd be nice to have some time to talk.  You have to go?  Where...the past?  Well you suck. 

I'm hoping for something more deep and resonant if I do get the chance to sit down with an inanimate construct, but that's all I've got. 

And happy birthday Tyler, defier of chronology.  Somehow you're 10. 

My sister's parties are the stuff of legends.  And, yes, that blonde kid just hit the bubble machine with a baseball bat.  (He's Axell, my sister's youngest, who will be of legal drinking age some time next week.)

Despite aging me, I'm a huge fan.  Tyler is just...well...cool.  He carries the kind of confidence that makes thirty-something bald guys nervous.  Sometimes I wanna throw a curve at him, maybe ask him his opinion of the Iran-Contra Affair.  But that's desperate, and he'd just ding me the way he did at the Monday Night Football game. 

Tyler:  Have the Broncos ever even been to a Superbowl?

Me:  What?  Are you serious?  In 1977 Red Miller led the Orange Crush to the big game against the Dallas Cowboys, where they'd fall 27 to 10, but put Denver football on the map.  Sure in 1987, 88 and 1990 they'd go to three Superbowls and lose by a combined score of 136 to 40, but John Elway proved he was the greatest quarterback to play the game by winning in a relativley smaller market without an all-star payroll. And then--

Tyler:  Who's John Elway?

Me: 

Tyler: 

Me:  Whooo.   John Elway led the Broncos to two consecutive Superbowl victories in 1998 and 1999 (97 and 98 seasons for the statistical nitpickers) and he did it while running for his life.

Tyler:  So what.  That was, like, ten years ago.

Me: 

 

Tyler's mom makes cakes for a living.  You've not lived until you've eaten an army fort or monster truck or giant frosted pickle. 

And I'm still speechless.

I gotta be serious Tyler, you are an impressive guy.  In the dim light of adult skepticism, it's good to pause everything just to focus on the good things.  Often I'm searching for a moment when my own mom was truly happy.  Yah, sure, she was always smiling, but moms are like the Bush administration: even if the earth is caving in they'll pretend everything is all right.  I'm trying to ferret out the BS and get to the truly happy moments.  You are one of those.  You are many of them, actually.  When your grandma lived by herself on Mulberry street in Fort Collins, I'd call and ask her what she'd done in a certain day.  Tyler, tyler, tyler.  And this is when you were a foot taller than the rest of the three year olds and taking flack for not acting like a grammar school standout.  Even I, the screwball uncle, wasn't always sure what to do with you.  You might remember calling me a "bitch" in 2004.  I was astonished at your insult acumen and didn't know whether to compliment or scold you. 

Here you are today, watching out for your mom, your little brothers and playing well the role of the Golden Idol of Cousins for my little guys.  That's awesome.  And now you're getting attention with your athletic ability, pitching no-hitters in little league games and carrying on your early success in soccer. 

I'm also happy to report you've grown your repetoire of verbal aspersions. 

During your birthday party, Aunt Annie and I watched a big kid push you.  I don't know what his deal was, but he gave you a shove and said, "C' mon Tyler!"  I'm not sure what he expected but it wasn't what he got.  You stood back, scanned his substantial circumference, and replied, "Go get a girlfriend." 

The guy had no clue how to respond.  I really don't know what it meant either, but it certainly diffused the situation.  You plucked him from his macho realm and plopped him in the most awkward arena for any pudgy tweener: appealing to a female. 

It is a thrill for me, Tyler, that I can write about you and not focus entirely on your athletics.  Honestly, the sports are what I want to shout about, but you've got dimension, and that's the trick to making life as easy as you seem to make it.  Just keep rolling, and be nice to your mom.

Why there isn't a fun story about my nephew's 10th birthday featuring pictures of cute children

It's 5am.  It's a perfect time to write.  I haven't written lately and I need this.  It's about an hour and a half until everybody rolls out of bed for the daily morning chaos.  I am one who is very keenly aware of passing time.  Or at least I am when I'm aware of it, I guess.  Much of my focus on passing time is when it's already passed, and I break an otherwise pleasant moment with "How in the hell is it July?"  And then I spend anywhere from the next five minutes to an hour grousing about not getting enough done. 

I'm writing right now which is good, but it's not easy.  Nor is it truly engrossed and focused writing.  I had a funny Tweet I wanted to post.  I sat with the laptop open and ready to pound out a little tune, when I thought of a riff on a couple of my least favorite politicians.  It would be awesome to be the first to get it down, I thought.  Then I told myself to get cracking on the writing.  But then I imagined the faces of my favorite followers.  That Katy at work, so young and so smart, she needs to see how witty I am.  No, Jared, write something meaningful.  I told myself to be stronger than Twitter. 

And then I sat there, empty screen blinking back at me.  If I just went ahead and Tweeted then I would be done with it and back to writing.  That's all I need to do, I told myself, is do the things I want to do quickly and without so much deliberation and I won't waste so much time.   I need to sign in, Tweet, then get out and get serious.  Undisciplined people don't write books.  They roil up on the insides and get old faster and blame their wife and kids for their not accomplishing anything.  If I don't write now the time will have passed; I'll be pissed.

The f#cking cat wants in.  I haven't written.  I haven't Tweeted, and now the cat's looking at me through the window.  I don't want to let her in because she'll want to curl up on the keyboard.  But I can't do anything now that I'm pissed at the cat.  I'll let her in but I won't be nice.  I let her in and I tell this animal who could give a shit that I'm not touching her because I'm writing.  She goes and eats and I sit down.  Now the dog wants in.  I tried to let him in twenty minutes ago and that frustrates me even more.  Why couldn't have he come in when I gave him the chance?  Hold on.

Dog's in.  Cat's in.  There's a cell phone making noise.  Oh I hate that phone.  It makes a little jingling noise when the battery's about to die.  It does it about every five minutes for an hour, which begs the question how much battery it blows warning me it's running out of battery.   I can hear the phone somewhere in the living room.  It's in Sarah's work bag.  I hate that phone. The next time I get my hands on it I'm going to turn off that damn noise.  I'm going to do it right in front of Sarah.  In a display of my frustration hold the phone up and exclaim my every action.  "I'm making this thing shut up!  I'm going to settings, and then volume--it won't bother me anymore!" 

I think about that for a little bit and in that time it toodles at me again.  I get up and put Sarah's bag outside. 

I calm down a little bit because I know that making any familial drama about my time being wasted won't go over well.  I know this because Sarah--and probably even the little boys--knows that if given five free minutes I'm going to get on the Internet. 

I'm just going there for a moment to jot down my brief brilliance.  One hundred forty words or less, that's Twitter.  I wish good books were only about that long, because then I'd surely write more. 

With the Tweeting done, and some poking about on the Internet achieved, I get back to an open email.  That's how I write, in an email "compose" or "new message" box.  It helps me think of my audience.  I know to whom I'm writing and I can be more natural.  If natural is a good thing. 

I can see in my inbox that I have two new messages.  I'm only going to take a moment to see who they are.

Sleep

2010 Summer Vacation Part 3: Full Circle

Grandma and Grandpa live in a sixties-era ranch house with a big basement and shaded back yard.  White people used to live in this neighborhood, but they all took off for even further suburbs while Sarah’s parents hunkered down and stayed.  Now they are able to turn off the TV and watch The Wire unfold from their window. 

I’m a naïve country kid, so don’t sense the danger they do.  I went jogging in their neighborhood at night.  So again, armed with my ignorance, I have carved myself even deeper into Sarah’s family lore. 

I didn’t tell them I was going for a run, I just sensed a good time to step out and took it.  The boys were in bed and the grown ups were watching TV. 

To stay in a lighted area I ran up from their house and along Liberty Road. Liberty Road has a lot of boarded up homes and businesses.  Liberty Road is home to a lot of crime.  Liberty Road has a reputation.  I asked Sarah how I could explain Liberty Road and she tsked and said, “Dude…it’s Liberty Road," like nothing else needed to be said.  To me, it’s like a freeway where someone could wander into the street at any given moment.   There’ll be dudes merely strolling in traffic at the longest possible angle to get from point A to B.  But it’s Liberty Road so you don’t honk and yell.  You turn up the public radio and quietly congratulate yourself for getting a degree. 

My favorite place I never want to eat.  It's on Liberty Road.   

And there I was, on Liberty Road, running like someone who needed to be shot.  Eventually, the sidewalk ended and I had to cross barren lawns while weaving through rather stunned street loiterers.  I must say it helped my speed.  When I got back to Grandma and Grandpa’s house I ran up the front steps to a locked door.  No one knew I was gone, so no one knew who was trying to get in.  And I wanted to get in pretty badly.  My desperation knock didn’t help things so I stood back and did a friendly wave.  Eventually Sarah got close enough to the window to gaze upon her husband.  There was puzzlement.  And disappointment.

“You know my dad was mugged near here,” she would say.

True.  He was.  And I had to let another poor decision add to their family lore. 

There is plenty of lore to be had.  Some might point to the first time I met Sarah’s mother, and I was drunk and wearing a cape.  Others may recall my first visit to Baltimore.  This was thirteen years ago, before their home became that of the “in-laws”, and light years from it becoming the Nirvana that is Grandma and Grandpa’s house.  And if “light years” seems like an exaggeration, then consider from where I’ve come: 

In December 1997 Sarah and I were eight months into our relationship.  The time together had been wonderful, and we had high hopes for our togetherness.  But…BUT…we were just boyfriend/girlfriend, and before our holiday road trip to visit her parents, she warned me that I must be on my best behavior.  I told her she shouldn’t worry.  I was a natural charmer.  I knew the ways of our elders.

The glasses complete the package.  Sarah and Jared during the 1997 visit.  Gas was $.98 a gallon.

The second day at her parent’s house, her mother found me sitting on her daughter in my tighty whities.  Not boxers or pajamas or anything emanating any kind of maturity or class, but tight, white, wife-beating underwear.  And when you do anything in tight, white underwear, you have a hard time not looking, well, creepy.  A guy in spandex, a sordid material that hugs every detail of his topography, can save a drowning kid and look good on the evening news.  A guy in tighty whitees is a pederast who’s stealing a child from the pool.   And here I was, no heroism involved at all, no necessary resuscitation or Heimlich body blows, and I was bouncing on little Sarah. 

It was early our first morning at Sarah’s parents house.  I was awake and restless.

I looked over at my girlfriend.  She was in one of the two twin beds, bunk beds actually, that had been debunked and stationed on opposite sides of the room.  It was surprising, Sarah would later say, that we were even in the same room.

Sarah looked as sweet as ever.  She was on her side with her head buried into the pillow.  She sleeps well and could be a model for a comfortable sleep commercial.  It was just too lovely not to be a part of, so I tip-toed to the other side of the room and jumped on her. 

Sarah working in 1997.  It is said the soot affected her judgement. 

Now I know when not to do things.  I do.  And what makes me more frustrated than anything is that I do them anyway.  If I ever get grumpy and snap it’s usually because I’m reacting to someone who’s telling me not to do something I know I shouldn’t.  Sometimes though, even when the consequences are clear, I convince myself that I have special powers, and my predetermined destiny of greatness requires I take this little risk. 

Sarah disagreed.  Before I’d even fully mounted her in a playful cowboy way and chirped “It’s time for the tickle monster!” Sarah awoke like a horror movie doll.  Her eyes sprung wide and she spoke of dark omens. 

“Jared, get off! My mom is coming!” 

I couldn’t believe, though, that her mom would time a visit this early and at this exact time. 

Apparently, however, she was sleeping in the hall out side the room.  Sarah used her horror movie psycho strength to bench press me and my form fitting Fruit of the Loom.  At this very moment Sarah’s mother did the “knock and open” chaperone approach to entering the room.  I heard the knock and thought I had time to race to the other bed. 

At least I had a cool car.  We drove from Colorado to Maryland.

I did not, and there I was, straddling and partly suspended over her youngest child.  My tight, white underwear did not help to conceal anything, and to make matters worse, the mounting in progress very much seemed to be against her daughter’s will.  Her daughter--her baby, her church camp attendee and cross-country running star--and her shared many wonderful memories together: Camping, singing, spring concerts, and wholesome family adventures.  None of it included naked, hairy men sitting on either of them.  I was a terrifying new chapter to their pure and white and Bouncy soft mother-daughter garden of experience. 

Sarah’s mom played this very well.  She didn’t say a word…with her mouth at least.  Her face said much.  It spoke of giant glaciers of hope falling into a sea of disappointment.  It was fast, this painful gaze, and then she calmly closed the door.   Shortly thereafter I was on a train to New York to visit an older cousin who I hadn’t seen me since I was seven.   

Oh but that look…it still lingers.  It’s a long-range future missile that blows up in my face whenever I go for credibility. It’s a look that says, “You sat on my daughter in your underwear; you cannot be trusted.”

Well that was awkward.  I'll groom the cat.

Today, we have kids.   And it’s been interesting seeing Sarah's childhood home go from “my girlfriend’s parent’s house” to the “in-laws” and now where “grandma and grandpa live”.  It’s weird going to “Grandma and Grandpa’s” and they not be your own.  Where in the heck are my grandparents?  And who are these children who are treated like do-no-wrong angels by parents who I know were quite strict with their own kids?  While I was there I kept wondering, “I made somebody a grandparent?”  It’s bothersome and strange, and I can barely account for the decade between pouncing on Sarah in my tighty whitees to chasing my son around in his. 

With kids life with in-laws is exponentially less stressful.  And I’m someone who adds stress by breaking down into nervous chatter.  I have amazing ability to say the dumbest things, and then, in an effort to recover, try to come back with something funny.  I don’t think it’s ever worked.  Nowadays, though, I don’t need to think so much about what I’m doing. I’m a parent making quick parental decisions, or falling asleep on the couch while Grandma teaches my two year old to pedal a trike. 

Finally, I’m at ease in Baltimore. Grandma and Grandpa live there in a comfortable air-conditioned place with lots of room for little people to go bonkers. 

Very little has changed.

Sarah and I even got to go out for some drinks.  When we got back Grandma was upset because Otto had fallen and hit his head.  I told her none of our children had ever fallen or hit their heads on our watch.  She realized I was joking, which was good.  I didn’t have to break out the regret shovel and dig my usual hole.  We all said good night in the most genuine and loving way before Sarah and I retired to the same room together.  It was wonderful, and probably made possible by experienced grandparents who know all we’d want to do is sleep. 

2010 Summer Vacation Part 2: Video Highlights