A few days ago, Jennifer and I brought Tyler into the City Centre, as it's labeled all around Fulford Road with great arrows on blue traffic signs pointing the way to the pedestrian path along the River Ouse.
It's about a 40-minute walk to the city centre library from our home on Lesley Avenue, and we've learned that if we have enough "digestive biscuits" (seemingly the equivalent of a graham cracker in the States), then Tyler will be able to sit for just about the whole walk.
Jen and I talked about dreams, hopes, fears, and joys here in York, while Tyler punctuated our conversation every now and then with "More cookie! More cookie!"
We saw people of every nationality and social class walking. Old white men with white hair and beards walk; young Asian students walk; middle-aged moms with their kids in tow walk; business men in fancy suits discussing fancy things on their way to fancy lunches walk; Palestinian women walk; Nigerian boys walk--everybody seems to be on the sidewalks, walking to or from the city centre, all the time.
The library walks Jen and I have taken with Tyler are beginning to feel less long, more natural. En route, we're starting to notice things about ourselves and the new world we're living in that having a car might have easily prevented. Instead of honking at the driver ahead for making a left turn without using his blinker, we notice that we're saying hello to people we see on the sidewalks of our life here.
So the library walks into the city have been great.
The library walks home have been in somewhat of a different hemisphere.
They consist of Tyler saying, "All done walk! All done walk!" and then pushing his torso up and out of the stroller in such a fashion that we wonder if we have strapped him in at all. Breakdancing his way up and down, up and down in the stroller, we rush across crosswalks, past afternoon saunterers, and around bicyclists.
Get home! Get home!
We employ all kinds of tactics: Bob the Builder when we get home! Bob! Trucks when we get home! Trucks!
Meanwhile, we watch as the English toddlers and their English moms comfortably and calmly stroll along the sidewalks. Their toddlers don't seem to know this same breakdance that Tyler has learned. And yet, they've had a couple of years' head start of learning to walk long walks to get places rather than zip there in a fast car with music and air temperatures and everything else controlled.
We've been into the city centre a handful of times now, and each time the library walk home becomes a little less like a visit to the dentist's office, a little more like routine.
Maybe a handful of times more, and the walk home will be just as soothing as the walk in.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Looking for Warm? Not so Fast...
It's essentially impossible to get warm water in our little home on Lesley Avenue. Unlike the apartments we've rented in America, where the hot water is always ready, and we could turn on the beautiful handle, then add a bit of cold and get warm, here, we first turn on the water-heating mechanism inside of our boiler-system-thingy.
The water heats up, and then we can get hot (really, really hot) water. However, when we try and turn the handle for cold water, the stream rushing from the faucet simply turns cold.
Try again: hot on (scalding hot), cold faucet on...warm?...nope. Cold.
So, we've started to learn to live with the extremes of the water, and I'm starting to give up trying to find a nice warm water flow in which to wash dishes. Instead, this morning, as Tyler played with a large digger--trying to stuff a lego-man we affectionately call JO-JO MAN into the driver's seat of said digger--I simply let my hands get a bit burned as I washed the dishes.
It made me think of the conversations Jennifer and I have been having lately. (At night, once Tyler is down for sleep and we're sitting on comfy chairs in our little living room.) We've been talking about what she's studying, and it's pretty hard stuff to stomach.
27 million slaves worlwide exist today.
Today.
And that's a low projection, because it's difficult to know how many slaves are out there that haven't been found, or whose dire enslavement is kept a secret from authorioes and activist groups like Kevin Bales' Free the Slaves.
Many of the 27 million slaves are victims of sex trafficking--something many of us would rather not think about, let alone learn about.
But during our conversations, I realized that here I am, a 29 year old man who considers himself a pretty progressive guy, who listened to NPR to and from my teaching job back in the states, who reads progressive material and tries to engage with culture without being overtaken by it, and yet I had never heard this fact until Jennifer started researching.
The quandary I came to is simply this: how is that possible? How is it conceivable that such tragedy can exist in our world and yet awareness of it can be so scant?
We carried our conectures one step further to look at the idea of American Christianity. Jennifer and I have been a part of great churches in the U.S. These churches have certainly taught us much, and helped us grow and learn.
And yet.
We started to wonder if it's right for a church to seek so much safety. To steer clear of issues that should beckon the very heart of the church. I have yet to hear the word "slavery" mentioned in a sermon, and whenever we've heard talk of fundraising, it's usually in conjunction with a refurbishment or a remodel of the sanctuary, the parking lot, or missions work. Don't get me wrong, it seems most churches give to cuases that are beyond themselves, of course, but how much?
When I read of the way Jesus responds to those in need in the gospels, it seems his point is to heal out of his great love or great pity for a person. Tony Campolo makes the claim that when Jesus says, "Greater works than these will you do" regarding the miracles, Jesus really means that our collective love will be able to do even more.
So it is becoming harder and harder to see that if the status quo of our world is going to change, the church must certainly change. There are certainly groups--like Sojourners in DC with Jim Wallis, and others who live in communities that seek social justice and community-growth and change, like Shane Claiborne--who are doing it. But on the whole, it seems like we've accepted the fact that warm is okay.
Warm will do.
But it won't.
As long as we consent to live thinking that small change is sufficient, and that maintaining the status quo is fine when it comes to a world so much bigger than ourselves, we're already in dangerous territory.
Jennifer and I are still learning about the tension of consumerism, ownership, and giving, freedom. We've got tons more to learn. But the more I hear about the tragedy of slavery in the world today--and that amidst so many other crises--it becomes harder and harder to substantiate a way of life that calls for no wide-scale changes, and seeks instead to help us own more, own more, own more.
I worry that most of us may find that we end up owning lots, but sadly realizing it all only makes our hearts a bit warm.
Perhpas there is more heat to be had by taking other paths, other journies.
The water heats up, and then we can get hot (really, really hot) water. However, when we try and turn the handle for cold water, the stream rushing from the faucet simply turns cold.
Try again: hot on (scalding hot), cold faucet on...warm?...nope. Cold.
So, we've started to learn to live with the extremes of the water, and I'm starting to give up trying to find a nice warm water flow in which to wash dishes. Instead, this morning, as Tyler played with a large digger--trying to stuff a lego-man we affectionately call JO-JO MAN into the driver's seat of said digger--I simply let my hands get a bit burned as I washed the dishes.
It made me think of the conversations Jennifer and I have been having lately. (At night, once Tyler is down for sleep and we're sitting on comfy chairs in our little living room.) We've been talking about what she's studying, and it's pretty hard stuff to stomach.
27 million slaves worlwide exist today.
Today.
And that's a low projection, because it's difficult to know how many slaves are out there that haven't been found, or whose dire enslavement is kept a secret from authorioes and activist groups like Kevin Bales' Free the Slaves.
Many of the 27 million slaves are victims of sex trafficking--something many of us would rather not think about, let alone learn about.
But during our conversations, I realized that here I am, a 29 year old man who considers himself a pretty progressive guy, who listened to NPR to and from my teaching job back in the states, who reads progressive material and tries to engage with culture without being overtaken by it, and yet I had never heard this fact until Jennifer started researching.
The quandary I came to is simply this: how is that possible? How is it conceivable that such tragedy can exist in our world and yet awareness of it can be so scant?
We carried our conectures one step further to look at the idea of American Christianity. Jennifer and I have been a part of great churches in the U.S. These churches have certainly taught us much, and helped us grow and learn.
And yet.
We started to wonder if it's right for a church to seek so much safety. To steer clear of issues that should beckon the very heart of the church. I have yet to hear the word "slavery" mentioned in a sermon, and whenever we've heard talk of fundraising, it's usually in conjunction with a refurbishment or a remodel of the sanctuary, the parking lot, or missions work. Don't get me wrong, it seems most churches give to cuases that are beyond themselves, of course, but how much?
When I read of the way Jesus responds to those in need in the gospels, it seems his point is to heal out of his great love or great pity for a person. Tony Campolo makes the claim that when Jesus says, "Greater works than these will you do" regarding the miracles, Jesus really means that our collective love will be able to do even more.
So it is becoming harder and harder to see that if the status quo of our world is going to change, the church must certainly change. There are certainly groups--like Sojourners in DC with Jim Wallis, and others who live in communities that seek social justice and community-growth and change, like Shane Claiborne--who are doing it. But on the whole, it seems like we've accepted the fact that warm is okay.
Warm will do.
But it won't.
As long as we consent to live thinking that small change is sufficient, and that maintaining the status quo is fine when it comes to a world so much bigger than ourselves, we're already in dangerous territory.
Jennifer and I are still learning about the tension of consumerism, ownership, and giving, freedom. We've got tons more to learn. But the more I hear about the tragedy of slavery in the world today--and that amidst so many other crises--it becomes harder and harder to substantiate a way of life that calls for no wide-scale changes, and seeks instead to help us own more, own more, own more.
I worry that most of us may find that we end up owning lots, but sadly realizing it all only makes our hearts a bit warm.
Perhpas there is more heat to be had by taking other paths, other journies.
Bye, Bye Poopie
Lately, Jennifer and I have been waking up to the melodious sound of Tyler's voice saying, "Bye, bye poopie!"
He stands in his crib at about 7 a.m. and shouts the previous phrase in order to rumble us from our sleep. Jennifer and I slowly regain consciousness and prepare ourselves for the morning diaper change.
Usually, it's a big one.
To be more honest (and more blunt), calling it a "big one" is somewhat of a euphamism. It's more like an explosion, whereby all of the foods that were eaten yesterday have a massive party inside my son's intestines and then push and shove to make their exit from his 35 pound body as fast as they can. There's no British cordiality here--everyone is just rushing for the nearest exit as fast as they possibly can.
And the result is the massive exodus of poop.
Jennifer and I steel ourselves for the task ahead, and meanwhile, Tyler begins saying, "Mommy, Daddy, wake up! Mommy, Daddy, wake up!"
I think about how it must feel. Imagine having a huge, wet load of poopie sticking to your butt and having a diaper press it even further and closer to your skin... Perhpas that's not the sort of think you'd like to visiualize, and I'll admit that it's not in my book of Fun Things to Dwell on while Passing the Time. However, since being a stay-at-home-dad, it's hard not to dwell on such things.
When Jennifer and I finally enter his room, his face lights up, and I can tell he's thinking two things:
1) My Mommy and Daddy are here! They love me!
and
2) Somebody get this poopie diaper off of me now!
The scene will replay itself tomorrow morning, of course. And I'm being honest when I say that although it's not always the easiest way to wake up, it has become the most authentic for me. To think back to waking up to a buzzing alarm when the only thing I had awaiting me was, well, getting myself ready, I feel a surge of life course through me to realize that this tiny little boy is waiting on us to help him get ready, to help him learn about this thing called life, to show him the joys, the pains, the ups and the downs of living.
And I wouldn't trade anything for this journey.
(Even if it does mean a poopie diaper every morning, and a few in the afternoon.)
He stands in his crib at about 7 a.m. and shouts the previous phrase in order to rumble us from our sleep. Jennifer and I slowly regain consciousness and prepare ourselves for the morning diaper change.
Usually, it's a big one.
To be more honest (and more blunt), calling it a "big one" is somewhat of a euphamism. It's more like an explosion, whereby all of the foods that were eaten yesterday have a massive party inside my son's intestines and then push and shove to make their exit from his 35 pound body as fast as they can. There's no British cordiality here--everyone is just rushing for the nearest exit as fast as they possibly can.
And the result is the massive exodus of poop.
Jennifer and I steel ourselves for the task ahead, and meanwhile, Tyler begins saying, "Mommy, Daddy, wake up! Mommy, Daddy, wake up!"
I think about how it must feel. Imagine having a huge, wet load of poopie sticking to your butt and having a diaper press it even further and closer to your skin... Perhpas that's not the sort of think you'd like to visiualize, and I'll admit that it's not in my book of Fun Things to Dwell on while Passing the Time. However, since being a stay-at-home-dad, it's hard not to dwell on such things.
When Jennifer and I finally enter his room, his face lights up, and I can tell he's thinking two things:
1) My Mommy and Daddy are here! They love me!
and
2) Somebody get this poopie diaper off of me now!
The scene will replay itself tomorrow morning, of course. And I'm being honest when I say that although it's not always the easiest way to wake up, it has become the most authentic for me. To think back to waking up to a buzzing alarm when the only thing I had awaiting me was, well, getting myself ready, I feel a surge of life course through me to realize that this tiny little boy is waiting on us to help him get ready, to help him learn about this thing called life, to show him the joys, the pains, the ups and the downs of living.
And I wouldn't trade anything for this journey.
(Even if it does mean a poopie diaper every morning, and a few in the afternoon.)
Monday, October 11, 2010
The Bladder and the Soul
There's a funny correlation, I've noticed, between the stamina of my bladder and the strength of my soul. As a stay-at-home dad, I've had to master the intense desire to urinate more frequently than I ever thought possible.
In our little home on Lesley Avenue here in York, the bathroom is upstairs, at the top of a rather precarious staircase in which each step seems to have been built with the intention of developing a game to see how much of your foot you can get on the actual step itself.
Thus, when Tyler and I are downstairs playing with tractors, diggers, dump trucks, cement mixers, excavators, skid steers, tipper trucks, fuel trucks, big rigs, and other assorted vehicles within the larger TRUCK family, it gets pretty hard to run upstairs and urinate while he's playing. After all, there are a whole host of dangerous things he could get into downstairs in the few minutes it would take me to relieve myself.
For instance, he might climb up on the armrest of the sofa chair (as he did the other day, while I scooted into the kitchen to wash our breakfast bowls) and try to climb up onto the indoor window ledge (he had almost made it when I lunged to get him back to safety).
So, as we play with the variety of trucks, I continually tell my bladder the following:
"Bladder, you've got to hold on a bit more, okay buddy? You can do this. I know it's hard, but just take a deep breath, and relax and much as you can."
To which my bladder usually responds, "Are you kidding, Luke? I mean, seriously, are you kidding me? How am I supposed to take a deep breath and stay calm? I wasn't built for those things!"
To which I reply, "But you can still do it. I know you can. I believe in you. I believe in you, Bladder!"
Meanwhile, the trucks rumble with Tyler's voice-overs, and my bladder holds like the Hoover Dam.
It's only an hour later, when I am finally able to bring Tyler in with me, or put him down for a nap and I can urinate, that I realize something: learning self-discilpine in this regard is also teaching me how to believe that the pain of urgent desires pass.
The desire to get back the things we let go when we were in America is fading.
Slowly, we are learning how to live without a car, a drying machine, a microwave, and a television.
And during the withrawal--as we can still remember the ease of using those possessions, and I can easily recall the comfort of peeing as soon as I feel the subtle hint--I can feel my soul grow.
Little by little, bit by bit, the difficult journey of my bladder increases the stamina of my soul.
In our little home on Lesley Avenue here in York, the bathroom is upstairs, at the top of a rather precarious staircase in which each step seems to have been built with the intention of developing a game to see how much of your foot you can get on the actual step itself.
Thus, when Tyler and I are downstairs playing with tractors, diggers, dump trucks, cement mixers, excavators, skid steers, tipper trucks, fuel trucks, big rigs, and other assorted vehicles within the larger TRUCK family, it gets pretty hard to run upstairs and urinate while he's playing. After all, there are a whole host of dangerous things he could get into downstairs in the few minutes it would take me to relieve myself.
For instance, he might climb up on the armrest of the sofa chair (as he did the other day, while I scooted into the kitchen to wash our breakfast bowls) and try to climb up onto the indoor window ledge (he had almost made it when I lunged to get him back to safety).
So, as we play with the variety of trucks, I continually tell my bladder the following:
"Bladder, you've got to hold on a bit more, okay buddy? You can do this. I know it's hard, but just take a deep breath, and relax and much as you can."
To which my bladder usually responds, "Are you kidding, Luke? I mean, seriously, are you kidding me? How am I supposed to take a deep breath and stay calm? I wasn't built for those things!"
To which I reply, "But you can still do it. I know you can. I believe in you. I believe in you, Bladder!"
Meanwhile, the trucks rumble with Tyler's voice-overs, and my bladder holds like the Hoover Dam.
It's only an hour later, when I am finally able to bring Tyler in with me, or put him down for a nap and I can urinate, that I realize something: learning self-discilpine in this regard is also teaching me how to believe that the pain of urgent desires pass.
The desire to get back the things we let go when we were in America is fading.
Slowly, we are learning how to live without a car, a drying machine, a microwave, and a television.
And during the withrawal--as we can still remember the ease of using those possessions, and I can easily recall the comfort of peeing as soon as I feel the subtle hint--I can feel my soul grow.
Little by little, bit by bit, the difficult journey of my bladder increases the stamina of my soul.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Our First Week in York
Ever see the movie, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles with Steve Martin and John Candy? That's a little how our trip to get to York, England went.
We took off on a Virgin Atlantic Flight leaving from Logan Airport at 7:45 pm. I don't know what type of plane it was, although admittedly, this would be a really great spot to write, "on a 769 jumbo jet" or something like that.
Instead, this description will have to suffice: the plane was really, really big. It was big enough to fit probably six goats head-to-tail width-wise, and maybe 42 crocodiles head to tail length-wise. If that seems hard to picture, I guess another way to describe it would be to say that we sat in the middle of the plane, and it felt like a long walk to get there.
After dumping two huge, overweight bags at the check-in luggage location (they were about 70 pounds each), we managed through security with Tyler, taking off his shoes, our shoes, belts, hair ties, any metal chips unknowingly inserted in bags, liquids, gels, gel-liquids, liquid-gels, mousses, and pretty much anything that could shake.
Tyler stayed awake for the first three hours of the seven-hour ride, and then slipped into good sleep for the final four. When we landed, it was raining.
Then it rained after we left London Heathrow Airport and caught a taxi ride from a dyslexic cab driver who confessed that he only got his license because his wife helped him with the test and materials. (Direct Quote: "I can't read much, but I know what most of these road signs say and all that.")
Our dyslexic driver dropped us off at Kings Cross Station, where we bought two one-way train tickets to York, a two-hour ride away. Tyler slept through the entire train trip, and Jen and I dozed while listening to two American businessmen say things on their cell phones like, "I'll fight the good fight for you on this one, Jimmy, but there's just no clause in the contract" and "Here's what we're gonna do--we'll rework the overview so that it reads like it does now, but we'll slide out those clauses and they won't even notice..."
When we arrived at the main train station in York, it was raining.
It rained as we ordered a much-needed cup of coffee. When I asked for cream with the coffee, the server, a young guy named Paul who had obviously exceeded his quota for caffeine, all too kindly asked me "whipped cream?"
To which I replied, "Do you have any regular cream?"
To which Paul replied, "Yeah, mate, it's regular cream but it's whipped-like. Would you like that in your coffee?"
I eventually declined the whipped cream, went for milk, and then Paul helped me see how my order could be cheaper by going with a combo meal (we had also gotten a chicken salad sandwich and chips).
I went for the combo meal, said goodbye to Paul, and then Jennifer, a sleeping-Tyler, and I proceeded to ride the elevator at the train station up and down, up and down, up and down. Someone had told us the exit could be reached by riding that elevator, though we could see no exit.
Finally, we saw it.
Outside the station, it was still raining.
We loaded our bags, our sleeping son, coffee with milk (no cream) and ourselves into a taxi and rode to the York Priory--the hotel where we'd be staying for two nights until the lease on the little home we rented would begin, on October 1st.
The first day and night, it never stopped raining.
We ate pizza from a place called ISTANBUL GRILL near the hotel, and we got library cards at the main library that first day.
That night, Tyler struggled to fall asleep, as did I.
That's not being completely accurate; the truth is: I wept. Not because I was sad to have left America, or that it rained so much in York (which it did, and would), but because I felt struck by fear in the deepest possible way.
Fears plagued my mind: What have we done? Are we crazy? Is Tyler going to be okay here? Can I even do this thing called stay-at-home parenting? I taught 7th graders and high school students; and I can play goofy games with my toddler...but parenting all day, every day? Can I set good boundaries, change massive amounts of poopie diapers, create good patterns and routines, stay structured for naps and meals, and still manage to let the words of the Muse flow through me? I can't! I'll be terrible at it!
At this point, my weeping became more intense, I woke up Jennifer, and told her all of my fears.
She proceeded to calm me down, tell me that I would do fine, and help me find some hope to hold onto.
I stopped crying, thanked her for her help, and then she fell back to sleep.
At which point, my fears attacked me again, and I woke up Jennifer.
Hopes, fine, relax.
Jen fell asleep.
Fears.
Woke up Jen.
Hope.
I fell asleep.
In the Promised Land of morning that following day, the sun winked at me through the clouds, and I knew things were going to be okay.
I knew that Jennifer was doing important work to by pursuing this degree as she researched how to stop sex trafficking. I knew that I would be a decent stay-at-home dad, and I knew that we'd both hit our lows, but that we would stand back up, dust ourselves off, and remember to reach for hope once more.
And then it started raining.
In the days to come, we moved into our little home at 1 Lesley Avenue, walked everywhere and exclaimed to ourselves how different life was without a car and a dryer, bought the essentials, and got soaked.
Then, in a reprieve like no other, for the past three days the rain has ceased. Completely. The sun delves into our little home each morning to bid us wake up, and Tyler scampers up the nearby playground, then runs across a huge field minutes away from us, holding hands with a four-year old girl named Holly who is his hero because she, too, knows the theme song for Bob the Builder.
Jennifer begins her research program on Monday, and Tyler and I have a playgroup that we've joined, which has 13 mothers and their children, and one other stay-at-home father.
The other Dad's name is Chris, and when I first met him, he wore a shirt that read: "Stay Calm and Carry On." When I asked him about it, he said it was what Churchill told the Brits during the war.
Good words, I thought.
Good words, I believe.
We took off on a Virgin Atlantic Flight leaving from Logan Airport at 7:45 pm. I don't know what type of plane it was, although admittedly, this would be a really great spot to write, "on a 769 jumbo jet" or something like that.
Instead, this description will have to suffice: the plane was really, really big. It was big enough to fit probably six goats head-to-tail width-wise, and maybe 42 crocodiles head to tail length-wise. If that seems hard to picture, I guess another way to describe it would be to say that we sat in the middle of the plane, and it felt like a long walk to get there.
After dumping two huge, overweight bags at the check-in luggage location (they were about 70 pounds each), we managed through security with Tyler, taking off his shoes, our shoes, belts, hair ties, any metal chips unknowingly inserted in bags, liquids, gels, gel-liquids, liquid-gels, mousses, and pretty much anything that could shake.
Tyler stayed awake for the first three hours of the seven-hour ride, and then slipped into good sleep for the final four. When we landed, it was raining.
Then it rained after we left London Heathrow Airport and caught a taxi ride from a dyslexic cab driver who confessed that he only got his license because his wife helped him with the test and materials. (Direct Quote: "I can't read much, but I know what most of these road signs say and all that.")
Our dyslexic driver dropped us off at Kings Cross Station, where we bought two one-way train tickets to York, a two-hour ride away. Tyler slept through the entire train trip, and Jen and I dozed while listening to two American businessmen say things on their cell phones like, "I'll fight the good fight for you on this one, Jimmy, but there's just no clause in the contract" and "Here's what we're gonna do--we'll rework the overview so that it reads like it does now, but we'll slide out those clauses and they won't even notice..."
When we arrived at the main train station in York, it was raining.
It rained as we ordered a much-needed cup of coffee. When I asked for cream with the coffee, the server, a young guy named Paul who had obviously exceeded his quota for caffeine, all too kindly asked me "whipped cream?"
To which I replied, "Do you have any regular cream?"
To which Paul replied, "Yeah, mate, it's regular cream but it's whipped-like. Would you like that in your coffee?"
I eventually declined the whipped cream, went for milk, and then Paul helped me see how my order could be cheaper by going with a combo meal (we had also gotten a chicken salad sandwich and chips).
I went for the combo meal, said goodbye to Paul, and then Jennifer, a sleeping-Tyler, and I proceeded to ride the elevator at the train station up and down, up and down, up and down. Someone had told us the exit could be reached by riding that elevator, though we could see no exit.
Finally, we saw it.
Outside the station, it was still raining.
We loaded our bags, our sleeping son, coffee with milk (no cream) and ourselves into a taxi and rode to the York Priory--the hotel where we'd be staying for two nights until the lease on the little home we rented would begin, on October 1st.
The first day and night, it never stopped raining.
We ate pizza from a place called ISTANBUL GRILL near the hotel, and we got library cards at the main library that first day.
That night, Tyler struggled to fall asleep, as did I.
That's not being completely accurate; the truth is: I wept. Not because I was sad to have left America, or that it rained so much in York (which it did, and would), but because I felt struck by fear in the deepest possible way.
Fears plagued my mind: What have we done? Are we crazy? Is Tyler going to be okay here? Can I even do this thing called stay-at-home parenting? I taught 7th graders and high school students; and I can play goofy games with my toddler...but parenting all day, every day? Can I set good boundaries, change massive amounts of poopie diapers, create good patterns and routines, stay structured for naps and meals, and still manage to let the words of the Muse flow through me? I can't! I'll be terrible at it!
At this point, my weeping became more intense, I woke up Jennifer, and told her all of my fears.
She proceeded to calm me down, tell me that I would do fine, and help me find some hope to hold onto.
I stopped crying, thanked her for her help, and then she fell back to sleep.
At which point, my fears attacked me again, and I woke up Jennifer.
Hopes, fine, relax.
Jen fell asleep.
Fears.
Woke up Jen.
Hope.
I fell asleep.
In the Promised Land of morning that following day, the sun winked at me through the clouds, and I knew things were going to be okay.
I knew that Jennifer was doing important work to by pursuing this degree as she researched how to stop sex trafficking. I knew that I would be a decent stay-at-home dad, and I knew that we'd both hit our lows, but that we would stand back up, dust ourselves off, and remember to reach for hope once more.
And then it started raining.
In the days to come, we moved into our little home at 1 Lesley Avenue, walked everywhere and exclaimed to ourselves how different life was without a car and a dryer, bought the essentials, and got soaked.
Then, in a reprieve like no other, for the past three days the rain has ceased. Completely. The sun delves into our little home each morning to bid us wake up, and Tyler scampers up the nearby playground, then runs across a huge field minutes away from us, holding hands with a four-year old girl named Holly who is his hero because she, too, knows the theme song for Bob the Builder.
Jennifer begins her research program on Monday, and Tyler and I have a playgroup that we've joined, which has 13 mothers and their children, and one other stay-at-home father.
The other Dad's name is Chris, and when I first met him, he wore a shirt that read: "Stay Calm and Carry On." When I asked him about it, he said it was what Churchill told the Brits during the war.
Good words, I thought.
Good words, I believe.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Leaving Home
Feels scary.
Feels downright different.
Is right.
That is, it's right for my wife, Jennifer, our son, Tyler, and myself. We've lived in New Eng;and and Arizona during our marriage and parenthood thus far, and for the past six months we've heard the whispers beckoning us to an adventure overseas.
At first, we weren't necessarily sure where, for what, and why. After all, I had a great job teaching 7th grade English at the public middle school in Hudson, MA. Jen was an artist as a stay-at-home-mom and writer, and Tyler seemed to be growing strong, learning lots, and loving life.
However, as I type this words during the early morning, our flight is scheduled to take off for London at the end of this month, and after spending gobs of money to apply for visas, plane tickets, and tuition, we're finally making the leap.
Jen will be pursuing a PhD at the University of York, where she'll study for Sociology--specifically, how to stop human trafficking, Meanwhile, I'll be a stay-at-home father and work on writing (and perhpas try and teach part-time if we can find somethign available).
This new direction has us both scared and yet thrilled. We have asked ourselves in the last weeks and months: why uproot from our lives here, with a toddler, and do the exact opposite of what Anmerican culture tells us we should be doing right now? Why not rather put a down payment on a little home, build a retirement fund, climb the salary ladder, and save up to buy an SUV?
We found two problems with this plan--a plan we almost decided to take. The first was that it seemed like we couldn't find very many American families who pursued these things and we actually happy with their lives. Everything our culture tells us we shoudl be doing, in other words, seemed to us to bring very little lasting joy. Instead, we saw people counting down to retirement, when they could leave jobs they don't really like and find a pool or some other body of water where they could sit and drink alcoholic beverages.
Those who were buying homes as quickly as possible seemed ever anxious about payments, repairs, and other necessities of home owning.
Not that we never want a home, or a retirement fund. And yet, we sensed that the time wasn't quite right for us to dive into such pursuits--or, at least, that it wasn't right for us to pursue them blindly, merely because our culture was waving big flags that said, "Open! This Way!"
Jen's sensed the call to work to stop human trafficking, I sensed the call to be home with my son and to write, and the rest, as they say, is history.
We don't know this path. It's certainly not the path that has been preached to us by countless television commercials and classrooms. Yes, we're scared. But we're also thrilled by what this adventure will teach us--about ourselves, our family, and the world in which we live.
Feels downright different.
Is right.
That is, it's right for my wife, Jennifer, our son, Tyler, and myself. We've lived in New Eng;and and Arizona during our marriage and parenthood thus far, and for the past six months we've heard the whispers beckoning us to an adventure overseas.
At first, we weren't necessarily sure where, for what, and why. After all, I had a great job teaching 7th grade English at the public middle school in Hudson, MA. Jen was an artist as a stay-at-home-mom and writer, and Tyler seemed to be growing strong, learning lots, and loving life.
However, as I type this words during the early morning, our flight is scheduled to take off for London at the end of this month, and after spending gobs of money to apply for visas, plane tickets, and tuition, we're finally making the leap.
Jen will be pursuing a PhD at the University of York, where she'll study for Sociology--specifically, how to stop human trafficking, Meanwhile, I'll be a stay-at-home father and work on writing (and perhpas try and teach part-time if we can find somethign available).
This new direction has us both scared and yet thrilled. We have asked ourselves in the last weeks and months: why uproot from our lives here, with a toddler, and do the exact opposite of what Anmerican culture tells us we should be doing right now? Why not rather put a down payment on a little home, build a retirement fund, climb the salary ladder, and save up to buy an SUV?
We found two problems with this plan--a plan we almost decided to take. The first was that it seemed like we couldn't find very many American families who pursued these things and we actually happy with their lives. Everything our culture tells us we shoudl be doing, in other words, seemed to us to bring very little lasting joy. Instead, we saw people counting down to retirement, when they could leave jobs they don't really like and find a pool or some other body of water where they could sit and drink alcoholic beverages.
Those who were buying homes as quickly as possible seemed ever anxious about payments, repairs, and other necessities of home owning.
Not that we never want a home, or a retirement fund. And yet, we sensed that the time wasn't quite right for us to dive into such pursuits--or, at least, that it wasn't right for us to pursue them blindly, merely because our culture was waving big flags that said, "Open! This Way!"
Jen's sensed the call to work to stop human trafficking, I sensed the call to be home with my son and to write, and the rest, as they say, is history.
We don't know this path. It's certainly not the path that has been preached to us by countless television commercials and classrooms. Yes, we're scared. But we're also thrilled by what this adventure will teach us--about ourselves, our family, and the world in which we live.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
17 Minutes of Ant Joy
As the temperature rose to a staggering 98 degrees here in Marlbrough, MA today, my son and I ventured outside the realm of the deliciously cool AC to get a little fresh air while Jen managed the clean-up of the kitchen.
As Tyler and I stood on the front concrete stoop of our apartment complex, ants raced back and forth in front of our bare feet. Each time an ant made the dangerous journey, Tyler squeeled with delight and pointed at said ant. Then, he conducted a sort of ant-dance whereby he continued pointing at the ant, squeeling, and added a foot-fire quick-step. Once the ant had managed its way into the safety of the grass (escaping Tyler's excited dance), my son would calm down and wait for the next sojourner.
After 17 minutes of delirious dancing and ant-sight-seeing, we finally could bear the heat no longer and returned to the cool comforts of our apartment.
However, Tyler's dance remains fresh in my mind. So, now that he is down to bed for the night, I'll share with you the question I pose to myself: when was the last time we danced over something so small, mundane, and utterly normal as an ant? Or, perhaps the better question is simply: when was the last time we danced?
As Tyler and I stood on the front concrete stoop of our apartment complex, ants raced back and forth in front of our bare feet. Each time an ant made the dangerous journey, Tyler squeeled with delight and pointed at said ant. Then, he conducted a sort of ant-dance whereby he continued pointing at the ant, squeeling, and added a foot-fire quick-step. Once the ant had managed its way into the safety of the grass (escaping Tyler's excited dance), my son would calm down and wait for the next sojourner.
After 17 minutes of delirious dancing and ant-sight-seeing, we finally could bear the heat no longer and returned to the cool comforts of our apartment.
However, Tyler's dance remains fresh in my mind. So, now that he is down to bed for the night, I'll share with you the question I pose to myself: when was the last time we danced over something so small, mundane, and utterly normal as an ant? Or, perhaps the better question is simply: when was the last time we danced?
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Trading Epiphanies
Once upon a time, I used to have the kind of epiphanies that arrived when I was sitting at the edge of the ocean, where the water kisses the sand and the sun smiles and leans back in his chair watching it all happen. Those kinds of thoughtful, reflective, transforming moments happen much less, lately.
Now, my epiphanies come when a full glass of ice water is knocked onto my lap by my 18-month old son Tyler while we're out at a restaurant to celebrate Jennifer and her remarkable mommy-hood.
Lately, epiphanies shock me. They grab hold of me and say: Live this life, damn it! Don't miss a moment; don't waste a second!
They arrive when Tyler burps (for real) and then finds the sound of his own burping so strange and new and delightful that he continues burping (for pretend) for the next five minutes because it makes his Daddy and his Mommy just about bust their guts laughing. When Jen and I finally catch our breath and stare at our little man full in the face--yup: epiphany. Life is meant to be laughed at.
When our little man has just been srubbed clean in a bath foaming with enough bubbles to cover Godzilla, and we're now drying him off and about to exit the bathroom for the bedroom to put on his pajamas covered in dinosaurs playing with a variety of sports equipment, and then--splat!...splat!...spalatta-tatta-plop-tat!--the diarrhea-like substance cascades down his read end and lands in a surplus of medium-sized piles all over the bathroom floor--yup: epiphany. Life gives you surprises; you can get mad at life's surprises or you can use them as bookmarks to remember the stages you've been through.
When Jennifer and I have gotten our little man down to sleep, and then we've cleaned up the kitchen, and folded the laundry that's been sitting in the dryer for two days, and cleaned up all the disembodied parts of Mr. Potato Head, and picked up the various foods (rice, Cheerios, avocado) that has been squashed into the carpet--when all of this is done and we sit close to one another with a glass of wine and speak softly, whisper about the dreams yet to come, the antics of the day, the subtle sadnesses and thousand tiny triumphs and the mess and beauty of it all--yup: epiphany. No matter how deep the chaos of any moment feels, it will pass. It will pass.
I can't say that sometimes a part of me doesn't recall those long, still moments on a beach somewhere, or sitting for hours in a cafe--and yet, the epiphanies I have now feel somehow more authentic--more tested, perhaps. They feel more right for the path I am called to walk. Surely others have their own paths, frought with different epiphanies, different sadnesses and triumphs, but I feel a sense of gratefulness for mine.
My new epiphanies feel like those stones along the shores of such oceans--those stones that have been washed up and then taken back into the deep waters, time and time again, where they are tossed and shifted and combed over and over and over until all that's left is the appreciation for what is, not what once was.
Now, my epiphanies come when a full glass of ice water is knocked onto my lap by my 18-month old son Tyler while we're out at a restaurant to celebrate Jennifer and her remarkable mommy-hood.
Lately, epiphanies shock me. They grab hold of me and say: Live this life, damn it! Don't miss a moment; don't waste a second!
They arrive when Tyler burps (for real) and then finds the sound of his own burping so strange and new and delightful that he continues burping (for pretend) for the next five minutes because it makes his Daddy and his Mommy just about bust their guts laughing. When Jen and I finally catch our breath and stare at our little man full in the face--yup: epiphany. Life is meant to be laughed at.
When our little man has just been srubbed clean in a bath foaming with enough bubbles to cover Godzilla, and we're now drying him off and about to exit the bathroom for the bedroom to put on his pajamas covered in dinosaurs playing with a variety of sports equipment, and then--splat!...splat!...spalatta-tatta-plop-tat!--the diarrhea-like substance cascades down his read end and lands in a surplus of medium-sized piles all over the bathroom floor--yup: epiphany. Life gives you surprises; you can get mad at life's surprises or you can use them as bookmarks to remember the stages you've been through.
When Jennifer and I have gotten our little man down to sleep, and then we've cleaned up the kitchen, and folded the laundry that's been sitting in the dryer for two days, and cleaned up all the disembodied parts of Mr. Potato Head, and picked up the various foods (rice, Cheerios, avocado) that has been squashed into the carpet--when all of this is done and we sit close to one another with a glass of wine and speak softly, whisper about the dreams yet to come, the antics of the day, the subtle sadnesses and thousand tiny triumphs and the mess and beauty of it all--yup: epiphany. No matter how deep the chaos of any moment feels, it will pass. It will pass.
I can't say that sometimes a part of me doesn't recall those long, still moments on a beach somewhere, or sitting for hours in a cafe--and yet, the epiphanies I have now feel somehow more authentic--more tested, perhaps. They feel more right for the path I am called to walk. Surely others have their own paths, frought with different epiphanies, different sadnesses and triumphs, but I feel a sense of gratefulness for mine.
My new epiphanies feel like those stones along the shores of such oceans--those stones that have been washed up and then taken back into the deep waters, time and time again, where they are tossed and shifted and combed over and over and over until all that's left is the appreciation for what is, not what once was.
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