• The ah ha moment

    This is one of those posts that sounded profound and original one night at 3am… and a little less so as time passed – that, and less coherent.

    – – –

    People told me what to expect before, but I always humored them. I’m not stupid. I’d see this thing coming way before it happened to me. I wouldn’t be so easily fooled.

    Then a few nights ago it happened to me. We were sitting in a restaurant, me and Adam on one side of the table, Beth and Cheryl on the other. As I looked across the table I was struck dumb by what I saw – two heads – one level.

    One minute I’m thinking: yeah, she’s in middle school, but I’ve got plenty of time. She’s still a tiny thing. Then in the blink of an eye:

    Insta-funk.

    There are five years left of what society deems “childhood.” Am I foolish enough to think she’ll disappear in a ball of smoke at the stroke of midnight on that last day? Well, no. But I also realize my child is already gone. In her place is this awkward, child/adult hybrid.

    Parents tell stories about events in their childs’ lives and we automatically say, “oh, I can’t imagine.” On some, abstract level we know we can’t. The fun is in learning we really can’t – or couldn’t.

    I realized parenthood isn’t just an exclusive club. You know how we are: “you can never imagine what it’s like to have a child until you do.” But we have cliques too. The empty nesters. The multi-birthers (some prefer the hormonaly challenged). The all girl team. The all boy team. The uni-child. The zip code. The pre-teeners. The teeners. The post-teeners (also known as the lingerers). The mix-teeners.

    And so on.

    Then the larger, simpler truth hit me. It was right there all along, looking me in the face. Why is it the simple truths sometimes seem harder to grasp? Is it just me? What am I getting at? What is the saying about walking a mile in someone’s shoes?

    Sometimes it’s hard to understand someone’s life until you’ve lived it. Parenthood happens to be a good tool for bringing a lot of people together. A lot of people share the general experience. But as we put on one pair of shoes, when our first child is born, and we take another off, do our paths irreversibly diverge from the herd?

    Do we know less than we think we do about both lives: the one we left behind as well as the one we joined – in the way I took for granted Beth’s growing up? Are we no better authority of the lifestyle of the childless, at our age, than those without kids can be of ours? I’ll wager they’re not the same shoes we wore ten or twenty years ago. They changed – just like parenting changes as our kids grow, maybe with as many “cliques” (or more) as we merry parents.

    Now I wonder if/how this “toe in the shoe” phenomenon plays out in the wider human experience.

    Was it present when that asshole was smoking behind Cheryl at a Gator game (many moons, two kids, and one wedding ago), prompting a mild asthma attack.

    “Ah… I’ve coughed before. It can’t be that bad.”

    Perhaps that’s an extreme example – with a lot of willful ignorance, and more than a touch of jack-assery thrown in.

    But I wonder how often this kind of thing leads us to draw the wrong conclusions about life.

    – – –

    I’m sorry. This post probably wouldn’t have happened if I’d talked it out with someone. I should try that sometime.

  • My baby sister

    For the sake of this post, we’ll call her Lisa. We call her Lisa the rest of the time too, but I love the cloak and dagger stuff. Though, I suppose if I follow the metaphor through, I’ve removed the cloak and sunk the dagger.

    Jeez, I must be a terrible brother!

    Well, since she’s already uncloaked, let me tell you a little more about my baby sister. She follows the pattern set by her older brother and sister. I’m three years older than the middle child: her older sister – within a month, and she’s three years younger than the middle child – within a month.

    She had the good sense to follow us both to UF to further her education.

    She’s an RN with a cool husband and two adorable boys.

    Strangest of all, she’s all growed up! Heck if I know when that happened. Probably sometime between when Beth was born and when she went teetering off on the brink of teendom.

    Not too long ago my sister sprung some news on me. It was about he time she got the copy of a friend’s first published book I bought her in the mail.

    “Hey, guess what? I’m just finishing up my first novel!”

    What!?! Who!?! Where!?! Why!?! Was there an alien abduction involved?

    In case you haven’t figured it out my now, I’m a really supportive brother.

    “It’s a fantasy I started back in August…”

    Back in August? What was I doing back in August? Probably better not to think about it.

    “… and I’m thinking I might even see if it’s something someone would publish.”

    My sister, a writer? I never saw it coming. It’s not that I don’t think she’s capable, I just didn’t know she had an interest. I’m proud as hell she’s built a life where both she and her husband can work, one of them can be at home for the kids 7 days a week (they’re not what you’d call sedate), and she’s still got the time to write a novel. I know, it probably describes a lot of people… but not me though. I wouldn’t have that kind of focus.

    That was a month or two ago. Since then she’s been editing away, getting a few opinions. A writer friend of mine offered to read a bit for some feedback. She had my sister read the whole thing, who gave her more. (She may have had others read it too, I’m not sure.) She did some research on her own, and…

    Yesterday I got an email announcing she took the big plunge.

    The big leap.

    The big query… soon enough to be followed by the ever-so-likely universal rejection.

    In case your wondering, I haven’t read it yet. I’m afraid to. Why? You’re gonna think I’m an even bigger jackass than you do already. I don’t like most fantasy and I don’t want to jinx it. It kind of drives me a little crazy, actually – like that’s an accomplishment. There are a few fantasy novels I’ve really enjoyed, and there are a whole bunch I started and couldn’t finish – not necessarily because they were poorly written, but because me and the stories didn’t gel (if that makes any sense). So, Lisa’s book could fall into my narrow band of acceptable fantasy, and could be something I could fairly judge. But my fantasy detector gives off a lot of false positives. I could start reading it and be crushed. There’s a funny thing about me you may not know: I don’t like feeling crushed. In this case it makes me a quivering coward. Eventually I’m going to gather up the courage to ask her to read it, if she’ll still let me – her big bother.

    In the mean time, no matter what my failings are, I’m really proud of my little sister. You see Steve’s book over there to the right? You know, the one you bought because you always do what I tell you to and you loved it?

    Someday I hope you’re looking over there and buying one of my baby sister’s books.

  • All hail the beekeeper!

    Beard of BeesIt turns out the bees won’t be treated so humanely after all.

    Back to that in a moment. First, I want to waste your time with a little narrative of this morning’s events.

    The wildlife expert/beekeeper came out, took a look at the bees, said, “yep, there’s a lot of bees for ya,” and went back to his truck to don his beekeeper suit. Meanwhile I ran inside to grab my camera to snap some pictures before the bees got angry.

    If there’s one thing I don’t like it’s angry bees. It turns out it was a good thing I didn’t try one of my infamous, half-baked, DIY, home fixer-upers the day before. While I was inside doing a little work, nursing my mucous back to good color, the beekeeper was making a discovery. My bees weren’t just any old bees. No sir! They were them aggressive types, those africanized bees.

    Yes! I knew it! I knew I was special… somehow! How many of YOU can say you’ve got killer bees in your laundry room?

    HAH! I didn’t think so.

    It turns out they don’t tolerate the air conditioning well and die overnight, so they were pretty well contained to the laundry room – and a couple that found their way into the family room. Our family room is a converted garage, so the door is big, heavy, insulated, and tight fitting – or in this case: bee proof.

    So now I just have to wait the 48 to 72 hours for the beekeeper’s magic dust to do its trick and make the bees go away. I’ll be home alone while Cheryl and the kids go to Orlando, nursing my cold – a lone sentinel against the insect threat.

    Maybe I’ll go over to my parent’s house to do some laundry… for old time’s sake.

    By the way, did you know it only costs $289 (flat rate) to have a licensed, insured, wildlife expert come out and relocate your honeybees, and treat point of entry/exit with a non-toxic substance which will discourage the bees from settling there again?

    Did you know that they charge the same amount for exterminating africanized bees that I think our exterminator should do for no additional charge, under their existing contract?

    Did you know that someone will be reading contracts and possibly making phone calls this weekend?