The Wubster's Time to Shine

I've been bad. No...not naughty. Just bad.

You see, I haven't written much about The Wubster. That's bad, bordering on unforgivable.

Wubster, if you're reading this, HOLY $#!7 YOU CAN READ!!! Oh, and please forgive me.

It's not that I haven't wanted to write about the Wubster, it's more that his brother's energetic adventures overshadow his mild-mannered exploration of the world. It's hard to compete with a kid who doesn't stop moving or talking; a kid who 'reads' a book from his Lutheran preschool and comes up with, '...and this is the guy who tickled Jesus' or who says at least ten times during a recent bath night, 'Mom! My penis is broken!' when it certainly wasn't. Even I become a wallflower around Mini-Me sometimes.

That's changing, though.

Quickly.

Here are some of the Wubster's latest accomplishments.

Back in the late summer of 2009, the Wubster started babbling, spouting out more 'Mamas' than 'Papas', disappointing, I know, but his overall communication development was looking good. Then he shut up. All we'd get was grunts, whines, cries, and, of course, laughter. No words. The Wubster was content to hang back and watch everything around him without getting too involved verbally.

In January, the Wubster had heart surgery to (mostly) fix a coarctation of the aorta, so we were a bit busy with other concerns and didn't worry too much about words. Despite our fears and nervousness, the procedure went well, the Wubster did awesome, and you'd never know that anything was wrong with him. He certainly wouldn't tell you.

At home he now spends as much time as a teenage girl on his iPod phone (not an iPhone, mind you, an iPod that he pretends is a phone) constantly babbling away about such things as how fun it is to vacuum and sweep the kitchen floor (not a day goes by that he doesn't do it at least once), how he gets his brother in trouble by mimicing all of Mini-Me's don't-do-that-at-the-table-your-brother-will-do-it-oh-nevermind-there-he-goes moves and how much he loves dunking basketballs and mowing the sidewalk. He even spits out more 'Dadas' these days then the Swiss did in the early 20th Century (I'm pulling a Dennis Miller here). And where does the Wubster go when he's got a call to make? The fireplace. He stands on the bricks, chats, and every so often kisses his own reflection in the glass. My little Narcissus!

At the sitter's, the Wubster has given Mrs. Donna the silent treatment, too, clamming up immediately if she walked in the room, the way I used to convert from walking to crawling before my mom picked me up from daycare. Within the past month, though, the Wubster has been singing and chatting for all of us. If you listen closely, you'll catch the familiar notes of Twinkle Twinkle/ABCs or the pre-meal prayer routine "Open, Shut Them" that Mini-Me taught us back in August.

The Wubster is also doing a great job walking, running, climbing, and just all-around keeping up with Mini-Me.

We purchased new mattresses for the boys recently and in a fit of genius inspired by a desire to stop dueling tantrums, I laid the old ones in the living room for some tumbling. The boys spent at least an hour that first day running back and forth from hallway to mattress, squealing and leaping (in Mini-Me's case) or falling (in the Wubster's case) on the mattresses. This is our new tantrum kryptonite!

The Wubster is also mastering climbing stairs (under close, watchful, nervous eyes) which means he's having a blast at the local playgrounds because he can now reach the top of the slide on his own. And that means he can build up enough static electricity to make my hair stand up when I catch him at the bottom. Who needs the Magic House?

And, finally, as much as the Wubster has been a wallflower while his brother frolics weed-like around him, he's starting to figure out how to stand his ground and fight for his right to toys, food, and attention. The Wubster can whine with the best tantrum-thrower in the house, but more often than not, the two tow-heads get along splendidly. Their dinner table shenanigans drive me batty at times as they feed off of each other’s every move, which sends mealtime spiraling into cup-slamming, hand-pounding, squealing frenzies of laughter. They also have worked out a morning breakfast ritual that involves Mini-Me eating all but the last 1/8th of his daily Pop-Tart (you know, that last bit of crust that nobody ever wants) and handing it over to the Wubster to gleefully finish. Brothers!

So that's life with the Wubster right now. It's exciting and exhausting riding his developmental coat tails, but I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world!

The Butterwhy House

We finally seem to have hit a turning point with Mini-Me.

Why?

Because he's not throwing tantrums quite the same way as he was a couple months ago.

And he's starting to make up his own stories.

Why?

Because he and I would make up stories about his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days to trick mom with at the dinner table.

Why?

Because we're silly.

But now he's telling the stories all by himself.

Why?

Because the cow apparently snuck into the room and laid on his cot at nap time, so he was unable to go to sleep until the teachers coaxed it out of the room by singing a nonsense song to the tune of "Jesus Loves the Little Children"

Why?

Honestly I don't know, but one other thing: the 'why's' have become less frequent.

W…oh?

Yeah. For what seemed like a never-ending epoch in our lives together he was an empty vessel, parched, thirsty, waiting to be filled, waiting to absorb all the knowledge of the world, yet questioning every drop.

And he still is thirsty, but the amazing thing is now I'm seeing his confusion shift to confidence. Every day I see him grasp bigger and more complex ideas. Every day I watch as he connects As and Bs and Qs and Us. Every day I'm there as he becomes his own man, albeit a short, immature man who likes eating Pop Tarts for breakfast, calling his brother "poopy head" and jumping off furniture.

This shift in Mini-Me's mentality became especially apparent during a recent trip to the butterfly house, which, if you've never been, is a wonderful place despite the occasional feeling that you're in a sauna with plates of overripe fruit. Seriously. It's incredibly warm and there are plates of festering fruit suspended from trees, beckoning the beautiful, delicate butterflies with their sugary goodness. It's downright tropical.

On this particular day, the air outside was frigid and crisp, tingling my nostrils with each inhalation as I hurried to catch up with Mini-Me, the Wubster, and the rest of the family. I slung my camera over my shoulder and squinted as the bright February sunshine reflected off a blanket of fresh snow. We'd visited the Butterfly House several times before, but never in the middle of winter. The humid, ripe warmth and "natural fragrances" would be welcomed today.

Before you can actually enter the butterfly area, though, you have to listen to a spiel about how to maintain the safety and security of these delicate, sensitive, natural beauties. The basic idea is "Don't touch the butterflies." I got it, my wife got it, the grandparents got it.

Apparently Mini-Me got it, too, because once inside, he shied away from every butterfly's approach. The Wubster tore along each path unaware of the dive bombing rainbow battalions, but Mini-Me looked frightened, as though the beating of their wings thundered in the air over his head. We guided him through the dome, corralling the Wubster as necessary.

Just before we reached the exit, Mini-Me came across a woman, probably in her mid-forties, kneeling in the path in front of us, reaching out to a fallen Blue Morpho. I'd seen her running around the place snapping photos, excitedly pointing out new finds to a man who sat indifferently on a bench in a far corner. As she knelt in front of us, the monarch tattoo peeking out from the hem of the left leg of her jeans, she confidently reached out her hand, Clara Barton of the butterfly house.

"You're not supposed to touch the butterflies!"

The voice struck fear in her; pride and slight embarrassment in me.

"I'm trying to help…" Defensive, scared, tense, she continued to nudge the wounded off the path.

"Don't touch!"

The voice boomed beyond its three years. It was loud, commanding, authoritative. It rang clear with a confidence of the ages.

"I know…it's just…" Her words hesitated as she continued her gentle sweeping of the wounded off the walkway and under a shrub.

"You're not supposed to touch the butterflies!"

I tried to assure him that she knew what she was doing. That it was okay for her to touch a butterfly. How do you explain to a three-year-old why, at forty-six, some rules are meant to be broken? She turned and looked up at him, her eyes pleading to the three-year-old boy watching her, his eyes burning with anger at her clear disregard for the laws of the land.

"I was just trying to help. He's protected now. Isn't that better?" She smiled, shrugged, and scurried sheepishly away before he could lash out again.

Mini-Me looked up at me and I smiled. "I'm proud of you, buddy!"

"Why?"

A Time and a Place

Time and space morph and contort as the car turns off of the highway, skirts the edges of Forest Park and enters a parking garage across from the Emergency Room entrance at St. Louis' Children's Hospital. The experience is discombobulating; fed by the fear of the unknown and enhanced by the slow, upward spiral through level after full level of the parking garage. At every turn, brightly colored caricature concrete barriers smile blankly through the darkness. The somber mood in the front seat limits any potential laughter at the frozen grins of the figures or at the signs hanging from the cold concrete ceiling announcing unexpected speed limits of '4 3/8' and '3.1415'.

Cutting through the fog of exhaust, exhaustion, and fear to reach the elevator, the threshold to a bridge into the hospital itself, the weary, leery parents and child are greeted by more cheery colors and the smiling voice of a young boy: "Going DOWN!", "Wheeeee!" Their child smiles from his father's arms as the elevator and his stomach drops, but the expressions on the parents' faces remain those of worry, discomfort and dread.  "2^nd Floor!", "Welcome to St. Louis Children's Hospital!" The voice is chipper and innocent. The child smiles at the tingle in his stomach as the elevator stops and the doors open onto the entry bridge.

Despite the gloomy, Londonish weather settling upon every window and skylight in the main hospital lobby, the vivid colors found in tiles, carpeting, paint, sculptures, and displays ignite a warm and welcome atmosphere. As the parents and their child cross the bridge into the main building, a toy train chugs steadily along tracks suspended above their heads. The child looks up and watches the engine pull its plastic freight past rows of model houses as his parents continue their trek to the brightly lit registration desk and smiling volunteers.

"May I help you?" The words open a brief conversation that is friendly and normal, but fails to reveal the true emotions barely contained beneath the surface of both parties. Similar conversations occur frequently in this place as parents guide their children from registration desks to specialist areas to nurses stations, always following the vibrantly patterned carpet, passing the glowing tactile displays and video screens, turning "just past the aquariums" filled with a tropical rainbow of fish darting amongst brittle decorative coral, and eventually waiting, waiting, waiting on uncomfortable chairs for a moment they never dreamed would pass when this child was first announced in hushed excitement years ago.

Sitting in any one of the uncomfortable chairs, it doesn't take long for parents to realize that none of the clocks here work the way they should. Sure they all tell time according to the laws of Greenwich and their zoning regulations, but for those immersed in the ebbs and flows of the medical needs of their children, natural rules no longer apply. Those families hoping for minutes to pass by in an instant, instead find they move slower than sap oozing from a freshly cut tree limb. And those wishing to savor every tick of the second hand, instead find that stubborn hand moves faster than cupcakes at a three-year-old's birthday party. Time becomes the enemy in this land of color and glass. There is no escaping it; there is certainly no controlling it.

After tests and screenings are complete, the inevitable march towards fate begins, typically ending in a furious whirlwind of nurses and doctors and worst case scenarios: "We'll need you to sign here…Do you have any known family history of…and sign here…5% of cases result in serious complications due to…and here…is he allergic to…and here…there are also cases where patients have reacted…and one last time, sign here…do you have any questions?" The child is slipped from their arms and whisked away by the smiling face of a nurse while their façade of smiles conceals a twisting knot of despair writhing in the pits of their guts. What outcome awaits? Tears? Joy? Will life ever be the same? The answer dangles from the ticking second hand of the clock on the wall as it continues its steady march.

 

A Prayer to Many Gods

Dearest God, Allah, Yahweh, Buddha, Zeus, Thor, Baby Eternity, etc.

 

How's it going?!? I know we don't talk all that often (about as often as I've been blogging lately), but I just wanted to run a couple things by you real quick.

You guys are busy, I know, but not too long ago we found out that the Wubster has a heart murmur caused by coarctation of the aorta and he'll be having heart surgery in a bit less than a week. We're trying to stay focused on day to day tasks and we know that the Wubster will be in the care of talented doctors who know what they're doing, but the prospect of any fiddling around on Wubster's vital organs makes us nervous. He could use some looking after by the infinite powers of the universe if you could find the time.

Thanks so much! You guys rock!

 

Doug

 

P.S. I certainly have noisy little adventures to share and, once this procedure is over and life is back to abnormal, I'll try to be better about posting.

Seedfolks

It didn’t take much, just a quick finger sweep to clear away some mud, a slight wiggle to loosen the ground’s grip, a gentle tug to release the prisoners from their five-month incarceration.

“A carrot! Daddy! A carrot! It came up!”

“I know, buddy, just like we said it would! Do you want to eat it?”

“Yessss!”

The dirt-encrusted beta-carotene stick was instantaneously in Mini-Me’s mouth.

“Whoa! Wait until we wash off the dirt, okay?”

“Thpt…thpppt…thpppppt…okay.”

When Mini-Me turned two, he received a copy of The Carrot Seed by Ruth Krauss. I’d never read the book as a child, but it soon became a bedtime favorite for all of us. In the story, a little boy plants carrot seeds and patiently waits for them to sprout while everyone else tells him, “They won’t come up!” The boy waits, and hopes, and waits, and waters, and waits, and pulls weeds, and waits, and ignores his big brother, and waits, and waits, and waits, and, finally, is rewarded with a carrot three times his size, which is quite fortunate because the kid’s got to be famished after never taking a break to eat.

We have video of Mini-Me ‘reading’ the book all by himself in that adorable way kids do when they’ve memorized a story their parents have read every night for months. It’s not nearly as adorable as the way my sister ‘read’ Green Eggs and Ham until my aunt and I sought relief by hiding it from her. She responded with a screaming, tearful recitation of the story throughout my grandparents’ house until our laughter evaporated, our souls cracked, and the book reappeared. Not that adorable, but close.

When I decided we’d plant a garden this past spring I knew I’d have to plant carrots. Of course, I decided to start a garden well after the recommended planting season and did about as much preparation as my seniors do for one of my end-of-the-school-year assignments. Nevertheless, we gave it a go.

As I toiled in the dirt, it became clear that Mini-Me’s love of The Carrot Seed didn’t translate to his love of actual carrot seeds. In fact, he became so focused on excavating earthworms that he dug up my carrot seeds. Twice. I persisted, though, and grabbed Mini-Me’s attention long enough to have him water the garden. All that was left for us to do was wait.

When Mini-Me was born I held him in my arms, tears welling, and his life flashed before my eyes. The Wubster brought about a similar experience on his birthday. It didn’t take long after each of their births for us to hear words of encouragement and advice:

“…enjoy ‘em at this age…they grow up so fast!”

“…you’ll wonder where the time goes!”

“…I remember when mine were this small…seems like just yesterday…”

“…don’t take anything for granted…love them deeply every single day…”

“…time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana…”

“…before you know it, they’ll be __________ (walking, talking, driving, leaving for college, living in your basement, married, arrested, putting you in a retirement home, etc)”

And wait…

Of course, waiting isn’t one of Mini-Me’s or The Wubster’s fortes. They like to grab life by whatever their brother has that they don’t. Luckily, I’d also planted tomatoes and jalapenos to keep us entertained (and me salsafied) until the carrots were ready. Every so often I’d get the boys out back to help water, pick tomatoes, or just look for worms in our little plot of land. That usually held their attention for eleven seconds (unless we actually found worms). It was during those fleeting eleven seconds, frustrated that the carrots didn’t seem to be growing, that I was reminded of just how quickly the boys were growing… just as everyone said they would.

The Wubster’s a pro at walking now even if he stumbles drunkenly after too much milk and still occasionally holds one arm in the air grasping a phantom hand for support. He’s even become pretty good at crawling, which he’d initially skipped, and he’s got quite the arm. He spends a lot of his time playing fetch with himself.

Mini-Me’s learning Spanish and Sign Language. His favorite word is ‘amarillo’…that’s yellow. He can read almost every capital letter, his name, and, as of this weekend, the word ‘Zoo’. He puts away his dishes after dinner, carried a jug of milk up from the basement by himself, flew a helicopter on Halloween, knows the ins and outs of his preschool’s fire alarm system, and can seriously rock out on his drums.

And wait…

When Mini-Me and I came inside I rinsed the mud from a couple carrots and we all sat down in the kitchen for a snack. As they devoured our harvest, each one looking so grown up, I couldn’t help but wonder how we’d already made it to this point. Where had the time gone? How had the infants who cuddled up and slept on our chests already become these handsome young boys?

It didn’t take much, just a constant supply of milk and quick finger foods to sweep up off the kitchen floor later, a silly giggle to loosen the tension after a tantrum, a gentle tug on our heartstrings to read just one more story, sing just one more song, spin in just one more circle, slide just one more time.

“We’re growing up! Daddy! We’re growing up! We’re getting bigger!”

“I know, buddies, just like everyone said you would!”

Searching for Super Man

Look, up in the sky there was a bird, but he settled on a low branch of the tree across the street; warbling his disgust at being disturbed by the commotion. There was a plane, too. Several, in fact, soaring majestically overhead; off to the bliss of faraway places; unaware of the pain and suffering below. There was, however, no Superman. No tights, no cape, no fancy emblem, no truth, no justice, no American way. Just pain and anger; blood and tears.

“Help me! Please! Help!”

Time slowed as the lines of reality merged on that rectangle of cement until nothing concrete remained. Metal and rubber and flesh became one; each entity lost in the embrace of the other.

“It hurts! Please help me…I can’t get up!”

The boy’s voice was delicate compared to the speeding locomotive rumbling along the rails, shrieking its warning in the distance, and, yet, his cries struck faster than a speeding bullet. Help arrived, not by leaping over tall buildings, but with feet firmly planted on the ground.

The boy squinted through the tears and sunlight at the looming shadow. Hands of average strength reached down to disentangle metal, rubber, and flesh. Arms of exceptional normality scooped the boy off the sidewalk. Eyes, gifted only with the ability to see through fear, examined the bloodied, dirt-encrusted knees. Lungs, powerful enough to blow out candles, exhaled five quick, calm words: “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” Back muscles, powerful enough to support the weight of fatherhood, carried the mangled bike and bruised ego of a young boy six blocks home.

“I fell, daddy…it hurts.”

“I know, buddy…you’ll be okay.”

The bird, having quickly forgotten the recent upheaval, resumed its cheerful chirping. The planes, never faltering in their flight, disappeared into the clouds ahead of their pitiless roar. Time regained its traction as the boy relaxed in the arms of his super man.

My Lyrical Mythology

It’s that time again.

The first day has dipped below the horizon in the rear view mirror of this school year, I can connect most of my students’ names with their faces, and the first essay is striking procrastination into the hearts of nearly one-hundred seniors. In years past I’ve pondered writing this first assignment—an informal essay examining personal mythology—along with my students, but I always seemed to find something else to do instead. I’m not proud of that fact, but regrets won’t get it written this year either.

Like most of my students, I’ve spent the past few days contemplating what shapes my understanding of my place in the universe. We started the year discussing Joseph Campbell and the idea that a mythology is the set of beliefs true to the people they’re about. So what’s true to me? What beliefs do I hold that help me understand life, the universe, and everything?
I’m not an overly spiritual person so, while I do believe in the existence of a power far beyond human comprehension, most of my beliefs aren’t deeply rooted in one particular organized religion. I believe that the universe is full of mysteries and that, while we think we’re hot stuff, humans are pretty insignificant in whatever grand scheme is in place. I believe in morality, the Golden Rule, and the absolute perfection that is the peanut M&M. I believe that you’re only as old as you feel and I feel pretty darn young (despite Rice Krispie knees and my students’ blank faces when I reference The A-Team or The Facts of Life).

I believe that attempting to ignore Dr. Phil on the guest lounge television of the Honda dealership while waiting on an oil change and tire rotation is not conducive to brainstorming. Despite the distractive bickering of whiny husbands and controlling wives seeking approval from the good doctor, there is one belief I can’t shake—a belief that would have been the first scribble in my notebook if I hadn’t told myself to stop and find something more significant. Instead, I turned my back while this belief miserably moped from the corner like a dismissed diva, furtively followed my thoughts from behind the Honda merchandise cases like a painfully shy child, nervously nagged from the showroom Civic like a backseat driver, boldly burrowed into my flesh and refused to let go like a hook-fueled pop-40 hit, and brazenly burned holes in my soul so big guilt finally gushed out and the only choice left was to accept that down to my very core I believe “life is grand, love is real, and beauty is everywhere.”

I’ve always loved lyrics and the way songs speak to the significant moments in life. A song that bounces around your brain as a catchy, breezy summer sing-a-long for years suddenly morphs into the perfect description of how you feel about the boy/girl that’s got your heart palpitating. A power-ballad that you loved to scream at the top of your lungs while driving down the highway with your windows down suddenly morphs into a tear-inducing reminder of the boy/girl that’s left your heart shredded and disfigured. A song you liked as a teenager annoys the hell out of you in your twenties, but returns sweetly during mid-life musings. Sometimes the simple maturation that comes with the passing years is all it takes to awaken new appreciation for the way words fit together in a song.

The first time I heard those ten simple words, “Life is grand, love is real, and beauty is everywhere,” so exquisitely arranged, I was watching Roger Clyne & the Peacemakers perform at Pop’s in Sauget, IL. I started my relationship with Roger’s lyrics back in the early 90s and the days of the Refreshments, but we separated when he sought independence from the constraints of mainstream radio and record companies. Despite not being together, the memories we made through those early songs still held a special place in my heart and the lyrics guided me through the fog of youth. I connect more to Roger’s songs than those of any other artist despite the fact that he often sings about the arid Mexican borderlands while I’m stuck in the humid Midwestern Ozarklands. So ten years later, when I discovered Roger was coming to the St. Louis area, I knew I had to see him, had to rekindle the flame.

I stood in the smoky darkness of Pop’s seediness while riff-propelled words eased their way into my ears and settled in my soul. Songs both familiar and new drifted from the stage. That night Roger reminded me of the power of music with ten simple words in the song ‘Better Beautiful than Perfect’. Ten simple words that fanned the passionate embers once again into a steady blaze and burned deep into my mythology: “Life is grand, love is real, and beauty is everywhere.”

Life is indeed grand—absolutely grand. While I believe humans are insignificant in the ultimate scheme of the universe, I passionately believe that life is worth living. Sure I grumble when the alarm rings at 5:05 a.m. and I’d rather ‘snooze’ then stumble out from the comforting warmth of my bed, wipe away the eye boogers (great social equalizer that they are), and hope for the grogginess to fade quickly, but I would never pass up the opportunity to experience the complex reality of being human. I’m fascinated by what it means to be alive: literally and figuratively. I’m amazed by the way the human body works and the way the human brain allows us to process interactions with internal and external stimuli. I’m astounded to think that the experience of being human connects me to every other human who has graced this planet and even those who’ve walked on the moon. I’m thunderstruck when I ponder how I go through the same motions (which is why my dance moves are a bit dated), breathe the same air (with a few more additives), communicate the same way (well, with some minor additions like Twitter and texting), eat the same food (pizza’s been around forever, right?!?), and struggle through the inevitable ups and downs of life as my ancestors. And therein lies the true grandness of life: it’s a struggle, it’s a challenge, it’s complex, it’s a choose-your-own-adventure, it’s strict rules to follow, it’s a clear lake with a muddy bottom, and it’s certainly never quite what you expect. But that’s exactly what makes it amazing and so worth the effort.

Love is real—but not just fairy tale archetypal happily-ever-after love. Love is real because it is bound to the same complexities of life: it isn’t perfect, it has flaws, it’s fickle, and it takes work to get it right. It’s easy to see that the concept of love exists within the human experience. Hollywood, romance novels, and Disney-groomed singers tell us that every day. But while I know that love exists, I know that it is real because it isn’t simple. It forces us into the midst of universal battles between passion and anger, desire and hatred, yearnings and revulsions. Love that we have for friends, family, and significant others is filled with these battles. For instance, I absolutely love Mini-Me and ‘The Wubster’. I would do anything for them, give anything to them, and sacrifice everything because of them. I’ve loved them from the moment I first laid eyes on each of their disgusting little faces (What? They were covered in afterbirth…once they’d been cleaned up they were adorable). Those boys are my pride and joy and I can’t believe how something as small as a one-minute-old child can evoke such strong emotions. Of course, as much as I love them, at times they drive me crazy and remind me how much I enjoyed my former freedom. There are moments (see some of my earlier blogs) when I really, really miss sleeping in, lazing away weekend mornings, eating a meal without someone having to poop as soon as the food arrives, looking at the front door and not seeing the time-out corner, or relaxing the moment I walk in said door after work. Love is real because it forgives my selfishness, impatience, and frustration in those moments. Love is real because actually returning to a life of those moments would be vapid and meaningless.

Beauty is everywhere. I’ve always been fascinated by the marvels of Earth (opposable thumbs, thunderstorms, chocolate, snowflakes, volcanoes, roses, aurora borealis, the duck-billed platypus) and those beyond (shooting stars, Saturn’s rings, comets, Pluto [I still believe in you!], nebulae, black holes, galaxies far, far away). I wake up every day ready to experience the beauty of the world around me, whether it’s something I see every day (the smiles on my wife and kids’ faces) or something I’ve never experienced before (if I could give you an example it wouldn’t be something I’ve never experienced, natch) because I know that beauty can be found in all aspects of the universe. Actually, not all aspects. Truth be told, I see nothing beautiful about those burrowing, hideous, eyeless critters that terrorize the poor, defenseless grubs seeking sanctuary in my yard and the blades of grass that just want to keep their roots in the dirt and keep reaching for the stars. One of my students read this and proclaimed, “Moles are so cute with their little snouts and feet!” What was I to do? Crush her idealistic view of one of nature’s cruel jokes? Nah. Instead I’ll simply follow her example and search out the beauty of nature, the beauty of mole…traps. Of course, I guess I understand. I think Mini-Me and ‘The Wubster’ are absolutely adorable, but, while my wife and I may think they’re lovely, the boys are not always viewed as such in public. When we go out to eat at restaurants there are times when people around us smile and wave and enjoy watching the boys play, and talk, and make a mess. There are other times when the boys’ behavior makes the people around us want to puke. Beauty’s certainly in the eye of the beholder, but at least that eye doesn’t have to look far to find rewards.

So, yes, life is grand, love is real, and beauty is everywhere. The world around me is beautiful, complex, imperfect, amazing and unique and, as part of it, so am I. Roger and the boys are coming back to town in October. If you want to find me I’ll be there in the Duck Room, standing towards the back, singing along to those ten simple words.