Posts Tagged ‘birthday’
Super 8
My name is Atticus. Today I turned eight. I like Legos and video games. I don’t like school. I am wearing my pajamas.
Today I am going to school and then I am having a party. Right now I am playing with Iron Man. I’ll do this until I have to go to school.
We’re going to have a BBQ after the party. I am making Iron Man do the splits. Neighbors and classmates and four kids that don’t go to my school will be at my party.
I want to play video games. Right now.
I love my family.
I am wondering what my breakfast is. I am hungry, and I am excited that it is my birthday. And I am happy, too.
Bye. This was Atticus, on channel 900. Have a good day.
Mommy, come read this!
Zane’s 5 Year Review
As I mentioned in the previous post, today is Zane’s 5th birthday (that link is to a slideshow that I made in 20 seconds and subsequently spent 3 hours trying to embed).
He is a sweet boy with just enough rotten. He’s funnier than a kid his age has any business being, and his dimples are going to get him in all kinds of trouble.
We couldn’t be prouder.
Happy birthday, Zane!
How to Cry on Valentine’s Day
A working vacation in San Francisco ended with me hobbled and limping for home. I enjoyed my visit, but pushed my tired, useless feet too far. The swelling pain in them left me unable to walk, clutching the walls of the airport terminal like they were lined with last breaths. I moved at a pace roughly half that of the old woman with the cane. I believe she savored the moment that I became a spot of dust in her rearview bifocals.
I bit my lip until it bled and watched as empty wheelchairs rolled by for patrons much more used to their need. I was sore with pride and stupidity.
I closed my eyes on the plane, knowing my heart waited somewhere forward. I am not one for leaving it behind.
Days later had me working from bed. My right foot as swollen as it could be without bursting like an overblown balloon. I am at the mercy of my family’s patience and kindness. It has put my exhausted wife further to her husband’s end.
Today was Valentine’s Day. We had no plans for romance. My wife was over it sometime between the kids and the constant rains. I was done when I realized that chocolate and flowers were not the same as foreplay. It is a day we enjoy better for the mocking.
My morning was spent sprawled across a mattress stuffing Disney trinkets into cartoon cards while my boys signed their names in an assembly line of chicken scratch. Their day was filled with candy and roses. Except that there was more candy where the flowers should be.
Tricia worked the night shift, and soon the afternoon was replaced by evening, and my wife was replaced by a hole in the room. The boys and I watched Finding Nemo, then sat on my bed and talked about cable cars and earthquakes. Zane shared thoughts on the protocol of Hallmark holidays. Atticus sang Black Bird in its entirety.
They were crawling from my bed to theirs when I said something about seeing my 4-year-old for the last time. That he’d be five come morning. It was supposed to build upon the excitement he’d been expressing for the better part of the last six months.
The only thing that built were the tears in his eyes.
“I don’t want to grow up,” he said. And with that he was tucked against me crying for all he was worth. His brother followed with equal tenderness and I found myself broken from heart to foot and covered in the tears of my children.
Explaining the meaning of bittersweet is just that.
Soft words soothed as only soft words can do, and tears gave way to warm cheeks pressed tightly upon the other. Plans were made for continued awe and so much wonder. Their pace grew slow and steady.
They fell asleep in my bed, wrapped in a hug of brotherly love. I sat at their side, beneath the glow of lights turned low, listening to a clock chime hours unknown, and watching my foot, willing it to explode.
And Then He Was Seven…
Seven years is the blink of an eye. It is a lifetime. It is an itch. It is the space between then and now, a notch on a timeline. It is both the twinkle in my eye and the wrinkle stemming from it.
Seven years are made of memories and milestones. They are covered in dirt and blood and various types of art supplies. Seven years fill you with happiness and they leave you hungry for more.
You can barely cram seven years into seven years.
Today Atticus turns seven. Time, it flies.
Happy 7th birthday, Atticus. May it be your happiest yet.
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The aforementioned memories and milestones:
A Long Day and Many Short Years
Cheese and wine are fairly good company. We all improve with age and someday we will all be consumed. Two of us by the other. One by worms or hellfire. It depends on who you ask.
This birthday started like most do, with somebody puking. However, it was the wrong midnight and things were only technically so and not yet recognized by the committees and panels that decide such things. No gifts had been exchanged. That didn’t stop him from appearing in the hallway with a day’s worth of gruel caked to his hair, an ear full of corn and a body coated in shades of dinner. His trail read like Hansel on a bender. We followed it carefully.
He was the second son in a matter of days to spend his night reliving that which was once glorious. Neither found the sequel to be nearly as appealing.
The first one woke in the wee hours with the cutting cries — the cries that cut through the stereo, TV, what passes for conversation and what’s left of the night, only to make your heart stop even as your feet start and you run through walls (not around them) getting to your child at the exact same moment that the scream began. He woke like that and he was covered with five pies worth of used blueberries.
The women in the audience screamed. Bossman Bob Cormier take one look at Bill Travis and barfed on Principal Wiggins. Principal Wiggins barfed on the lumberjack that was sitting next to him. Mayor Grundy barfed on his wife’s tits. But when the smell hit the crowd, that’s when Lardass’ plan really started to work. Girlfriends barfed on boyfriends. Kids barfed on their parents. A fat lady barfed in her purse. The Donnelly-twins barfed on each other. And the women’s auxiliary barfed all over the Benevolent Order of Antelopes. And Lardass just sat back and enjoyed what he created. A complete and total Barf-A-Rama.
That’s pretty much how it happened.
And then he was better and life went on and we healed and we lived and we fell down a rabbit hole, and then the other one was standing in the corner covered in tears and culinary memories. Everything is circular.
It’s been sunny since January. Today it is snowing lightly. The clouds are grey and slightly heavy and they catch on trees as they roll down the mountain. It is a temporary melancholy. A remembrance of what has passed. It does not cut with cries or stand silently in the corner, but it too has come back from places we’ve long forgotten. It too will be consumed.
Birthdays are like that — reminders of what once was glorious, a tease of what may be; a temporary slice of melancholy with candles lit upon it. In between we heal and we live and we pour the wine more freely. We hope it will all stay down.
The snow is a nice touch.
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Quote from Stand By Me
