The Things They Buried

In January of last year, we bought a house. We fell in love with the house because it was an old house, and because even though it was built in 1934, we are only the second owner. The house has its original light fixtures and wood flooring. In some places, I’m pretty sure it still has its original paint.

Sometimes, I dislike the house because it is an old house, and because little things keep going wrong with it, like finding a large leak in the roof. A $1,600 leak.

Many young boys want to be firemen or astronauts when they grow up. When I was a kid, I wanted to be an anthropologist. I wanted to find dinosaur bones and use my special brushes to gently expose the ancient fossils. I wanted to travel the world just to dig in the dirt or explore ancient tombs, pyramids, and the like. (It goes without saying that I was heavily influenced by the Indiana Jones series.)

One thing that is great about our old house is that it brings out the archeologist in me. Whenever I find an occasion to dig in the backyard, it takes only moments to find some sort of artifact from the previous owner. In fact, I have a collection of interesting items that I parade out when people come over so that they might help me discover why there was a coffee-can shaped concrete block with a metal 10-inch metal screw buried in my backyard.

Yesterday, I cleared out an old, overgrown garden in the backyard. The size of the plot was six feet by six feet. Here are the items I found buried in the dirt, starting at the top and rotating clockwise:

(For scaling purposes, these items were placed on one of those high-quality outdoor patio tables.)

- A piece of plastic covered wire
- The top to a sardine can
- A piece of crimped copper tubing
- A grey plastic cap
- A piece of black tar paper
- A square terra cotta tile
- A rectangular piece of white metal
- A rusted clamp
- A green metal pole
- Two pieces of old roofing tile
- A four foot metal pipe
- A piece of curved concrete

I was thinking about putting the whole lot on eBay. What do you think the starting bid should be?

From the Portfolio of our Budding Young Artist

"The Face"



"Loose Circle, Tight Circle"


"Dots"

'Tis Herself

Reilly has a onesie that she has since grown out of, it is white with green lettering that states: “Tis Herself.” I believe her grandmother gave it to her.

Lately, when I watch Reilly I am envious of how much she is herself. She has the same personality she was born with—is so happy and full of life, so spirited. Her personality is the closest now to its original starting point than it will ever be, I guess. As she moves on through school and life, she will assimilate the personality traits of the people around her, become more like the crowd around us all.

Shawn and I try to cultivate her personality, try not to press too much of ourselves onto her, though a certain amount is inevitable. We are her closest models, and to that point, we try to be the best role models that we can. I sometimes find this to be a burden, to always be mindful of how I am presenting myself. Another problem is that this self-awareness can sometimes turn into self-criticism. I constantly have to remind myself that I am a good dad, and that I am doing a good job, but it is easy to feel otherwise.

In college I had the opportunity to reinvent myself, or rather, to be more like who I was under all those layers of high school. In New York I lost myself in many small ways, and now it seems I’m reinventing myself again, or, I’m just realizing that I’ve been reinventing myself all along, into a father, a person more responsible out of necessity. I think I like this self the best.

Yesterday when Shawn dropped Reilly off at school, the kids were already out on the playground. Shawn sent her off and closed the gate, and when she turned back, saw that Reilly was just standing there. When Reilly saw that Shawn was leaving, she sat down next to the chain link fence, stuck her little hands through the links and waved solemnly goodbye. It was heartbreaking to Shawn, and when Shawn related the story to me, it was heartbreaking for both of us.

That image was burned in my mind all day yesterday, and remains there today. The self I am now, a father—a working father—might be my favorite self, but is also the most emotionally taxing, and the guilt that comes from being this self is the worst guilt of all.

Backpack-Backpack! Backpack-Backpack!

On Dora the Explorer, there is a character in the cartoon called ‘Backpack.’ Unsurprisingly, he is a purple squarish bag with two straps which go over Dora’s shoulders for the purpose of transporting her things. He’s got his own little theme song and everything.

Reilly loves Backpack, so we bought her a replica at the local toy store. (And no, it’s not on the list of recalled items from China.) The backpack is cute on her, and she loves to put her little toys in it and carry them around. It’s the perfect size for a toddler, maybe 8x10 inches.

Last week, Shawn and I went to Reilly’s new preschool for parent orientation. Among the many things we had to figure out was how to get her cot sheet, lunch, blanket, and other school items to her classroom. The teacher suggested buying her a backpack. In my head, I’m thinking, check, already got one of those. The teacher, showing her skills, read my mind and said, “It has to be a big backpack. Big enough for all her things. Otherwise they will get lost or taken home by another child.”

Imagining the drama of some kid taking home Reilly’s blankey, we decided it would be wise to shop for another backpack. So, last night when we returned home, Shawn found some website where we could browse through a variety of backpacks. Straight off, she found a couple she liked, but all of them were too small, about the size of Reilly’s current Dora backpack.

Eventually, we settled on one that was about 18x26” and were about to purchase it when I realized one problem. The backpack, at 26” tall, would probably be too big. Reilly is only 33 inches tall, and the distance from her head to her shoulders has to be at least seven or eight inches, which means, according to my expert calculations… that the bottom of the backpack would come to rest right around the soles of her faux Crocs.

Reilly sez:

It's the weekend...

...so have a ball!

(Or two.)

On the topic of "Good"

This morning, after I dropped off Reilly at preschool, I called Shawn on the phone and we had a conversation about “good.” More specifically, we talked about the different types of good people out there.

There are people who are good because their religion tells them to be good. Others are good to get attention. The word that comes to mind with this type of good person is ‘martyr’. And by martyr I do not mean the I’ll-blow-you-up-with-my-car-bomb-type, but instead the I’m-holier-than-thou-type. (A kindler, gentler martyr.) And some are good because of an ethical reason aside from religion, because they think that the foundation of a good society is made of good people.

There are plenty of good people out there, and I don’t mean to come off as disparaging of any of these groups. What I am getting around to is one specific type of good person, the person who is good not because of what they are, or how they act, but simply because they are made up of the fabric of good. This person is good for no reason other than that he or she knows no other way to act.

Shawn and I were having this conversation about good because we are lucky enough to have a preschool teacher for Reilly that falls into this final category. Miss A. is a kindler, gentler soul, the type of person that you feel great about leaving your daughter with because if she absorbs even an ounce of her teacher’s goodness, she will become that much better of a person. As a parent, to be in her presence is to at once be relaxed and disarmed. Her patience, and her love for the children who are her students is nothing short of magic.

Also, she is a Florida State grad, which makes her good on yet another level.

Photo Essay: School Days

Reilly had her first day of pre-school on Monday. Here she is at the start of the day:



Here she is at the end of the day:

Five things, reincarnated

To reinstate an old theme, here are five things you might not know about Reilly:

1) Number one here is the most recent, in fact, this event just happened about an hour ago: Reilly took a shower by herself. By that I mean, I turned on the shower, adjusted the temperature, and handed her the soap, and she took it from there. She even shampooed her hair. When I offered to come in and help her out, she said, “No daddy! Out!”

I took that as my cue to go grab the video recorder.

In the past, Reilly didn’t much care for showers, opting instead for the tried and true bathing technique for toddlers: the bubble bath. The one time I tried to take her into the shower, she hated it, she found the spray of water overwhelming to the nth degree, and let me know my opening her mouth wide and screaming her lungs out.

It wasn’t until we took her up to North Carolina that she took a liking to showers. The issue there was that the cabin we had rented for our vacation had no bathtub; only a shower. Being that we were there for a full seven days, we figured Reilly would have to adapt to standing up while she bathed. It took a couple of tries, and a loofa with the head of a teddy bear sewed on to it, but she adjusted by the third day. That teddy bear loofa saved us from a week of smelly baby.

Thank you, teddy bear loofa.

2) Reilly can say the word ‘overcast’ with perfect pronunciation. Shawn taught it to her today.

Now she knows a synonym to ‘cloudy.’

3) Today, Shawn asked Reilly, “Who’s your mommy?”

Reilly answered: “Shawn.”

4) The other day, I left Reilly in the care of her Nana while I went to work. When I returned from work, Reilly had learned the following letters and associations:

D is for Daddy
M is for Mommy
G is for Grandma
N is for Nana
P is for Papa Bear
R is for Reilly

That’s what happens when you leave your child with an elementary school teacher for a day.

5) Reilly can read. Not really. But she will sit on the couch in her playroom, the couch that once served as pretty much the only piece of furniture in our apartment in New York, and flip the pages, chatting away. It is endearing.

In other reading news, we’re potty training Reilly. Whenever she sits on the potty, we give her a “Special Treat.” (Special Treat = M&M.) Then, we read a variety of potty books to kill time while she works up the moxie to take a leak. Her favorite potty book is, “Time to Pee,” by Mo Willems.

The beginning of the book starts, “If you ever get that funny feeling…”
The next line is, “Don’t worry!”
And then Reilly will chime in and beat me to the next line, “Don’t fret!”

The first time she did it, I thought she was reading the book. Then, realizing that she’s smart, but not that smart, I understood that she had memorized the book.

I can just hear the chorus of Nana and Grandma from the distance: BUT SHE IS THAT SMART!

My baby’s got metrics

At some point over the last two years, I’ve noticed that in the business world, the word ‘statistics’ is steadily being replaced by ‘metrics’. I don’t like the word ‘metrics’. To me, it sounds pretentious.

Lately, however, I’ve noted that the word has worked its way into my vocabulary. First it popped out at a staff meeting. As soon as I said it, my internal monologue went into alarm mode: Metrics? Who do you think you are dropping that word, fancy boy? Unfortunately, the word continues to claim its space in my lexicon, slowly pushing out poor old ‘statistics’.

Anyway, enough blather. My baby’s got metrics!

• At her two-year check-up, Reilly weighed 25lbs, 3oz, which put her in the 29th percentile for weight.
• She was 33½in tall, which put her in the 37th percentile for height.

She remains thinner than she is tall, and though they didn’t measure her head this time, she is still a bit top-heavy, owing to her big brain and all. Of course, all these metrics just confirm what we already know. We didn’t need a doctor’s visit to realize that our little baby is growing to be more and more like a girl every day.

Round and Round

Reilly calls the game “round and round.” To play the game, you run around in circles in the living room until you’re dizzy. The only problem is that Reilly doesn’t get dizzy. The kid does 3, 4, 5, 6 laps and is still circling when daddy hits the floor.

You should also make some sort of noise while playing “round and round.” Unsurprisingly, girlish screams seem to be the choice of my two-year-old. Unfortunate for anyone standing nearby, I try to mimic her.

I play the “round and round” game because I am my daughter’s father, and with that responsibility comes the requirement of playing games that one might find annoying. Or sickening.

I’ve never liked anything that spins me around. One of the most horrifying events of my childhood was a ride on the teacups at Disney World. After only two rotations, I began to feel nauseous. A hundred or so rotations later, I was soaked in sweat and green.

My weak stomach is also a problem when it comes to seasickness. I am the last guy you want to invite on a boat. I’m fine inshore, but once we get a mile out and the horizon disappears and the waves pick up, it’s like being back on the teacups again. Bring me on you next fishing trip, and you won’t need any chum.

When I play the “round and round” game, and stop after the second or third lap around the living room, Reilly will say, “Daddy! Round and round!” Like, come on, man, let’s go! We’re playin’ here, dad. And so I suck it up and keep on running, happy to be playing with Reilly, happier that yet another of my weak genes was not inherited by my daughter.

Paul's rash

A few months ago, I got an email from my friend Paul. I’ve known Paul since graduate school—about nine years now. We sat next to each other on the first day of orientation, and I noticed that we had on the same pair of sandals—the type made from thick straps of leather. The ones that my brother derisively called my “Jesus sandles.”

So I turned to this guy next to me and said, “Nice sandals.”

He laughed and we started talking and were pretty tight since. We’ve floated in and out of each other’s lives, he was in NYC a few years we were there, but now lives in Austin. What can I say of Paul but that if you were to measure a person by the type of people he has around him, Paul is a real class act. He’s responsible for bringing a lot of good people into my life, people that I have come to know as friends.

Since we were in writing classes together, when we email it is perfunctory that one asks the other how the writing is going.

Not long ago, I stopped writing this blog and opted instead to just put up photos. Why did I stop writing? I don’t know. I do know, though. I mean, it was several reasons, but none of which were really enough to make me stop the blog altogether. I’ve done this many times throughout my writing life, where I take a month off, or a few months, or in this case, seven months. I’ve never really understood it, and in many ways, it has bothered me, when the muse just gets up and leaves the room and I’m left feeling torn about not writing, equal parts relieved and lacking.

So when he wrote me this email a few months ago, he summed up, as a talented writer would, what writing is to some writers, many writers:

“You writing any these days? Maybe we should exchange stuff sometime? I rarely have time to update my blog, unfortunately. But this summer I plan to write like a madman.The rash comes and goes. You know how it is.”

This email was a revelation to me, and somehow allowed me to exit this in-between stage and to forgive myself for whatever reason I wasn’t writing. To begin to think creatively again. And then, like he said, it comes.

The rash is back.

Week 110 Pictures

Today, last week's pictures.
Tomorrow, a post. With words.

Click here.

Week 109 Pictures

This week, last week.
Tomorrow, Colorado.

Click here.

Week 108 Pictures

We stayed in a lot this weekend, it was just too hot to go outside with Reilly. When we did get outside, I snapped this photo:





To see the rest of this week's set, click here.