A Million Posts An Hour

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I had some time to post tonight, so I did, and in great numbers.  I've back-dated some of the posts, so please go and read from wherever you left off to now.  Pics to follow, soon.

I've Started Working Out Again.

Did you miss us?

My sincere apologies for the dearth of posts.  As you can tell, I've had no success convincing Ashley to write anything here.  "You're funny, I'm not," she rationalizes.  "You were the valedictorian of your high school class, had straight A's in college, explain genetics to the common man, and mothered two beautiful children.  Now you spend 99% of your waking life with them.  Who do you think has more material than you?" I reply.  She shrugs and walks away, effectively ending the argument.  Such is my life.  If she didn't have such a great rear, I'd keep arguing; I don't. 

Otherwise, life has been pretty hectic between work, managing an over-active social life (think birthday parties for 2 year olds and church events, not Barcelona and Axis/Radius until 3am), and trying to dissuade Sam from crying 96% of his time awake.

Technically, I don't think they qualify him as "colicky" but dang this kid is fussy.  I do not remember Jack as incredibly fussy at this age, he only cried to eat every two hours, which Ashley addressed by feeding him which, we found, quieted his complaints, but it also furthered his unbearable 2-hour feeding schedule.  This go-round, we're smarter (or just simply more masochistic) in that we don't kowtow to Sam's every hunger pang.  The net result is that if Sam wakes prematurely by, say, Jack whelping like a 12 year old girl at a Hanna Montana concert, he just cries for an hour or so until the alloted feeding time.  Despite numerous lessons, Jack doesn't quite understand the concept of an "inside voice."  So Jack frequently wakes up Sam, who then cries.  

"Enough griping, TJ" you say?  "Tell us about fun stuff!"  

Fine.

Since October 21st, my last post, Halloween happened.  It was enjoyable.  Jack dressed up like a penguin.  "Why?" you astutely ask.  Because his costume was a freebie from a fancy birthday party that he attended earlier this year, that's why.  We're in a recession, don't you know?  I have to fund important things like golf tournaments, cufflinks and bottles of Scotch.  We cannot be discarding hard-earned money hither and yon with such unnecessary items as prefabricated costumes.  Had it not been for the penguin costume, Jack would have been a "robot," consisting of one (1) roll of duct tape and one (1) box of tinfoil, liberally wrapped around his torso, legs and arms.  I would have suggested we modify an old pot lid for a hat.  

...

[Sorry for the delay, I was away writing myself a note for next October, titled "Incredibly Affordable Robot Costume."]

Sam was very cute in his little dinosaur outfit.  It was a nice, warm flannel outfit to protect him against the inevitable cold that greets trick-or-treaters on October 31st in Phoenix, Arizona.  Generally, October ushers in the cooler days and nights.  Instead, the weather delivered it's own Halloween "trick" by giving us mid-90's temperatures.  Thanks Mother Earth.  I drove my car 200 extra miles this month just to get back at you.  I hear you don't like carbon monoxide all that much.  Suck on that.

In the week before Halloween, my maternal grandfather, Everett, died.  He had been on the decline for a while, so it was not a huge shock.  My maternal grandmother had died when I was in college, so he had been single for a while.  He met a nice lady who lived in the same assisted living facility that he did and they came to numerous family events as a "couple."  I could go on for pages about that (she became somewhat senile later on, and would ask the same question three and four times during dinner, which led to some interesting conversations.)  She passed on about a year or so ago, leaving Grandpa alone again.  We figured that was the final straw and it turned out it was.  

He slowly gave in and the Lord finally took him the week before Halloween.  Sam had not met him, but Jack spent some good time with him, which was special to him and Jack.  Before I told Jack what had happened, I never realized how hard it was to deliver that type of news to your kids.  He's almost three, but he really didn't understand it.  "Where did he go?" he asked me.  It took about ten minutes of explanation before it sank in.  Strangely enough, Jack took it in stride and even though visits to Great Grandpa were a part of Jack's weekly visits to his Grandma Ryan, he seems to be okay with it. With kids, there's always a number of "firsts."  This was the first time I had to deliver really sad news to Jack and to help him work through it.

Sam, on the other hand, responded by staring excitedly at the bubbles in his bouncer seat, flapping his arms and legs back and forth, and cooing.  Yes, lights no longer hold his attention, so now he's figuring out how the bubbles work.  He's smiling quite a bit, and has worked out (we hope) his constipation issues.  He sleeps much better stretches than Jack ever did, so in the overall give and take, I'd say he and Jack are in a dead heat for hardest kid to manage through the "newborn" stage.  But if Jack survived, Sam should too.  

On lighter notes, Jack, the unintentional comedian that he is, made a funny comment the other day.  While driving to one of our now innumerable family events, Ashley and Jack were having a conversation in which Jack was asking questions we considered "silly" prompting Ashley to call him a "silly goose."  He responded that he "was not" a silly goose, and Ashley said, "No, you're Jack in the Beanstalk."  Jack replied,

"No, momma.  I'm Jack in the Carseat."

What I Do Not Miss Now That The Election Is Over:

"I am [insert politician name] and I approve this message."

Everett Thompson - My Eulogy

My grandfather died on October 23, 2008.  I was asked to write the eulogy for his funeral on behalf of his five grandchildren.  It follows.  Mind you, it was to be read with the aid of teleprompters and while standing in front of a large, digital, waiving American flag and a slideshow montage of his life, but this will have to do.  People have asked that I post it publicly, so here it is.  Most of the jokes are understandable by the family, so if you get bored reading it, skip ahead.  Thanks for indulging me.

Pow, Right in the Kisser!

That was one of our grandfather’s favorite sayings. 

Pow, right in the kisser.  And he’d waive his fist in the air, like that.

It was more than just an exclamation – it was an insight on to our grandfather’s way of addressing life: fiercely and with direct intention. 

Life did not just “happen” to Grandpa.  Grandpa happened, and he happened in a big way in our lives.

Having been raised during the great depression, having served in World War II, and, frankly, having been married to Grandma for all those years, Grandpa had learned hard lessons:

How to survive on very little; how to make something from nothing; the importance of education; the need for charity to your fellow man; and how to have a heck of a good time living life. 

While our generation has been trained to buy what we want in stores, leveraging credit cards to get the new “it” thing, Grandpa found what he needed around him. 

Whether it was taking those little soap nubs and melting them down into new “conglomerate” soap bars or harvesting and juicing oranges from the trees in his back yard, he created things he could use and enjoy out of practically nothing.  We remember grandpa making soap-on-a-rope on a few occasions, when the materials presented themselves.

Recycling was important, even before anyone knew who Al Gore was or why his truth was so inconvenient, Grandpa was handling at least one half of all of Phoenix’s aluminum recycling.  Every corner of the house included a can crusher.  Whether that meant a lever driven crusher or the gravity-and-muscle driven “Broomstick-in-a-coffee-can-filled-with-concrete” smasher, no aluminum can went uncompressed. 

It would not surprise me one bit if one of the cars in the parking lot today contains aluminum from a can that we crushed during our younger years.

 And if he wasn’t recycling, he was planting, harvesting or cultivating something.  We all remember the award winning, if not downright gargantuan, sunflowers he would grow in the back alley.  I recall standing there, looking up at them towering above my five-foot frame, and wondering how something as small as a sunflower seed would grow to such incredible heights. 

It was grandpa’s magic.   …   Magic, and incredibly potent, scientifically developed, and perfectly maintained compost.

 Oh yes, compost.  If you met our grandfather in the last fifteen years, you heard about compost.  I was the recipient of compost literature, and enjoyed frequent lectures on the ideal mix of biological materials that would create the perfect storm of bacteria activity to break down what I thought was “trash” to produce the most potent fertilizer man has ever known. The city gave him worn-out trashcans, modified for composting.  But the proof was in the pudding – or the tea, compost tea.  This stuff grew six foot tall sunflowers with ease.  He even started selling it to locals for a small profit. Given the right equipment and manpower, its quite possible Grandpa would have been the Valley’s king of compost. 

 Grandpa didn’t come by his compost knowledge naturally – he educated himself.  When he first became interested in creating compost, he read.  And he read. And he read.  He educated himself, and in the process, attempted to educate all of us. 

He would explain the process, ensuring our understanding, asking  “You get what I’m saying?” 

He was always willing to provide us with an explanation so we did understand.  He valued education.  And he ingrained that principle in our developing minds. 

“Get an education.  They can never take that away from you.” He’d say.  And he was constantly educating us.  Whether that meant learning how to shoot a gun and taking hunter safety classes, teaching us how to swim and dive in the pool, or explaining how some mechanical object worked, he constantly taught us.

Grandpa always wanted what was best for us.

 He also wanted what was best for others.  Our grandparents dedicated a majority of their retirement years volunteering in a laundry list of organizations.  But there are two that stuck out in our minds:  Desert Mission food bank and the Shriners hospitals.

 Grandpa had been a Shriner for many years, and at one point he owned a small Ford pickup truck, painted baby blue.  

Then he bought a second one.  Except this one was one-fifth of the size and ran on a lawnmower engine.  He joined the Shriner’s Transportation unit and would drive his miniature truck in parades.  When he wasn’t driving in a parade, he was scaring the daylights out of us, riding in his lap riding up and down his street at what seemed like break-neck speed.  We all enjoyed that little car.

 He loved the Shriners and all they did for children at their hospitals.  He was always regaling us with stories of a kid with burns that they were able to bring from another state to Arizona to treat, or someone with orthopedic problems or our favorite story of the “mermaid girl” who had been born with her legs fused together, and how after being treated at his Shriner hospital, she walked for the first time. 

 Grandpa and grandma were never millionaires, but their charitable proclivities rivaled that of Virginia G. Piper.  Grandpa spent countless hours working to transport food from the food bank to homeless kitchens and outlets that distributed the food to the needy.  I can remember grandpa brimming with excitement when he’d describe how many turkeys he was able to deliver in the weeks before thanksgiving.  And, somehow, they always came home with leftovers.  A box of potatoes, a bag of spinach, carrots, it was always something.  But, as he did with anything else, he put it to use, and to incredible effect. 

 He was a master chef and created all sorts of soups and stews that we all loved and enjoyed.  Eating dinner at grandpa’s house was always a fun affair, and it usually meant enjoying a little Pat Sajack and Vanna White with your meal.  I’d like to buy a vowel; please pass the deviled eggs. 

 Grandpa enjoyed his grandchildren.  They were always at every one of our games, whether it was hockey, soccer, baseball, volleyball, softball… you name it, they were there.  Cheering all along.  “Pick ‘em up and put ‘em down” grandpa would yell. 

 Speaking of “putting ‘em down” I don’t know what the official body count of pigeons in the back yard was, but I know that a large number suffered at the hand of Grandpa and his pellet gun so that Fred and Ethel could enjoy the back yard and its trappings to themselves. 

Fred and Ethel, if you don’t know, were two ducks who annually returned to the pool in the back yard to nest and hang out for winter.  They made an awful mess, and they hogged the pool, but Grandpa and grandma took so much joy from them, we played along.  If we weren’t hanging out with Fred and Ethel, we were taking trips to see the geese down the alley.  They loved the wildlife.

 Something else Grandpa liked to say was “Show and Tell.”  It had many meanings.  It was usually as a segue to display his favorite zipper scar from the time he and grandma were in Hawaii and he had surgery to put his guts back together when stitches from a previous surgery had failed and come apart.  He giggled with glee as we recoiled from the sight of his scarred belly.  But “Show and tell” was also his invitation for you to teach him something.  To tell him about your day, your week, what was going on at school, what you’d learned, or what you had finished working on. 

Now that he’s gone, its our duty to ask that question of one another, to “show and tell,” and to share in each others lives. 

 Greg Thompson shared a poem that he wrote in honor of Grandpa Thompson.  And if Grandpa was here, he’d be yelling out, “show and tell,” so I’ll do so:

 You loved us for what we were and what we had become,

You were always interested in what was new and what we had learned,

You told us stories of your journeys and adventures that you had encountered,

You truly loved the Church, loved God himself, and Jesus,

But most importantly, you loved your family.

You will never be forgotten and the memories and good times we had will last forever. 

Some day we will see you again, and all will rejoice in heaven.

Dinosaur Sam

Adventures in Potty Training: Episode 1

I believe I have blogged before (but am too lazy tonight to go re-read all of my musings) that we are trying to potty train Jack.  We have had limited success.  "Limited" means that he will "consider" using the potty, but never actually execute when on it.  He sits on it, but does not release anything.  He has, I'm told, stood up in the bath and peed in the bath.  He found that quite amusing, actually.  But since the bath is not, technically the potty (although some opinions might differ, particularly those who find it acceptable to pee in the pool) it cannot be considered a successful attempt.  

In the process, however, Jack has learned how to remove his pants and diaper.  He does this repeatedly, but not frequently.  I guess you'd call it "irregularly" so we don't consider it a huge issue.  He has an exhibitionist streak in him, so we tolerate it.  It's good for some well-placed laughs, especially when you insert Mormon missionaries into the mix, but that's never happened so it's just a funny daydream I've had, at best.  

On October 27th, the cleaning people had come and blown a fuse in our kitchen, rendering our fridge inoperable.  Ashley was frantically trying to find a fuse (we have a 1952 fuse box, not yet upgraded to the new, "switch" type fuses that they installed later in the century, so to reset the fuse, we have to replace it), when Jack approached her and said, "Mommy, there's poop on the carpet."  

This was no cause for alarm.  Routinely, our furry wastes-of-space (some would call them "cats") will upchuck on the carpet, usually as a result of, and in combination with, a hairball.  Jack thinks it's poop and calls it as much, even though we tell him it's cat vomit.  Regardless, Ashley grabbed her tools for cat vomit extraction and went off to the living room to begin the clean up operation.  Sam, distraught over something unknown, continued to cry loudly and incessantly, raising Ashley's stress level even more.  

What she found, however, was quite different than cat vomit:

Jack had removed his diaper and dropped a deuce on the carpet.  

I am SO GLAD I have a day job.

PoooooooooooOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooOOoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooop.

at 1:52 p.m. today. To say Sam is "relieved" is like saying "Richard Simmons is effeminate."

Poop Watch: Day 11

Yep, it's been 11 days and still no substantive bowel movement from our youngest.  The list of suggested home remedies has grown substantially however:

1. Caro (Dark Corn Syrup) dissolved in water (worked the first two times, but not this time, despite three attempts, so far); 
   
2. Pear Juice (not attempted yet, but likely queued up now);
3. Prune Juice (not attempted yet; pending medical review and approval); and, last but not least,
4. Latex glove, lots of lubricant and one pinky finger in the rear.  

I am not kidding about the last one.  That was one parent's suggestion, followed by, "I had tried everything else so I just gave it a shot and it finally made her poop."  

Oh. My. God. Sam and I would be in counseling for years.  We are NOT going to have that conversation someday, sorry.  So, kid, you better figure out how to pass it or suffer the consequences because I am not becoming your personal proctologist so we can call you "regular."

Lessons in Patience: Picking a Pumpkin.

Now that we have kids, picking a pumpkin for Halloween becomes a much more involved process.  Last year, we took Jack to the pumpkin patch to pick out his pumpkin for carving.  The "pumpkin patch" is the masquerading front lawn of a local church, raising money by charging unsuspecting passersby ungodly rates for oversized squash.  Jack loved last year's experience, and with Sam in tow this year, we ventured off to see which locally-grown orange sphere would grace our front patio this year.  And, of course, photo opportunities always abound.  

Jack decided that picking a proper Halloween decoration included lifting up the pumpkins and throwing them down, a move that immediately put the Patch Police on high alert.  We attempted to remedy the conduct, ensuring Jack understood that further trespass to the well being of the gourds would result in his prompt removal.  He continued, undeterred.  (It was later discovered that Captain Destructo was operating on a diminishing energy reserve, having woken up "too early" that morning, further compounded by not having been properly fed after church.)  Attempting civility (and a lame form of distraction), we tried taking family photo:

While Sam did his best Terry Shiavo impression, Jack, again, was uncooperative (notice Ashley's "death grip" to keep him in frame).  My patience grew thin, and sensing this, Jack swooped in for the kill: He decided to gather the straw laying around and hurl it at me.  

We grabbed the closest, near-round object we could find, paid quickly and left quicker.  Wailing and gnashing of teeth ensued immediately.  Nap time followed shortly thereafter.