Wednesday, February 24, 2010
KidScience
It's been a while now, but dad and I recently went to a new exhibit for kids at Discovery Place. For anyone living near/visiting the Charlotte area with kids, I would definitely recommend it. Here is the write-up I did for the newspaper, followed by several more pictures.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Snowy Footsteps
Sorry again about all the words, so here are more pictures to reward anyone still visiting the site. And sorry about being perhaps the last people in the southern United States to post pictures of the recent snow.
As you can see, Buxton was pumped.
But before we could go out, in what can only be described as foreshadowing, Buxton had to play with what later that same day came to be knows as "the measuring cup of doom." For anyone yet to see me since, we'll call my lip Exhibit A.
I'll let the pictures speak for themselves. One note: the blue snow suit Buxton is wearing was given to Anna by my Aunt Jane only days before the snow. Her boys got it from my cousin David once he outgrew it, evidently, and he got it from me. How about that? These pictures I call "A Walk to Remember," "An Irish Snow Jig," "I've Fallen and I Can't Warm," "Are You Still Taking My Picture" and, lastly, "See, Grandpa, Bring On the Rain, Sleet, Hail and Dead of Night."
As you can see, Buxton was pumped.
But before we could go out, in what can only be described as foreshadowing, Buxton had to play with what later that same day came to be knows as "the measuring cup of doom." For anyone yet to see me since, we'll call my lip Exhibit A.
I'll let the pictures speak for themselves. One note: the blue snow suit Buxton is wearing was given to Anna by my Aunt Jane only days before the snow. Her boys got it from my cousin David once he outgrew it, evidently, and he got it from me. How about that? These pictures I call "A Walk to Remember," "An Irish Snow Jig," "I've Fallen and I Can't Warm," "Are You Still Taking My Picture" and, lastly, "See, Grandpa, Bring On the Rain, Sleet, Hail and Dead of Night."
Monday, February 1, 2010
More Junk
So I promise I'm not looking to make a habit of this, and my feelings will be far from hurt if you just skip these pictureless posts altogether. It's just that this past year in writing began and ended with Buxton, hardly ever veering at all. So two more that missed the cut, each reminding me of some emotion this little boy shared with his family.
First, the big boy pants of parenting:
7-8-09
Tantrums are not new in this house. Even the baby has them now. Not often, mind you. Not often enough to get used to just yet. Usually some remote control he wants or some other grown-up thing. Some place he wants to be without permission.
Not tonight, though. Tonight the tantrum stared straight at me. It cried harder than any tantrum before it. Inconsolable, this tantrum. It wanted no part of me and little of anything else, save only the controller I too sternly denied my son from having.
He sat two feet from me sobbing and staring as if I welcomed all evil to the world, slapping puppy dogs and elderly homeless women on my wicked way. I sat there stone-faced as a mountain in winter, dying some on the inside. As if all eternity would not linger long enough for him to stop crying or me to stop wanting to.
All because of some control that apparently neither of us ever had. Part of me wants that strong will for my son, that independence, that spirit. Most of me, in fact. Perhaps those parts were the ones melting away from the inside as he wailed. I hope not. Thankful as I am to be the thankful one, blessed to be the blessed one--so too does that precious boy need me to be strong enough to be the strong one. Especially now, when presumably I know so much better what he needs than he does.
Which does me a whale of good on a night like tonight. Hopefully, more than I realize.
Then, the wonder of a child:
7-12-09
A man learns too much on his hands and knees. Today the lesson came in a crawl-in closet, head resting atop the lap of the woman I love. She glanced up, as did I. An unforeseen world came to focus, incandescent light atop a ribboned wave of cardigans and blue jeans, tank tops and pullovers. We stared up the long sleeves of sweaters, up the cuffs of trousers. Linens, wools, denims, mixed fabrics--all looming like a symphony of textures just within reach.
Anna realized if first, then shared it with me. No wonder our precocious little son so enjoys crawling into the closet. Often he does it while our attention wanders. More often he shuts the door behind him, as if in his solitude and his sanctuary amid the garments. He adores that place, and perhaps now I begin to understand why.
So much to learn on hands and knees. What other places must he venture, what adventures must he breathe in from a perspective not prohibited but otherwise hidden from a busied world? The thought alone makes me want to crawl room to room pulling up on love seats and sticking my head in the dishwasher. Yet somehow I refrain. Too much to take in for one day, at least for someone so unaccustomed to the wonder of it all. And then what hope would there be for tomorrow?
First, the big boy pants of parenting:
7-8-09
Tantrums are not new in this house. Even the baby has them now. Not often, mind you. Not often enough to get used to just yet. Usually some remote control he wants or some other grown-up thing. Some place he wants to be without permission.
Not tonight, though. Tonight the tantrum stared straight at me. It cried harder than any tantrum before it. Inconsolable, this tantrum. It wanted no part of me and little of anything else, save only the controller I too sternly denied my son from having.
He sat two feet from me sobbing and staring as if I welcomed all evil to the world, slapping puppy dogs and elderly homeless women on my wicked way. I sat there stone-faced as a mountain in winter, dying some on the inside. As if all eternity would not linger long enough for him to stop crying or me to stop wanting to.
All because of some control that apparently neither of us ever had. Part of me wants that strong will for my son, that independence, that spirit. Most of me, in fact. Perhaps those parts were the ones melting away from the inside as he wailed. I hope not. Thankful as I am to be the thankful one, blessed to be the blessed one--so too does that precious boy need me to be strong enough to be the strong one. Especially now, when presumably I know so much better what he needs than he does.
Which does me a whale of good on a night like tonight. Hopefully, more than I realize.
Then, the wonder of a child:
7-12-09
A man learns too much on his hands and knees. Today the lesson came in a crawl-in closet, head resting atop the lap of the woman I love. She glanced up, as did I. An unforeseen world came to focus, incandescent light atop a ribboned wave of cardigans and blue jeans, tank tops and pullovers. We stared up the long sleeves of sweaters, up the cuffs of trousers. Linens, wools, denims, mixed fabrics--all looming like a symphony of textures just within reach.
Anna realized if first, then shared it with me. No wonder our precocious little son so enjoys crawling into the closet. Often he does it while our attention wanders. More often he shuts the door behind him, as if in his solitude and his sanctuary amid the garments. He adores that place, and perhaps now I begin to understand why.
So much to learn on hands and knees. What other places must he venture, what adventures must he breathe in from a perspective not prohibited but otherwise hidden from a busied world? The thought alone makes me want to crawl room to room pulling up on love seats and sticking my head in the dishwasher. Yet somehow I refrain. Too much to take in for one day, at least for someone so unaccustomed to the wonder of it all. And then what hope would there be for tomorrow?
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