Shamed By A 1-Year-Old

One of Buxton's newest interests seems to be causing some moral questioning in our household. The boy flat out loves his Bible--loves it. Won't go to bed without at least two Bible stories, then a perusal of basically every other page in the book. He runs into his room and picks this picture Bible up off the shelf, returns to the living room and lets go only when the Spirit leads.



Which brings up a peculiar problem. Do I take his Bible away from him? How do I tell him, bedtime or no bedtime, to stop reading the Word of God? That feels about as wrong as anything can, yet he'll stay up into morning flipping through his Bible pages if we let him, looking for and pointing to "Gigi," the blessed Son of God. We've been through Noah, Ester, Job, Nicodemus--the whole lot of them.



Then this morning, just when I thought I knew the worst (best?) of it, the boy shamed his daddy. Buxton decided to wake up at 5 a.m., Anna decided she would sleep and so I got baby duty. I coaxed him into the guest bed with me for a few minutes sleep, only to find me wake a minute or two later to him sitting up in bed reading a book called, I jest you not, Six Secrets to a Powerful Quiet Time: Discovering Radical Intimacy with God. Didn't know we had that book. You couldn't pay me any amount of money to tell you where he got it. Suffice it to say I slept no longer this morning.



In all seriousness, I couldn't be happier for my son. Anything else, at least on this topic, is a me problem.

Ball Ball?

So this past Friday we had the opportunity to mesh together two of Buxton's favorite pastimes. For one, the boy absolutely loves basketball.



See?

Anyway, a family that we've known for a while now through church (the wife of said family also keeps Buxton most days) offered us tickets to go see the Bobcats play the Clippers. Not a couple of days later, dad and Kayne scored some tickets through work. That left myself, Anna, Buxton, dad and Kayne all set to see our first ever Bobcats game.

Before the game we went out to dinner at a Charlotte eatery dad frequents for lunch.





We were pretty pumped to score the tickets, as evidenced by our free time out in front of the arena and the ample seating when we arrived more than a half hour before tip-off.





Buxton had a blast. That other interest of his? If you've ever seen the boy when music plays, let alone the crowd-pumping rhythms of a pro basketball game, you know what else he enjoyed.







Ok, so maybe you noticed I got Buxton's new jersey (day of) on sale. I went through every reasonable store in an entire Charlotte mall to find him that outfit. You'd have thought I was in outer Botswana looking for Bobcats gear. Anyway, he didn't seem to mind. And nobody tried to draw a mustache on him.



All told we all had a blast, and the Bobcats won. Buxton got a new ball ball, and he got to flirt with a few of the team dancers (he's not too big into all that, much like his daddy). The seats were great, and we definitely owe the folks in this next picture. Thanks Gales!

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.

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."

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?

I Apologize In Advance

As some may know, every night I write down a thought or two before bed. Have for a little more than six years now. Being the narcissist that I am, I go back at the end of the year and rank my favorite ones. The general pattern is to pick the three best writings from each month and come up with an overall top 25.

All that to say about this time each year, I run into problems. Some months I barely find three. Then there are months like last October. Following are numbers four and five, in no particular order, from that month. Both come from a family vacation to the mountains where we took Buxton's cousin, Eve. I imagine few people will be interested to read them, far fewer than if they were pictures, but I just hate the idea that anything not making the top list is generally lost to time. So, if for no one else but myself, here goes:

10-14-09

In the time it takes to record a sitcom, tomorrow comes. As it does tomorrow brings a day well waited for and marked along several calendars for some time. A fall trip to the mountains, just family bundled together in search of adventure and solitude. Buxton returns for the first time, a year older now and a thousand miles past that delicate infant more resembling and angel than this toddling torpedo of a boy. Eve arrives for the first time ever, buckled there into the back seat beside the cousin she loves so much.

Eve never came along with our little family before, at least not overnight nor so far from home. Yet as I booked the room months ago I had her in mind. Because I thought she might enjoy it, because maybe her parents might appreciate the break. Most of all because it seemed the way things ought to be done. Just the same way my aunts and uncles and parents always did with us cousins when I was a kid.

So in a way I suppose taking this beautiful little girl along for a memory hunt is my way of living up to the family name. My heroes never were rich, or famous, or made too much of by anyone outside their own hometowns. They were ordinary people who loved folks around them in extraordinary ways. The way they loved me. The way I always hope I love them back, and just might find some way of paying forward.

And...

10-16-09

Countless thoughts pour as I look upon a waterfall, but they all lead the same place. Where does all this water come from to pound so mightily without ever running dry?

In a mountainside lodge tonight, lamp lit on a living room sofa between sleeping angels to either side, I happen upon my paradigm. The joy coursing through my veins, pumped forcefully by a heart pacing to keep up, makes every bit the river running through my window. Natural as a songbird basking in sunlight. Born in the highest imaginable places and stronger than steel for it. Timeless as timeless can be, so long as the man nearest it shows sense enough not to divert it.

When I look upon my joy for days at a time only to swear it could not keep coming, it does. When I dip my hands into its cool, refreshing flow, it sustains me. My joy is mighty enough to sear through sand and stone, vital enough to breathe life and prosperity through entire populations of people. Not just because of a kissy-faced girl with short orange curls, a beautiful baby boy who hugs on request or the woman resting in the bathtub after another long day of loving the people nearest to her. Not just because of them, just like the river who is there whether the steps leading to him are or not. They just remind me that he is, that he always will be, that more thoughts on more nights like this one come the closer I draw.

Pictures to Share

We haven't posted in a while but we have lots of pictures to share what Buxton has been up to:

First off, the family flag football game daddy played on New Year's Day, with Buxton outfitted in official team Blood Monger gear. Daddy, Paw Paw, Harrison and David took down the Bone Crusher quartet of Kayne, Holden, Uncle Hank and Uncle Matt.






Not coincidentally, after all the exercise lately daddy and I needed a quick nap on the couch. Mommy snuck a new picture with the fancy camera we all got for Christmas.



Did I mention I got a new soccer goal?



One thing I didn't get: daddy's interest when it comes to reading.



You'd be surprised how good a nursery room shutter tastes when watching Paw Paw fix mommy's car.



Or how good I look with or without a fancy camera.



Whoa! It's tiring pretending to be an England soccer fan! Somebody get me the real red, white and blue. And while you're at it, find daddy a couch to sleep on for whenever mommy reads this!



Check out the special filter on the new camera. I call it, superstar mode!



Alright, it's tunnel time. Hopefully it won't be as long until next time. Until then, I'm out!