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We were on our way home when Grace exclaimed, “I read it, I read it. It says zoo! But the sign is wrong. It should have an exclamation mark at the end because the zoo is exciting.”

I couldn’t agree more.

People that know me are aware that I am an incorrigible nerd. I am fascinated by things that bore many to tears. I have encyclopedic knowledge of topics that have questionable value in daily life. I have regaled many (family, friends, and co-workers) with my recitation of said knowledge, tickling them with vague anecdotes of questionable relevance.

Pro-tip: If you must explain a quip, it likely missed its mark.

I bore. Really. I know it (and I am working diligently to stop), but my kids do not seem to mind.

—–

Our eldest daughter asks for a story before bedtime. The topics range from fact to fiction. Each evening she is rapt, or so I imagine, hanging on each dangling participle. It is a meditation for me, a moment to reflect and recount from rich memory. Each evening meets its same end: she is grateful for the story, hungry for more. I am thankful that she has not yet realized that her mother and I are not the center of the universe. I am thankful that she still hugs and kisses me good-night, telling me that I am, “. . . the best Dad ever.”

—–

Our middle child does not ask for a story or song at bedtime. She wants none of it. She will entertain your desire to recite or sing, but she is far happier to chat you up instead. She tells stories at a breakneck pace, with intrigue and drama and no boundaries. It is stream of consciousness and I treasure it. On the evenings where her mother does not dispatch her to much needed rest, we share the stories and a song, and a meditation:

Me: You know how much I love you?
Julia: Yes.
Me: To the moon and back again.
Julia: Thanks.
Me: Sweet dreams, sleep tight.
Julia: Don’t let the bed bugs bite.
Me: Don’t play with your nose goblins, they will devour yours fingers while you sleep!
Julia: *giggles*
Me: I love you.
Julia: And I.

—–

Our youngest is closing rapidly on three months old. She is bubbly, boisterous, and genial. She says little to me at bedtime, save for the occasional jubilant yawp. I try to entertain her, but mother’s milk and slumber best me every time. I would not have it any other way.

—–

While few, these are reasons why my kids are better than ‘N’. They are the reason I rise, the reason I work, the reason I cannot wait to come home. They have enriched my life beyond measure, just as my wife has. I pray that I bring them the joy and love they bring to me.

We can hear all of the little snorts and grunts and coos and cries.

From a distant and muffled doptone heartbeat, white and grey whisps of ultrasound images, and the late night writhing and hiccups, we have come to this.

I am awed and humbled by this creation. Complex and robust in her systems, fragile how she handles, tender and trusting in her nature — we made this. Three have come from two. Miraculous.

Nora is squishy. Squishy nose, cheeks, and arms. She is long and pink and surprisingly non-squishy in places you would expect a nine-plus pound baby to be. Nora is squishy and perfect in every way.

Salutations Nora. I waited the better part of a day to meet you and it was supremely worth it. I love you.

Colleen decided it was time to start potty training Julia. Juju has expressed an interest, but lacked the focus to follow through.

That’s not entirely fair; Julia is two years old. A two year old lacks certain requisite personal qualities to succeed: an attention span, fine motor skills, and the realization that not everyone smells of piss.

I digress.

Initial forays were met with frustration, the liberal use of toilet paper, jaundiced socks, and little more. This time was different.

Colleen pressed the Potty Watch into service. For the uninitiated the Potty Watch is an egg timer that you strap to your toddler. Its purpose is to remind the trainee that it is time to void, regardless of whether one needs to or not. It is the pattern of behavior that we are concerned with here, not actual urges. The theory yields results, tangible results. The lesson comes at a price.

The Potty Watch emits a grating, woefully off key selection from the toddler canon. Somehow, against all reasonable logic and odds, it works. I continue to be amazed at the progress she makes with (and without) the watch. Her sense of pride and ownership are palpable. Julia completes the job at hand, looks into the abyss, and exclaims:

I magic.

My great grandmother, May, could feel the weather. My great grandfather, Steve, could read the clouds. I can feel a thousand things but their depth of feeling and connection to their surroundings has confounded me.
Our perception of the world around us, of time, is a curiosity. My own sense of time has changed fundamentally over the years: I mean to describe a part of it here.

Many find calendars indespensible: it meters our commerce, vocations, and leisure. It fixes memory to the head of a pin.

I loathe it.

I believe the observed New Year of the Gregorian calendar is artificial; this synthetic construct has served only to disrupt our circadian rhythms. It confuses and disrupts what was once the domain of nature. Did my forebears suffer the same nagging sensation of imbalance?

My alternative is not revolutionary or unique, though my ritual may be. Necessity forces me to follow convention, however, I privately observe my own calendar. My year ends with the terminus of fall — a natural time for one to reflect. It is a time of harvest, of plenty: an opportunity to survey the labors of the spring and summer and take measure of what has been done. It is this harvest of memory that I treasure above all fall rituals. It is a time to gather what I have sown and draw it close to sustain me during the long winter.

Memories grow distant and long, just as the shadows, in fall. It is in these memories that I meditate and take communion with my past.

I believe that life is an adventure.

I believe that no matter how routine or mundane or trivial a day may seem, there is always something to be gleaned from it.

My wife loves to take pictures, and this passion provides an avenue for realization. We purchased a new camera a few months ago and the moments she has captured are simply magic. The routine, the mundane, the trivial: I see them with new eyes — hers. It can be hard to describe what someone brings to your life, particularly when their contribution is vast (as hers is). These photographs serve to document, in myriad ways, the adventure and wonder that surrounds us.

Life is an adventure — because she is in it.

For this, I am most thankful.

My oldest daughter, Grace, hoarded spare change for the last year. I would find her squirreling away money, gathering it in her tiny fists and depositing into a pink plastic pig. Her focus was singular — when asked what she was saving for the answer was consistent: The Minnesota Great-Together. The State Fair is colloquially known as The Great Minnesota Get Together; Grace, in her pidgin toddler speak, truncated it.

Time is cruel: anticipation draws out the seconds — they slacken as the shadows do in late August. Time is particularly cruel to toddlers, and their parents, as a sensible explanation for it is elusive. “The Fair is nearly here”, we would tell her, “a few weeks longer, Gracie”. She waited. Patiently.

The Fair did come. It was magical.

She spent with care and measured restraint. She enjoyed the sights, sounds, smells, food, and the rides. The stories that come from her three visits this season still bring a smile; on difficult days I can close my eyes and take myself back there: to her wonder and her smile and her laugh.

Approximately 365 days after my last post I have returned. Life continues to challenge, confound, surprise: we celebrated the birth of our second child this year (another girl); I took a new job; I have failed to properly maintain personal relationships; I have aged another year.

For my thirty-first year I have a series of resolutions:

Make my family the priority
Keep in regular contact with my friends (both near and far)
Post regularly
Write a decent short story
Write five good poems
Write five bad poems
Purchase flowers for my wife no less than 12 times
Visit my brother
Take my wife out on no less than 12 dates
Take my daughters out on no less than 12 dates
Enjoy the company of my parents regularly
Write a compelling web application in Ruby on Rails
Organize the IT Guild into a formidable collection of personalities and talent
Finish no less than eight novels
Attain Microsoft Certified Systems Engineer
Attain VMWare Certification
Volunteer my time to a charitable organization
Teach my children how to be kind and generous
Create five original recipes and share them with the world
Exercise regularly

Surely some of these are trite, however, I feel it best to note them all. I cannot avoid what I can see — these are the things I shall do this year.

ad multos annos!