All Is Not Quiet

As mentioned before, somewhere on this blog (tltl*), I have not slept through the night since Timothy was born. In all truthfulness, I've always woken up once or twice during the night. Timothy does the same thing now, poor kid. It appears that he is going to be very much like me.

Regardless, over the past 8 years of lying awake listening to the late-night sounds of the house (with the occasional foray out from under the covers to check covers, temperatures, night-nights, etc.) I have found that all is not quiet while we sleep.

To wit:

Timothy grinds his teeth. I can hear it from my room. And he apparently wakes up once or twice, checks the clock, and then goes back to sleep. If the clock is turned or covered, I have to make sure it is visible from his bed; if the power goes out, his clock has to be reset before he will go to sleep. He needs to know. Nonetheless, I fully expect to find him, within the next year, reading in his bed at around 3 AM. Within the next 5 years, I'll probably find him downstairs watching TV.

Stephen vocalizes. He cries, whimpers, laughs, and talks. He also moves a lot. Sleeping in a bed with Stephen is a physical event, and well-placed pillows are needed.

Jonah sleeps like a log. Being Jonah is exhausting. But if he wakes up in the middle of the night, and if the thing he went to bed with is missing (night-night, Raccoony, Dragadote, et al.), then he will pitch a fit. Full voice, full-Jonah.

Sam . . . well, Sam picks his nose in his sleep. We've had evidence of this for some time, but we figured this was a waking activity. Until just now, when I went out to talk to my wife on the front porch. She was reading and Sam was asleep in her arms. Then he sat up, eyes closed, and dug in. Somehow satisfied, he lay back down and resumed snoring. Oh, yeah. Sam snores. But it's a 2-year-old snore, so it's very cute.






*too lazy to link

Games Boys Play

My wife is with Stephen at the doctor (he's been coughing a lot the past few days, so she took him in order to hear "It's just a cold," from a certified professional; ah, modern medicine). This means Jonah went with me to the dentist this morning, where he got a little toy robot dog for being such a good boy.

So I'm at home with Jonah and his "bestest friend in the whole galaxy," Justin. They, two peas in an extremely evil pod, are watching a heavily edited version of Star Wars Episode III (what George could not do, Mark has done. All hail Mark!). Eating my own lunch, I heard bumping, etc., and went in to investigate.

They had lightsabers, swords, Power Ranger costumes, and the dog and were totally ignoring the movie. Jonah saw me come in and said, "We're playing Darth Vader and General Grevous adopt a puppy."

I nodded and left the room.

Update
Due to various doctor-thingys (everyone's fine) I got to make lunch for Jonah. Would he like a hot dog, like his brother? "No. I hate hot dogs, unless they're burnt."

"You mean grilled?"

"Yah."

I asked what he would like. "A peanut-butter spoon, a . . ."

"A what?"

Timothy pipes in from the dining room, "It's a big spoonfull of peanut butter, left on the spoon."

"Thanks," I say.

Jonah continues, "A peanut butter spoon, and ham."

"Just ham? Not a sandwich."

"Just ham."

He's in a growth spurt, so I give him 4 or 5 slices. "How about chips? Do you want chips?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Doritos or Sun Chips?"

"Doritos."

Lunch of champions. Yes ladies, when you're not home, this is exactly how it happens.

The Joy of Separate Cars

It's Friday night, and I'm driving home from Fellini's with Timothy and Stephen in the car. My wife is behind us with Jonah and Sam in her own car, having met us for dinner. The boys and I had been at soccer practice; she had spent the day at the hospital with her sister, welcoming William Elliot to the world (hello William, or Elliot, we love you either way).

My phone rings, and I am in dread. My company acquired a new customer today, and it's one of those people who has risen to the top of a small company by yelling a lot (ensuring that the small company will get no larger, by the way). I don't want to answer the phone if it's this person, because I don't want to have to explain -- while in the car with two wild & crazy boys -- how it's not our fault if this person's employees can't get us the information we require to do our job.

I look at the phone, and it's my wife. A sigh of relief.

She's whispering, "Let me pass you," which doesn't make sense. She tries again, "It's a race, and Jonah wants to win. Let me pass you."

We slow down. Her car passes us, and I see Jonah in the way-back, arms pumping in the air. You can almost hear his triumphant yells through the ether as they pull ahead.

Stephen, from the backseat, gets upset, "They're winning!" Apparently this is a thing my kids do. I don't drive enough to know.

We follow my wife home, down our street, up our driveway, and into the garage. Jonah, already out of his car seat, is jumping. "We won! We won! You loseded!"

There are times to stand on principle, and there are many principles here to be stood upon (sportsmanship, grammar), but Friday night, way past bedtime, following a good soccer practice, and with cookies to be made is not the time to make that stand.

In my opinion.

On Sin

Mwahahahahaha! It's Lent, time for Sin-Talking!

Just kidding. But it is Lent, a time for contemplation and sacrifice (okay, giving up Coke is not a real sacrifice, but let's play along). Plus, my wife said I had to post about something, and this is pretty much what's been on my mind for the past week. So, here goes.

For some odd reason, I've been reading Richard J. Foster's A Celebration of Discipline. The link is to a new, 25th Anniversary Edition. The one I'm reading is an older edition that I "borrowed" from my in-laws' house a few years ago (see, we're already talking about sin). It's a tiny book, just 170-something pages. After a few weeks, I'm on page 63. Pitiful. (Aha! self-flagellation; it is Lent, after all.)

Even having gotten only so far, probably the most important thing I've read was in the first chapter. Titled The Spiritual Disciplines: Door to Liberation, I read most of this to my wife the other night, and she stayed awake. So there's hope.

Basically put, Foster says that sin is a disease, that we cannot cure it ourselves, but that we are not allowed to passively sit by.

Okay, thanks for stopping in.

Seriously, though. Citing Romans, Foster calls sin "the slavery of ingrained habits." It is something that affects every member of the human race (Rom 3:18-19) and that controls each one of us completely (Rom 7:5ff). It is not just actions that we do (which we can quit anytime we want to, honest). It's a disease, it's habitual, it's slavery, it's part of our very nature. Rough stuff.

Here's where it gets interesting. Foster says that there are two basic ways that we (as Christians) usually go about trying to stop sinning. The first is to muscle through it, or, in his own words:

Our ordinary method of dealing with ingrained sin is to launch a frontal attack. We rely on our willpower and determination. Whatever the issue for us may be -- anger, bitterness, gluttony, pride, sexual lust, alcohol, fear -- we determine never to do it again; we pray against it, fight it, set our will against it.

And there you have a description of the past 20 years or so of my life (okay, not so much with the alcohol). It's a hard struggle. Noble, possibly, but foolhardy. Because it doesn't work:

It it is all in vain, and we find ourselves once again morally bankrupt or, worse yet, so proud of our external righteousness that "whitened sepulchers" is a mild description of our condition.

Ouch. Try, fail, try, fail, try, try, fail, try, succeed, get haughty, fail, feel miserable, try, fail, try, fail, etc.

Foster writes more about this (I really should have just transcribed the chapter), and ends with an explanation why this method doesn't work,

The will has the same deficiency as the law -- it deals only with externals. It is not sufficient to bring about the necessary transformation of the inner spirit.

Great stuff, right? In writing this, I remembered a study we did a few years ago (in Galatians?). As usual, most of it flew over and around me, but I remember one idea. We did not save ourselves (Justification), why should we believe that we can now fix ourselves (Sanctification)? It had a big impact on me at the time. I must have forgotten it.

However, or, as Pee-Wee Herman said "Everyone I know has a big but." Here's the big but: we can't do it ourselves, but we can't just sit back and expect God to fix us while we sip mimosas. Foster says it better:

The moment we grasp this breathtaking insight [that righteousness is a free gift] we are in danger of an error in the opposite direction. We are tempted to believe there is nothing we can do. If all human strivings end in moral bankruptcy (and having tried it, we know it is so), and if righteousness is a gracious gift from God (as the Bible clearly states), then is it not logical to conclude that we must wait for God to come and transform us? Strangely enough, the answer is "no."

Ironically, I've been doing both of these things at the same time for years now. I'll be gritting my teeth, mumbling, "Resist, resist, resist," while at the same time praying, "God, just fix me, change me, break burn, mold . . ." all the while tumbling down the wrong path. It's hard on the stomach, and it doesn't work. Here's why:

The analysis is correct: human striving is insufficient and righteousness is a gift from God. It is the conclusion that is faulty, for happily there is something we can do. We do not need to be hung on the horns of the dilemma of either human works or idleness.

You're tapping your toes now, aren't you? Come on, Mr. Popiel. What's it gonna take?

God has given us the Disciplines of the spiritual life as a means of receiving His grace. The Disciplines allow us to place ourselves before God so that He can transform us.

What? I must admit, at first I was a little dismayed by this. There was one, brief, "Remember to drink your Ovaltine?!?" moment.

I had picked up this nice little book out of a sense of duty. Praying, reading your Bible, etc., are things that we're supposed to do. There may be secondary effects: God actually listens to prayers and apparently changes the world because of them; reading your Bible turns into knowledge which (through difficulties) becomes wisdom. But mostly you do these things because you're supposed to. Fasting and meditation are for weirdos or ascetics, right?

Apparently not. Apparently, these disciplines are activities that enable us to accept God's righteousness (that allow us to accept God's righteousness?). Maybe that's a poor choice of words. An analogy would help, and Foster's is best:

A farmer is helpless to grow grain; all he can do is provide the right conditions for the growing of the grain. He puts the seed in the ground where the natural forces take over and up comes the grain.

So we're the farmer, our lives are the grain, God is the "natural forces", or possibly the ground? Bah:

The Disciplines are God's way of getting us into the ground; they put us where He can work within us and transform us. By themselves the Spiritual Disciplines do nothing; they can only get us to the place where He can work within us and transform us. They are God's means of grace. The inner righteousness we seek [i.e., not sinning] is not something that is poured on our heads. God has ordained the Disciplines of the spiritual life as the means by which we are placed where He can bless us.

Now, this is both freeing and terrifying. It's freeing in several ways, but primarily because it means God hasn't been ignoring me. I pray to be changed, no changes come. Yet now it turns out that I haven't been placing my self (via the disciplines) where He has been sending His beam-o-righteousness. This changing light wasn't pointing to my bed or to my computer chair where I play games. It's pointing to the couch where I sit when I read my Bible and pray. D'oh.

It's also freeing in the old, staid, conventional, happy sense that I'm not changing myself. I can't, I won't and I don't have to. God grows me, I just have to get out of the seed bag and into the ground.

But it's terrifying because it means I have to get out of bed, or hop off the computer and actually do these things. Gotta pray, gotta read the Bible, gotta study, gotta fast, gotta serve, gotta worship. Ok. At least He promises to help us do that, too.

Abigail Rose

Welcome to the world, Abby.

Born today (and a Happy St. Patrick's Day to you too), around 5:00 PM. A little early, 6 lbs, 10 oz. and 19 1/2 inches long. You're my sister's second child and the first female grandchild for my parents. Finally.

On the day you were born, Abby, Sam got over being sick, Jonah had his second soccer practice, Stephen (who went along to Jonah's practice) decided to re-join the team for tomorrow's game, and Timothy had "the best day ever" at the new Georgia aquarium. And now you're here, and things are so much better.

And there was much rejoicing.

Crossed wires

This morning I managed to get my shower in before work (for a visual, think Tom Selleck; I look nothing like him, but you'll still be able to eat after visualizing; you're welcome). This is a good thing, because if I don't get one in before work, it usually has to wait until after work (lunchtime hygenic endeavors don't often pan out), and that's just a long time. By that point, I'm starting to look, smell, and feel like some sysadmins I have known.

Anyway, me=clean=good thing.

When I was done, I got out and began to rummage through the stack of clothes I had prepared (again, just visualize Brad Pitt or something; it's easier on the imagination). When I got to the layer where the unmentionables were supposed to be, there were no unmentionables.

There was a diaper.

In my defense, I usually get Sam's clothes each morning. And I was up late last night. And . . . well, it was funny then.

P.S.
This could have been worse. The other day while walking, I had a great post about Economics written in my head, including examples from World of Warcraft and Ben Cohen. But then I forgot it. You're welcome.

P.P.S.
Not that this fits in anywhere, but one of the birds near our house has learned our phone ringtone. It's very distracting.

Jonah's game

As previously mentioned, Jonah is playing soccer. Here are some of the questions you may be asking:

1. How does he like it?
2. How did the first practice go?
3. How did the first game go?
4. Why are you telling me this stuff?

To which I would respond:

1. He likes it fine.*
2. It went well, no outbursts at all.*
3. They won.*
4. Because you're reading my blog. If this isn't your thing, heave off.

*Now, the first three answers above all come with some major caveats. If Stephen's issue with soccer was that he didn't like it, at least there was an active component to it; his attention was focused on it, either to like the game and rejoice in his triumphs, or to wallow in misery at a perceived failure. (Grandparent note: this was all internal; I had and continue to have nothing but praise for the boys in all endeavors).

So if Stephen was perhaps too emotionally involved, Jonah isn't involved at all. No blowups at practice? Well, not on Jonah's part. The coach's incredible patience was tasked, because the boy needed constant reminders on what they were doing.

Jonah was all over the map, "Kick the ball; look at that flower; hey, that cloud looks like a dragon; run over here; nice shoes; stand in line; watch me dance; I can growl like a lion; the grass is worn away here and I can see the dirt; kick the ball; I'm wearing a Batman shirt, it used to be my brother's; etc." This was practice.

Come gameday, the other team failed to show up. It was the first game of the season, so most likely that team had dissolved and had its parts absorbed into other teams. Who knows; it's a rec league.

So our team played a 2-on-2 scrimmage, with Jonah and the coach on one team and Jonah's two other teammates on the opposing team. Again, the soccer game was just one of the many events in Jonahland. There was a toddler with a red ball on the sidelines who caught Jonah's eye several times. At one point he walked over and waved at the child, saying, "Hey little baby. Do you play soccer too?" There were also several other soccer games going on nearby, and cheers from any of those would make Jonah pop his head up and look around. And he enjoyed watching his own game, usually while standing at the other end of the field.

Jonah's teammates won, 5-2.

What next? Well, Jonah and I are going to work on fundamentals. And by fundamentals, I mean running and kicking. I'm going to run races with him until he can run without getting winded or stopping to look at a stick on the ground, and we're going to kick a ball back and forth. I'll probably award points to him for each race completed and each ball kicked within 5 yards of me, and when he gets enough points we'll go LEGO shopping. Then we'll repeat, with reducing points, until he can play a quarter of soccer.

There's probably an issue of maturity at work here as well. Jonah is 4 months younger than Stephen was at this same time last year. I bet he'll do a lot better next season. But this one is going to be quite fun.

Angst

Tonight is Jonah's first soccer practice, and I am a little apprehensive.

Jonah is our free spirit, live wire, short fuse, our spark. Brutally, painfully, hilariously honest, he provides soaring highs and plummeting lows, often at the same time.

This is not our first time around with soccer. Stephen played two seasons last year, but decided he didn't want to play again. He followed Timothy into karate instead, and got his gold belt yesterday. Timothy's green belt should come any day now. I'm proud, so proud of them all.

At first, Jonah didn't want to play soccer. I think he picked this up from Stephen. But my wife had already paid for the season when Stephen decided he wasn't playing. He really hadn't enjoyed the last season. But you have to sign up several months in advance, and so we signed up and paid a while ago, before Stephen got really involved in karate.

It fell to me to talk Jonah into playing soccer instead. Years of Jonahland have taught me that the direct approach often works. If it doesn't, I give it a day and try another route. He's five years old, so he often doesn't remember my failed previous attempts.

"Jonah, do you want to play soccer this Friday?"

"No," he replies, not even looking up from his puzzle. "I don't like soccer."

"Ok." It's best not to press too hard at first.

I wait a few minutes, and then Jonah says, "I do like to run. I'm a good runner."

I'm in. "Yes you are. And that's what soccer players do. They run a lot."

There's no response from him for a few more minutes. Then, "And I like to kick soccer balls."

"Okay then. Soccer is running and kicking. You would do great." Jonah grunts. "So, do you want to go play soccer on Friday?"

"Sure."

So we're going. Whatever else it will be, it will be an adventure, both for him and for me. He's never been in a preschool classroom, never done organized sports. Tonight will be interesting, to say the least. Our local youth soccer league is really good about picking patient coaches and setting reasonable goals for first-time players. But how will my blue-eyed spark plug react to being told what to do? I'm considering setting up a pool on number and severity of outbursts.

Oh, how I love my children.

Spring is Sprung

Sunny and 62 degrees, light wind. Welcome to Atlanta in Spring.

"But wait!" you say. "It's not Spring yet. We've not yet passed through the Vernal Equinox! Fie! Fie, I say."

And I would say that you're a nerd. It's here.

My window is open and I can hear birds singing, squirrels scurrying away from our cat, and hordes of children playing in the dead-end street in front of the house. And even with the window open and a breeze blowing through, my long sleeve shirt is looking like a bad decision.

There are Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies in my freezer and Cadbury Mini-Eggs hidden away behind the plates. Yesterday, Timothy informed me that the Bradford Pear trees are blooming. He hates the smell too; good boy.

I'm waiting for the Dogwoods and Cherry trees to bloom. There are a gazillion Dogwoods in our neighborhood and in the woods next to our house. There are also a few fantastic Cherry trees as well. I love living in a tree city, even given the crazy pollen (Atlanta was #20 last year, but #1 in 2004).

So, Spring is here.

Except in Minnesota and other parts north. To you who read this with snow still on the ground and triple-digit heating bills, I say this: my house is for sale.

Now, for the interactive part of our "interactive media." What one thing (okay, up to three) most signifies to you that Spring has arrived? Post in the comments section, if you please.

Breakfast with Stephen

This morning I went to school with Stephen for a “George Washington Birthday Breakfast.” This was a Dad-only event and used to be called “Donuts With Dad.” I don’t know the reason for the name change, and I am sad to see the donut focus lost, but I decided against a boycott, especially since today’s event involved spending more time with one of my boys and getting to hear him sing.

Part of the joy of school events is getting to see walls full of stuff made by kids. Today was no exception, as there were two main exhibitions on display: My Dad for President and If I Were President.

The My Dad for President series was on the wall by the coffee & juice (no Coke) and therefore received first viewing. The kids had drawn a picture of their Dad and written a sentence about him below the picture. There was the one to fulfill every dad’s dream (My dad is funny and strong and can fix anything) as well as the opposite end of the spectrum (My dad is big). I was glad to be somewhere in the middle of the continuum with “My dad goes to church.” The next one over said “My dad is smart and is a good plumber.” This is good to know, because this kid’s dad has done plumbing work in our house, and it’s nice to have inside confirmation of his abilities.

The If I Were President showing was down by Stephen’s classroom. Each piece was a larger picture drawn by him and his classmates along with a sentence or two about what they would do if they were president. Part of me expected some crap about making war illegal or global minimum wage, but then I realized that this wasn’t high school.

Ah, Kindergarten. “I would travel around the world,” and “I would have cake every day” were pretty representative. Traveling was a popular theme, and drawn globes were common. Stephen’s said, “I would travel the world, protect the penguins, and go bowling.” They must have done this recently, since we went bowling a week or so ago and just watched March of the Penguins this past weekend.

I got to see Stephen’s classroom, including the month-cakes on the wall showing the birthdays of everyone in the class. He pointed out August so I could see his name (we are Birthday Buddies, both in August, and he likes to remind me of that fact whenever birthdays are mentioned). Then the dads went and ate breakfast until the kindergarten classes walked in, singing songs about George Washington; good stuff. After singing, the kids and dads sat together, eating and chatting until one of the teachers, dressed up as Martha Washington, came in and read us a story about George’s teeth.

Note to future story-pickers: tales of rotten teeth falling out are not suitable for mealtime reading.

After the story, the kids lined up to go back to class. So out loped all the dads, some reaching for cell phones, others checking pagers, still others shaking hands with new friends. Me, I was halfway to the car when I realized I had forgotten to take my camera.

Sorry Mom.

Sam's Books

My mom sent in this story this morning:

Sam recently came to spend the night with us and, I'm sure to comfort him, his Mom sent along some special books. We had such a good time working puzzles after his bath and before his bedtime that we never got around to reading any of the 3 special books in his suitcase.

Sam ended up staying with us two nights and when I went to put his clean clothes back in his suitcase and take out his pajamas for night number 2, I commented to Anson that Kristie had sent Sam some books and maybe he would like to read one to Sam after dinner.

Anson picked up the 3 little books and as he was saying the names of the books, invited a glare from Sam. Sam walked very purposely over to the suitcase, turned his little frame up to Anson and said, "Put that back! That's mine!" Now you have to hear him say it properly, "Puuuuut dat baaaaack! Dat's miiiiiine!" Startled, Anson put the little books back into the suitcase and at that point, Sam slammed the suitcase lid shut and walked off - very satisfied that he had protected his property.

:)

Atlanta traffic

This is a really interesting movie, both as a lesson in civil disobedience (civil obedience?) and as a showcase for the crazy traffic in Atlanta. (Warning, the movie has some language. One, brief f-bomb; kids these days.)

A couple of interesting notes.

1. No, I don't know any of those folks.

I used to get this question all the time when people heard where I went to college. "Hey, do you know [so and so]?" With ten thousand students or so, it wasn't a huge college by any reckoning, but it was large enough that I could go 4 years there without meeting every drunken, frat-boy layabout who couldn't get into UGA. (Ooh. That sounds cranky, doesn't it?) I got that question a lot.

2. They filmed this in my part of town, up the east side of I-285. (of course I looked at the road signs). There was the exit for Memorial Drive (a.k.a. The She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named parkway) and the US-78 exit (it said "Athens" on it). And they mention the Church St. bridge. If I ever left the house, I probably would have seen this happen, maybe gotten my car in the movie. "Hi Mom! I'm on TV! Or the web, whatever."

3. The movie is entirely true. People in Georgia drive fast, because speeding laws are not enforced. You're not going to get a ticket for speeding on highways in Georgia until you're doing 81 mph. It's been this way as long as I remember, and it's how generations of Atlanta drivers have been brought up. (We had do have a year of driving under our belts before we were allowed to drive on the highways on any days other than Thanksgiving or Christmas.)

The story I heard was that the Fedrul Gubment decided in the 70's or so to drop the Interstate Speed Limit to 55 and would cut off funding to states that didn't comply. Rather than cut off their nose to spite their face (that's South Carolina's job, stand firm brothers) Georgia said, "sure," and dropped the speed limit to 55. Then they proceeded not to enforce the new, lower speed limit. Clever.

N.B., this makes it really hard to drive in other states, especially North Carolina. (They're serious about speed limits in NC. Crazy serious.) The first year we were married, my wife and I drove to New York to visit some friends, then to Ohio to visit my wife's mother's family. Including a side trip to Connecticut, we drove in 13 states, 12 of which are more serious about their speed limits than Georgia. Twelve states of 55. When we hit the TN-GA border, it was hammer down. Not really, but I lost an ulcer.

4. As true as the movie is, they were on a relatively slow and uncongested portion of the city. The Top End and Connecter have much more traffic on them (the film looked to be weekday, mid-day). And GA-400 is much faster.

Do you have time for two more stories? Sure you do.

My sister moved to Charleston, and had been there a few months when she decided to come back to Atlanta for a visit. About 30 minutes before she was to arrive, we get this phone call. She's panicking, cars whooshing by, can't get her bearings, etc. It was a Sunday morning.

Now for the kicker: the same thing happened to me. I had been working at home for about 3 months and needed to get to the mall one afternoon. I had to pull off the freeway and take back roads.