Every year during the holidays I seem to have one major Clark Giswaldesque blow up.
2 nights ago we (Dad and the kids) slept downstairs by the Christmas Tree, it was not pretty. After kicking the couch (that I was trying to sleep on) over and over and over and over, while she was screaming "I can't sleep" I lost it aka "going griswald". I threatened to throw the Christmas Tree in the street and move to Africa in a place where they don't celebrate Christmas. I only swore once. No one really cried.
My wife reminded me that this happened last year on Christmas eve. I am not sure if this is a tradition...maybe it is when you have five kids? Long live the traditional English Christmas.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
On Turning Ten...
Yesterday was Mitchell's tenth birthday, and during the day of celebrating, I was reminded of a poem by Billy Collins:
On Turning Ten
The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.
You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.
But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.
This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.
- Billy Collins
I haven't blogged in a long time, but I couldn't help myself today. Our 10 year old son in a walking juxtaposition...he still mostly believes in Santa Claus, yet is starting to ask questions about "The Birds and the Bees". Is it possible that before the year is out, both of these "talks"? At this point, it seems likely that we will. How odd, to believe in Santa, and still need to have the "sex" talk with dad. The poem seemed to explain the feelings better than I could.
On Turning Ten
The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.
You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.
But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.
This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.
- Billy Collins
I haven't blogged in a long time, but I couldn't help myself today. Our 10 year old son in a walking juxtaposition...he still mostly believes in Santa Claus, yet is starting to ask questions about "The Birds and the Bees". Is it possible that before the year is out, both of these "talks"? At this point, it seems likely that we will. How odd, to believe in Santa, and still need to have the "sex" talk with dad. The poem seemed to explain the feelings better than I could.
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