Troy and I took a quick roadtrip over the weekend to go to a friend's wedding. A few hours into the trip, we swung through Troy's hometown to say hi to his parents. We walked in the back door and Troy yelled down the stairs to the basement.
Troy: Hi Dad!
Troy's Dad: Hey there!
Me: Hi Russ!
Troy's Dad: Uh-oh.
The situation became immediately clear.
Interrupted: Naked Saturday.
9.22.2008
9.14.2008
I threw away that picture of your baby.
I don't mean to sound insensitive, but you can stop sending me pictures of your baby.
I looked at the first few pictures before tossing them into the shoebox that holds old theater tickets, past wedding invitations, and greeting cards. There they will remain, face-down under the card my sister sent me (the one with the picture of the little girl holding a sign that reads "I like corn on the cob" where you would expect to see a "happy birthday" message). I won't see these pictures again until, several years from now, I dig through that box in an effort to paste into a scrapbook those items worth saving. The corn-on-the-cob card will make it into the book. Your baby will not.
The back of your baby's picture probably says something like "age 6 months" or "18 months." This means nothing to me. (The rest of the world counts age in years, by the way.) Can your baby talk? Can it walk? Can it do math? Don't send me pictures unless it can do math.
Chances are, you wrote your baby's name on the back of the picture. When I find it in a few years, it will be stuck to my ticket stub from the County Fair Demolition Derby with some sort of purple syrup. When I pry them apart, I will smile as I remember the grape sno-cone I had the night my friends and I watched those cars catch on fire. I will have a detailed recollection of the deep-fried Oreo cookies and losing our car in the parking lot, but I will look at "Emma, 8 months" with an empty stare of non-recognition.
As I cover the back of my demolition derby ticket with rubber cement and paste it into a book, my elbow will inadvertently knock your baby's picture onto the floor. As I turn the page and add a picture of Penelope's dog, I will stretch out my legs and unknowingly kick your baby under the large, built-in desk in my basement. Under the desk it will stay..."Madison, 4 months"...for an untold number of years. I will eventually move out of my house and someone else will take my place.
On a rainy day in September, years in the future, this new resident of my house will be cleaning the basement. (She will be a more conscientious housekeeper than I.) And when her mop reaches under the desk, it will unearth a small photograph. She will pick it up, look at your baby, and cock her head in confusion. She will turn it over and, for just a moment, will attempt to recall "Noah - 20 months." She will shake her head and give up as she moves to the next room with her mop. On her way, she will pass a shoebox filled with letters, postcards, and last week's concert tickets. And she will casually toss your baby's picture on top.
I looked at the first few pictures before tossing them into the shoebox that holds old theater tickets, past wedding invitations, and greeting cards. There they will remain, face-down under the card my sister sent me (the one with the picture of the little girl holding a sign that reads "I like corn on the cob" where you would expect to see a "happy birthday" message). I won't see these pictures again until, several years from now, I dig through that box in an effort to paste into a scrapbook those items worth saving. The corn-on-the-cob card will make it into the book. Your baby will not.
The back of your baby's picture probably says something like "age 6 months" or "18 months." This means nothing to me. (The rest of the world counts age in years, by the way.) Can your baby talk? Can it walk? Can it do math? Don't send me pictures unless it can do math.
Chances are, you wrote your baby's name on the back of the picture. When I find it in a few years, it will be stuck to my ticket stub from the County Fair Demolition Derby with some sort of purple syrup. When I pry them apart, I will smile as I remember the grape sno-cone I had the night my friends and I watched those cars catch on fire. I will have a detailed recollection of the deep-fried Oreo cookies and losing our car in the parking lot, but I will look at "Emma, 8 months" with an empty stare of non-recognition.
As I cover the back of my demolition derby ticket with rubber cement and paste it into a book, my elbow will inadvertently knock your baby's picture onto the floor. As I turn the page and add a picture of Penelope's dog, I will stretch out my legs and unknowingly kick your baby under the large, built-in desk in my basement. Under the desk it will stay..."Madison, 4 months"...for an untold number of years. I will eventually move out of my house and someone else will take my place.
On a rainy day in September, years in the future, this new resident of my house will be cleaning the basement. (She will be a more conscientious housekeeper than I.) And when her mop reaches under the desk, it will unearth a small photograph. She will pick it up, look at your baby, and cock her head in confusion. She will turn it over and, for just a moment, will attempt to recall "Noah - 20 months." She will shake her head and give up as she moves to the next room with her mop. On her way, she will pass a shoebox filled with letters, postcards, and last week's concert tickets. And she will casually toss your baby's picture on top.
9.04.2008
Because we're No Nonsense
Yesterday, the weather started to change. I walked outside in the morning and went back in to get a sweater. It felt like fall, and I smiled. Not just because it’s my favorite time of year, or because it means Halloween is right around the corner, or because Penelope is coming to visit in 7 weeks.
I smiled because this summer has been riddled with Nonsense, and September feels like the start of something better.
It’s been a rough summer by any standard. The people I love have lost jobs, lost parents, and lost friends. Three ended relationships. Two attended funerals under unimaginable circumstances. One drove ten hours each weekend to visit his mom in the hospital. At some point, our problems shifted from kid problems to real problems, and there’s no end in sight.
All of this means that there’s no time, no energy, and no heartache left for Nonsense. So let me say this:
When you invent a story about how my friend, the substance abuse counselor, is using drugs – that is Nonsense.
When you spread a false rumor that This Boy is cheating on That Boy – that is Nonsense.
When you cycle through your friends at your convenience and intentionally hurt Travis’s feelings – that is Nonsense.
When you throw a tantrum and storm out for no reason – that is Nonsense.
When you break up with Brad and then kiss the new person that he’s dating – that is Nonsense.
All of it. Nonsense. And I know we can all do a little better.
Welcome, September.
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