Don’t Underestimate Your Role, Dad
Given the opportunity, kids will raise themselves.
This was me, holding my son, Andon, who was just days old. I think this picture can represent the enormous responsibility we have as dads.
But it also speaks to the enormity of the gift and opportunity we’ve been handed.
Given the opportunity, kids will raise themselves. I’ve heard that saying throughout my life. Kids are resilient. Kids are tough. Kids are survivors. Kids will make it. Kids will find life’s windows and doors and even make exits of their own, and they will find their way through the worst of times and the best of times. They will be OK.
I actually don’t disagree with any of that. I have been constantly reminded of how amazing kids are – from the minute they are born. The miracle of being formed in the womb, the miracle of birth itself, and the miracle of a child developing into a person that walks, talks, thinks, knows right from wrong – it is truly amazing.
With all that said, I do believe it’s true – if you hand a child the opportunity, or rather, force them into it, they will raise themselves. What I do take issue with is that there are kids out there that actually have to consider this option. No kids should ever have to raise themselves. I understand that circumstances aren’t always perfect, or even close to perfect, and that things happen where there is no other option for a child. But speaking as a father, and having seen things that make me ashamed to be a man sometimes, I want to speak up about this.
Don’t ever underestimate your role as a dad. Don’t even think about underestimating it. Traditionally we saw dads going off to work and moms staying home to do housework and raise the children. I mean, there were even TV shows about that life. Those days are done. There is value to having a mom stay home and be a home-maker, no doubt, but the necessity to work is there for many reasons, and nobody can stand there and tell a woman she shouldn’t work. I appreciate all the moms out there that sacrifice themselves to join the dads in earning and making things work. Likewise, the days of the dad coming home from work, grunting to the wife and kids, sitting down on his easy chair, smoking his pipe and considering his work done are over too. Frankly those days should never have existed.
Dads have a huge role to play, and I’m going to tell you why I think so.
As a dad, you need to realize the impact you have on your children. Let me show you some of the ways that you have an impact on your kids – and consider this: you’re having an impact in this way, whether you are acting on that part of your role, or whether you’ve chosen to sit back and not do a thing about it. Either way, this is affecting your kids. It’s up to you to decide whether it’s important enough to make a difference.
You’re a leader. You’re the leader of the family. Again, there are traditionalists who argue that a man’s word is the final word in the house. This isn’t about that, and I’m not going to get into that debate. In terms of your kids, however, you are one of the two leaders and your children look up to you as that. So lead them! Lead them in every way possible. Lead them down the road of life, and help them where you can. Direct them, and make a difference.
You impact them as a moral compass. Regardless of how you act on this, your children are sponges. They soak up every word you say, every action they see. They will track how you speak to your wife. They will make mental notes when you hug and kiss your wife, but they’ll also take careful note when you hit your wife. They will see when you are honest at a store, even if the baby took something with by accident. Bring it back and tell the clerk about it. Your kids will notice. They will see how you treat others around you. They will hear you yelling at people, even if it’s within the confines of your car. And your kids will very likely use YOUR moral compass to find their own way some day. If you find yourself doing, saying or even thinking things that you wouldn’t want your kids to be doing, saying or thinking – maybe you should stop.
As a father, you have a major impact on your children’s ability to cope in life. Coping in life has never been more difficult, in my opinion. Yet, as dads, we have an incredible opportunity to guide our children. We have the chance to impart what we know to them. Give your kids information. Give them knowledge. Teach them everything you can, that will make them better people. Teach them right from wrong, and tell them why this is important. Teach them what you believe, but don’t force them to follow those beliefs. Live out your convictions, and if you’ve taught them good things, they’ll want to follow in your footsteps. Teach them how to make snowmen, and get the carrot nose just so. Teach them about paper airplanes. Teach them about walking the dog and picking up after it. Teach them about loving the people around them, even if they find them particularly unlovely. Guide them into the right direction, and marvel at their ability to follow through.
You will also have a lasting impact in how you make your children feel. You might not think about it very often, but consider this. Between you and your partner, you will likely form your children’s assessment of how safe and secure they are. And whether or not they are loved. They don’t need to get these things from anyone else, but if they feel safe, secure and unconditionally loved in their own home, by their own parents, we’ve already made one of the biggest differences we can as dads.
Don’t ever threaten a child’s security, even if you don’t mean it. Don’t ever attach strings to your love for your child – even if you don’t mean it. These aren’t things to toy with. These are matters of life and death to a little person. Remembering that, I would suggest we fathers take every single opportunity to reassure them in these matters. Ensure your babies know they are safe. Ensure they know that, whatever might come, whatever storms may gather and however dark the clouds may seem, their daddy would never let anything happen to them. Imagine the difference that will make to a little one. Knowing that daddy will always be there. You and I know daddy won’t always be there, and some day, the little one will realize that too. But until they are ready to strike out on their own, resting snugly in that security can mean the world to them.
Love them. I’ve already talked about unconditional love. It’s meant for your partner but it’s also meant for your kids. Don’t imply that your love hinges on something they need to do or achieve. Don’t hold things over their heads that might make them think that daddy’s love isn’t 100% there. Love them – like crazy! You can’t love your kids enough. You can’t spend too much time with them. You can’t tell them too many times that you love them.
I also think we fathers can have a big effect with how we support our kids. I want to ensure my children feel supported. I don’t always agree with what my kids do, or decide. And it is my job to tell them that. And why. But it is also my job to support them. It is my job to let them make their own decisions – and this will happen more and more as they get older. It is my job to let them make their own mistakes, and guide them back onto the right path if necessary.
As always, I will never claim to have the answers. I am just speaking from my very limited experience, and saying what I think. I’ve seen dads take a back seat to a) the amount of time their jobs require, b) the mom – don’t get me wrong – in our house, she’s an equal, but he should man up and do his part, or c) doing things the way their dad did it, even if they hated it and knew they’d never want to be that kind of dad.
What I do know is that when I speak of impact, it implies cause and effect. So when I say you will have an impact on your children and their lives, I’m not kidding. I’m not pulling this out of thin air. Your actions, however big or small, whether they exist and can be counted on or whether you’ve chosen to sit back and do nothing as a father, will be cause to the effect. And the effect is what your children, your flesh and blood (or perhaps not, but equally loved) will become. Therefore, what you choose to do today will impact tomorrow’s world. It might be a drop in the bucket, but I’m here to say I want to contribute my drop to make my kids’ lives, and their worlds, a better place.
I can’t imagine someone ever convincing me that I shouldn’t laugh with my kids, or dance with my kids, or cry with my kids, or teach my kids what I know, or tickle my kids, or play stupid games that make no sense with my kids. No one can ever take that away from me, and I’m hoping that my kids will remember that I was there for them. I’m not necessarily the best dad, but I do know that when my day comes to be accountable for what I’ve done here with my time, one thing I will be able to say is that I was there for my kids. I did what I could.
I want to say that I was raised by an amazing dad, who I’ve talked about many times before. I wish I could be half the dad he was, and I miss him so much. I truly do wish my kids and my wife could have met him to experience his unconditional love the way I did.
Yet I am surrounded by incredible dads to this day – my brother, my step-dad, my father-in-law, and many, many others. I am so thankful for the role models that I have been surrounded by – and that I can learn about being a great dad from them.
Being a dad is a blessing, whose proportions money or words can’t encompass, nor replace. Take that blessing, be thankful for it, and be a dad.
Don’t underestimate your role. For your kids’ sake, and for your own sake.
So yeah, given the opportunity, kids will raise themselves. But let’s not make them do that. Let’s raise them ourselves and see what an impact we can have.
By the way, that picture was one of many incredible pictures taken by one of the best photographers and one of the nicest guys in the world. Please check out Brian Buchsdruecker’s gifted work at absolutephotography.ca and at bookstrucker.com.
Pool Etiquette
Marco! Polo! So, it turns out that this is a game that’s not nearly as fun by yourself.
Having spent a solid portion of our Christmas break in and around pools and hot springs, I felt it was necessary, based on the situations and behaviours I observed during this time, to regale you with my own list of pool etiquette suggestions.
Let’s start in the change rooms, shall we?
1. First of all, you can call me a prude or old-fashioned or whatever, but I firmly believe that the age of children in change rooms should be regulated. That is, children who are in the wrong change rooms. At some point, it just gets awkward. My wife has told tales of boys that look to be about 10 or 12 that come in with their moms and just spend the next 20 minutes gawking at all the naked women around them. When I’m changing in my change room, and a girl is asking her dad about the different equipment she’s seeing… well, I’ve got two of my own girls, and this really isn’t that weird. But when a girl that is wearing a training bra comes in with her dad, I think maybe – just maybe – those kids are ready to strike out on their own. Let them try out their own side of the change rooms and see what happens. Please.
2. Snapping people with towels – it’s so much fun. But probably not a good idea in public pool change rooms. I can tell you why. When I was a kid, I finally, after trying it for about 5 minutes unsuccessfully, figured out how to snap my towel. I immediately snapped my friend’s rear end. It was the perfect snap. A crisp glance off the naked buttock, with a rewarding “SHNACK” to top it off. Well, it wasn’t quite perfect, and my glee was short-lived, for my friend hadn’t waited around for me to perfect the art of towel snapping, and the person changing beside me was a perfect stranger. It seemed he took exception to this friendly exchange, and I had to quickly explain that towel snaps are how we express appreciation in Canada.
3. As irritating as it is to have to pay between 25 cents and a dollar for pool lockers, you still have to do it. If you choose not to pay for your locker, don’t be surprised or angry when someone takes your stuff out of it, puts their stuff in, plops the change into the door, and walks away. That’s how things are meant to work. You’re not entitled to that particular locker just because it smells like your stuff now. Pay up, or be prepared to give it up. And complaining noisily to anyone who will look your way doesn’t make you look any smarter, cooler or more justified in being a locker squatter.
Moving along, we’ll take the tour to the shower rooms.
4. Speaking of showering, please just do it. It’s a lovely idea, and it gives everyone who sees you come in to the pool with wet hair, skin and bathing suit the false illusion that you actually cleaned yourself prior to immersing yourself into the public pool. I know, it’s really a sham, and not much is achieved by running water over your body for a few seconds, but realistically, you can’t be doing any harm, and it helps settle my nerves to see you tried.
5. I certainly appreciate the effort people put into reaching out to others. I love getting to know new people, and hey, the pool or the hot springs is a great place to do that. However, whilst in said showers, I have a couple of requests. A) You don’t need to strike up a personal conversation with strangers in the showers. If you really want to get to know that interesting fellow, by all means, but please wait until we’re in the pool to do so. I just want to shower and get to the pool. B) Don’t touch me. There really aren’t a lot of “ifs” and “buts” around this. Let me put it this way: if you are bending over to scrub yourself with a soapy handcloth, which I truly do appreciate you doing, I will ask you not to hold on to my shoulder to keep your balance. This suggestion was gleaned from personal experience. And I’m still talking to my therapist about it.
Let’s talk about what you’ll wear to the pool.
6. I know the signage is typically clear on this, but let me reiterate. No street clothes in the pool. So yes, dear sir who wore his saggy gonch into the Fairmont Hot Springs pool, I’m talking to you. If you’re at a lake, and you don’t have other things to wear, I suppose there are different, slightly laxer attitudes that might prevail. But I don’t like seeing folks stroll into a public pool, wearing their tighty-whiteys, their shorts, their shirts, or anything else that clearly wasn’t removed during their trip through the change room. And another thing I’ve noticed is that the street clothes wearing offenders often haven’t referred to Rule #4 either. Ugh.
7. Consider the appropriateness of your bathing suit. I’ve been to Europe a number of times, and to say that they are more relaxed in terms of what they wear to a swimming facility, or frankly WHETHER they even wear something to the facility, is an understatement. I was in for quite a surprise the first time we headed to a lake in Germany, and I started having a look around. HELLO! It goes for guys and girls. In Europe, dudes wear Speedos. It’s just that simple. Now here, in conservative North America, gentlemen should be advised that their banana hammock Speedos might not be nearly as acceptable, etc – although it’s not against the rules, it’s just a suggestion, and just know that you’ll be snickered at. A lot. Also, if you’re headed to an outside pool, it gets cold here in Canada. Just sayin’.
Finally! We’ve arrived at the pool. The water looks lovely. Come on in! Unless…
8. Hey! Guess what?! Open wounds, let’s say with profuse (or even barely detectable) bleeding or perhaps ones that are oozing pus, aren’t really a nice thing to bring with you into the pool. And even if you’re willing to be quite open about it. Like the person who sat on the edge of the pool while I was in it, bleeding INTO the pool, and loudly discussing the stinging pain the chlorinated water was sending into their gaping wound. Not cool.
9. Bodily fluids may also be deposited elsewhere, or just left outside the pool. I’m not under any illusions that pool water is clean, and that there isn’t a bunch of pee, snot rockets and probably poo floating around in minor quantities. But please, do your part. If you’re considering holding one nostril closed, and blowing a quarter-pound snot rocket out of the other nostril – into the pool you and I are both enjoying, please don’t. I don’t care if that’s cool in the country where you come from. It’s not here. And shouldn’t be there. On that note, is that “pee dye” a reality? As a kid, I was always warned not to squeeze off even a drop of pee, because the water would instantly turn blue or purple or whatever, and everyone would know you peed in the pool, and you’d be humiliated, and then your parents would be humiliated, and that wouldn’t be good German behaviour, and your life as you know it will be over. But the truth is, I’ve never seen that dye do its dirty work to ruin someone’s life, and I often wonder if it’s all just a really effective rumor.
10. Let’s not accept any relaxed standards around bodily fluids either. I have an example to illustrate what I mean. My parents, as mentioned, were very clear about their bodily fluids in the pool standards. As in, don’t put them there. My sister-in-law tells a story of a time when they were in the hot springs – Fairmont Hot Springs too, if I’m not mistaken. A kid says to his mom: “Mommy, I have to pee!” Well, this sounds like an excellent start, doesn’t it? Little kid, with bladder control, advises mother of urgent need for bathroom. If only it ended that way. The mom, to everyone’s dismay, utters the following words: “Oh, that’s OK, honey. Just go pee-pee in the pool.” Those kind of standards will not do!
11. Splashing – try not to do too much of it. I’m no curmudgeon here, people. I have three kids, all of whom splash around in the pool, and I did it myself. I accept that. I’m talking about excessive splashing. If your kid splashes me by accident, I’m totally fine with that. If your kid splashes me for the 30th time, after I’ve verbally taken issue with it, I will not be OK with that. Additionally, if you are an adult, and you are very fond of jumping into the pool, directly next to, or perhaps INTO, a group of unsuspecting people, I will not be OK with that either.
12. Band-aids – as a general rule, if you have a Band-Aid on, and I see it as you come into the pool, I’m already judging you. I’m already thinking, well they probably have a fully infected, oozing laceration under there, and oh, look at the time, I’ve been in this pool long enough. I know. I’m picky. Now, should you choose to come into the pool with your Band-Aids on, I suppose I can’t stop you. But please, for the sake of all humanity, remember that the edge of the pool, or the bottom of it is not a good place for them. Please keep the Band-Aid where it is, and check on it often. On a related note: kids – when you find flesh-colored chewing gum on the side of the pool, don’t chew it. It’s likely a bloodied, crumpled-up Band-Aid. Actually, now that I think about, it doesn’t matter what color it is. Kids – when you find ANY gum in or around the pool, don’t chew on it. Mmmmkay?
Just a couple of quick notes about other activities I was exposed to:
13. Thou shalt not steal towels around the pool. OK? Because I didn’t bring it there for you to use. I brought that towel there so I could a) be warm between the pool and the change rooms and b) cover up my gut during the change room to pool commute. Or I might want to lay on the grassy knoll beside the pool, on my towel. Or I might want to coddle my children by keeping them from getting hypothermia when they get out of the pool. Whatever my reasons are, they’re better than your reasons for taking my towel. Unless someone has lost an appendage and you need my towel to make a tourniquet that will save a life. That is the one exception. Life-saving tourniquets will be considered.
14. People that read in the pool – weird? Or am I weird for thinking they are? I don’t get it. Reading – what a fantastic activity. Your brain is growing, and you’re doing yourself some good. Going to the pool – what a fantastic activity. Your muscles and joints are getting worked, and you’re moving and you’re doing yourself some good. Reading in the pool – what a strange activity. Really? You’re actually going to just stand in 4 feet of water, hold a book out in front of you and read? And you look at my child strangely because they got one drop of splashed water on your dog-eared copy of “Catcher in the Rye”? Really? Actually, I should be more concerned with YOU, because we all know what kind of people read “Catcher in the Rye”.
15. Don’t try acrobatic performances – especially of things you aren’t good at. For example, if you and your 13 friends decide to make a human pyramid, and you haven’t really tried it before….. just don’t. You look silly. You’re going to hurt other people when you tumble down. You’re going to hurt yourselves when you tumble down. You’re going to drown.
16. Remember that you displace your own volume in the water. Therefore, if you are 700 pounds, and you are getting into a hot tub that is completely filled with people and the water is already sloshing over the edge, you will in fact not fit. You will, in fact, send many gallons of water fleeing for their lives, over the edges of the hot tub, and once that’s done, you will make an already full hot tub an extraordinarily uncomfortable one. Mainly because you are actually touching every single person in the hot tub with one part of your body or another. So be kind please.
If most or all of these suggestions don’t work for you, you could always just consider spending some quality time in your own pool.
Well, that about covers it. There are many, many more suggestions, I’m sure, and if you have some to add in the comments, please do so. Same goes for great pool-related stories. Share them, and get them off your chest.
If you’ve enjoyed this, feel free to browse my archives tab for other posts.
What I have learned as a husband – Part 2
In the first part (check it out here), I shared some lessons about what I’ve learned since becoming a husband.
There’s plenty more where that came from, but this won’t be a super long post. This second part of the post is harder to share, because it’s an admission of faults – something men aren’t real good at.
But I’m here to do two things today – share a couple more things I’ve learned and along the way, I’m going to admit a couple of things I got wrong. And when I write “things I’ve learned”, I really mean “things my amazing wife has inadvertently taught me by just putting up with me”.
Let’s talk about the silent treatment. When we first got married, I thought the silent treatment was a great idea. I’m not lying when I tell you I thought I was doing Aimie a favor. I know, it’s ridiculous, but hear me out. I thought that if I didn’t necessarily agree with something that my wife said or did, I’d apply the age-old wisdom of “if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” Riiiiight. I assure you, this never, ever works if you’re trying to justify the silent treatment. I’ve learned that, by not saying anything at all, I was speaking in volumes louder than if I had just spoken up and said “Honey, I don’t really agree. Here’s what I think…” Being silent, even for a few minutes, is totally cool when you’re with the boys. Not so with your wife. Their minds function differently than ours, and that just doesn’t work for them. Need proof? When’s the last time you caught your wife being silent?
Tough crowd, tough crowd. Let’s move on then, shall we? Seriously though, there is nothing bad that could ever come out of speaking up and letting your sweetie know how you feel. Honesty makes the world go ’round, and never more so than in relationships.
I have also learned to accept her filter. Let me give you a little example. I love Twitter. It’s instant, it’s truth, it’s often visceral and it’s far more human than other social media platforms. It allows us to quickly let everyone know what’s on our mind. And therein lies the problem.
My big mouth has often got me in trouble, and tweeting is a perfect opportunity to get into the same kind of trouble. Today I saw something that made me cringe, and I thought “Boy, I should really tweet that! I’m absolutely certain the whole world will agree with my awesome opinion on this matter.” For some reason, I showed Aimie the tweet before I hit SEND. She looked at it once, looked at me, and before words even came out of her mouth, I realized that what she was about to say was right, and that I wouldn’t be sending it. She said: “I wouldn’t tweet that. Is it appropriate?” The old Wildsau would have bristled at the notion of accepting any such feedback. The Wildsau that has learned many things from his wife sat back, smiled to himself, deleted the tweet and forgot about it as quickly as it had come up.
Go ahead and make fun of me – call me whipped if you want. I’m far from being whipped. I’m just aware that my wife’s mentality differs greatly from mine, and for good reason. It completes me, and her direction has never failed me along life’s road. I’m grateful she cares enough about me, and what people think of me, to say these things to me. It’s just another reason I’m crazy about her. Did I choose not to send that tweet because I wanted to please my wife or because she has the power of veto over my Twitter account? Not in the least. I did it because my wife was right, and I’ve learned to accept her filter on my words and actions – she’s never been wrong about where she’s pointed me. There’s a big difference between being whipped and being tuned into someone who knows you better than anyone else and who cares enough to give you their opinion.
I’ve previously talked about how things that are critically important to me, such as sanitary use of toothpaste, are of little or no importance to my wife. There’s further learning here, and it’s just a crucial. In addition to compromising and making the best of what’s not as important to my wife as it is to me, I’ve learned to find out what’s important to her. This goes a long way, my friend, and serves a number of purposes.
First of all, considering your wife is, or certainly should be, your best friend, don’t you think it’s important to know what matters to her? Take my word for it – it IS important. Vitally important. Secondly, a relationship should go both ways, and if you take the time to figure out what’s important to her, and she realizes that, what do you think will happen? She will do the same for you. And you’ll both come out ahead! What could be bad about that?
Here’s an example out of my marriage. My wife loves to shop. But she loves to hunt for the deals. It’s so important to her to find a sale – for anything. As a matter of fact, I’m quite certain my wife would buy something we’ll never use – as long as it’s on sale. “Oh, you have a baker’s dozen of donkey saddles on sale? Great! I’ll take them!” And what’s just as important to her is telling me about it. Here’s the rub – I couldn’t care less. I don’t ever, EVER look for sales, and certainly don’t celebrate them as victories to be shared with friends. But I’ve learned that it matters to my wife, and instead of saying “Just tell me what you bought, don’t tell me how much percent off it was”, I quietly enjoy my wife’s victories with her now. Do I care about them? Nope. But I want to hear about them now – because it matters to the one person who matters most to me.
This kind of leads into the next lesson I’ve learned. Don’t try to change your wife. I don’t care what topic this leads to, or which facet of life you might be thinking of applying this to – the lesson I’ve learned remains the same.
Don’t try to change the little things. I’ve stopped trying to change her horrifying toothpaste use. Yes, I’ve learned that it’s not really that important in the grand scheme of things.
And don’t try to change the big things. Just as importantly, don’t head into a partnership thinking you’ll succeed at changing her. I’ve also learned that we’ll never really change someone’s character. If there are things that are so important to you, that you know you’ll never compromise on them, such as your faith or your values – and your partner doesn’t share your opinion on these things…. I can almost guarantee that you won’t be able to swing them in your direction as time goes by. Can you live with that?
Changing someone’s core values and beliefs is a virtual impossibility in many cases. And here’s something frightening. The person in your life may love you so much that they will act as though they’ve changed for you – just to make things work smoothly. But in having tried to change them, and their character, we stand a good chance of having shoved them directly into the path of an oncoming resentment train. And so, after having a closer look, you might find the venom of resentment behind that facade of harmony. I certainly don’t have the answers here, my friend, and I would never tell someone how to live their life. But I’ve seen enough of these situations and I’m grateful my wife has taught me, without ever trying to, to stop thinking about changing her.
This brings me to the most important lesson I’ve learned – so far.
I have learned that loving my wife should never have strings attached. Not even tiny threads that are practically invisible. Let me explain. Some loves have very clear conditions. The wife is expected to speak a certain way, or not speak a certain way. Expectations of intimacy are unspoken, but hang heavy in the air between partners. He requires her to support his habits, hobbies, and activities – or else. I have seen it – far more often than I’ve cared to. It’s rarely spoken, but so clear, that it might as well be written on his forehead, or be silk-screened onto his spaghetti-sauce-stained wife-beater. This isn’t “strings attached” love – this is “heavy-gauge ropes attached” love. And if she doesn’t toe the line, his love is, in one way or another, revoked. Stand back and take a broader view of that – is that really love at all?
I’ve also caught myself attaching much finer strings in the past. There were times where I have to admit putting the smallest of conditions on my love. Not my overall love, of course. But parts of it. If Aimie didn’t do something the way I wanted it done, I may have felt a slight twinge of “Are you kidding me?”. It’s tough to explain, but it was there. And suddenly I would realize that I had, subconsciously, placed a condition on fully, truly loving my wife.
And this brings me to my final point. I’ve learned that no love for my wife should ever be conditional. No conditions should ever be attached to the strongest and most powerful feeling that we can ever feel. I talked about true love the first time I wrote about this. I’ve also spent time talking about how we love our loved one. But this time I challenge you to make it unconditional love. I’ve learned that it’s possible, and that it’s not hard to do.
I’ve learned to actively consider how I love my wife, and although I do have to think about it at times, I have learned to love her unconditionally. Why? In my opinion, it’s the only way true love exists. If you can learn to love your girl without wanting anything in return, you will experience more satisfying love than you thought possible. And there is no way that loving your wife unconditionally can ever have a negative impact on your marriage, or for that matter, your life. I give you my word on this.
Thank you, Aimie, for having put up with me for this long, and for having taught me so much – about you, about the world around me, about love and about myself. You still intoxicate me, you are my strength, you are my ray of sunshine on the brightest and darkest days alike – and you, without ever trying, have continued to make me a better man.
If you’ve enjoyed this, feel free to browse my archives tab for other posts.
Under the Chimney – A Christmas Story
This morning I set about translating this story. It is an old story, from Germany. It harks back to a simpler time, with simpler family principles, when folks had less money for gifts, and more time to celebrate tradition and likely to think about what Christmas really meant to them.
This story means the world to me – for two reasons. Clearly there is a lesson to be learned here, and it can be applied across generations, and to many of life’s situations. But it’s also important to me because my daddy used to read us this story every single Christmas Eve. I have to be honest and tell you that I wasn’t always that fond of all of our traditions when I was growing up, because there were times where I just wanted to rip into my presents.
Of course, these days I love our Christmas traditions – where we sing Christmas carols, and perhaps read a couple of stories and talk before we get to the presents. But the one tradition that I always had time for, and loved, was when my dad pulled out one of his old, tattered books of German prose. One of them bound this story within its pages. I do remember my dad’s favorite of these ancient books – the book was called “Der Ewige Brunnen” – in English, “The Eternal Well”. It represented eight centuries of collected writings. I often found my dad reading quietly out of this book, and it was one of the things that defined him to me – he could recite many of the poems out of it.
I have learned that you can always tell how important a book (or more specifically, what it contains) is to someone by how much that book is used – my dad’s Bible and this book were very well-worn, and bear witness to what was important to him.
I had a wonderful time translating this story, and the tears kept streaming down my cheeks as I did. They were good tears, and although I miss my daddy very much, I have so many amazing memories of my time with him. I hope you enjoy the story – I’m posting my translation first, and at the end, the original German version too.
Under the Chimney
by Rudolf Kinau (my translation into English)
I was a small boy and still believed in Santa Claus. Not the one that goes from house to house, knocks on the door and asks: “Have the children been good all year?” We didn’t know that Santa in those days. “He comes to those who have an iron stove and a narrow stove pipe,” Mother said.
No, we weren’t quite there yet. We still had the other Santa, that flew through the sky in the middle of the night with a big sack – over the roofs everywhere where was still a true old stove, and threw something into the chimney.
There were five of us children in the house, and I was the youngest. And the night before Christmas, we each had to put a plate on the stove – all nicely placed around the chimney opening above the stove. “Not too far to the center,” said Mother, “because that looks very greedy. But also not too far away toward the edge of the stove, otherwise you might get nothing.”
We presented our five plates – each of us had their own plate, and mine was particularly colorful – we put all five in a lovely half-circle around the fire hole. And then all of us quickly stretched our bodies over the stove and looked up into the chimney – to make sure it was really open. And then we said “Good night” and climbed, one by one, into our beds. Mother still sat at the table and sewed a bit.
In the dead of the night, I woke up – I was certain I had heard a crack or a hum and I thought: “Maybe he just – just now – flew over our house and has thrown something into the chimney!” And I thought: “I wonder what it would be? What could possibly be on my plate now?” Because I believed I couldn’t fall asleep again, and because the night was flooded with bright moonlight, and because everything was so quiet in the house – I got up quietly and snuck into the kitchen and looked onto the stove. But there was not much to see. All the plates were still empty.
“You must have been hearing things”, I thought to myself and wanted to turn around already and head back to bed, when I suddenly thought to myself that my plate might possibly be positioned slightly further back than the other four. And because, especially this year, I just wanted something very nice and a lot of it from Santa Claus, and because no one saw me and nobody knew I was here, I quietly and gently pushed my plate past the others and directly under the open chimney. Then I quickly went to the bedroom and crawled under the blanket.
I lay awake for a long time and didn’t know whether I had done the right thing or not. But then I thought: ‘I’ll get up very early so that no one notices anything. And if it is really bad, and everything has fallen on my plate, I can still give the others something from my bounty.” – and then I fell asleep again.
When I woke up, Jacob and Grete were already in the main room, and Johann and Heiner were already at the window. I wanted to quietly sneak by them, but Mother said – “Stop! Where do you think you’re going?” ”Oh, just to look whether there’s anything in my plate…” “No, you stay here! And put some pants on! And stockings and boots. And wash your hands and your neck! When you’re done, we’ll all go in at the same time. And I’ll go ahead so that there’s no fighting afterwards.” I probably made a very unhappy face, because Grete looked at my very strangely and Johann said: “Well, get a move on! We’re all waiting for you!” Well, this particular morning things didn’t go as fast as they should have, but eventually I was ready and stood at the door, ready to head into the kitchen.
Mother said “Stop!” again. “I’ll go ahead, and you can all follow me!” – and with that, she crossed the floor, stood in front of the large hearth and handed us our plates. She was happy for each of us as she passed each plate. Johann had five beautiful apples and at least twenty nuts and four brown cakes – and a pair of new skates; Grete found a beautiful white apron on her apples, nuts and cakes; Heiner got a big fairy-tale book, and Jacob a construction kit! And me? – I had only a small apple, a single nut and a brown cake – and nothing else – in my big colorful plate.
“Well, what is the meaning of this!?” asked Mother. And she scanned the whole hearth and looked up into the chimney, in case anything got caught in there. ”Why did this happen? Have you not been a good boy this year?”
“Yes!” – I just nodded, because I couldn’t say a word. A big lump hung in my throat. And as my brother and sister regarded me – half with pity and half with Schadenfreude, mentally listing the bad things I possibly may have done this year, I just kept shaking my head: “No, no – that’s not it.”
No, I knew better. And I realized that Mother knew it too – she was just acting. ”Santa Claus will likely know why”, Mother said, “so there’s nothing further we can do. You others could give him something from your gifts, if you like, but that doesn’t quite seem fair either.”
Grete and Johann each gave an apple to me. Heiner gave me a few nuts. Jacob gave me two of his brown cakes. “And you might get something else from me,” Mother said, “as soon as I know why Santa Claus thought so little of you this year.”
I loitered around for about an hour, then I went to my mother and told it to her – quietly, just between us: that I got up at night and that I had pushed my plate in front of the other four and directly under the chimney.
Mother shook her head. But then she looked quietly into my eyes and patted my head over the part in my hair. “It is fine,” she said, “we won’t speak of this any more. You may place your plate back on the stove again tonight – sometimes, for some reason, Santa Claus comes back.”
That evening – all alone – I placed my plate on the stove again. Not directly under the chimney, but also not too far away to the edge, but about half-way to the middle, as if four other plates also stood there. And the next morning, I had four beautiful apples, roughly 20 nuts and three brown cakes, and on top – a beautiful, soft, woolen cap – with a colored tassel. I was very happy and wore that cap for a long time, and I haven’t forgotten it to this day.
I often think about that Christmas morning and about my soft, woolen cap with the colored tassel, – especially if I’m tempted to put my plate somewhere in front of others and directly under the chimney again.
That’s it! I hope you enjoyed it. I can’t wait to read it to my kids, and the rest of my family, this Christmas Eve. I want to take this opportunity to wish you all a very blessed Christmas season, and regardless of what you believe in, I hope that Christmas is more than presents and food to you, and that you might take the time to consider what it means to you and your loved ones.
Thank you kindly to those of you who have taken the time to read my personal and vehicle-related posts over the last year and four months – your time and your feedback is greatly appreciated. I look forward to continuing and getting to know more of you.
Oh, and my dad’s book? ”Der Ewige Brunnen”? It was one of the treasures that I inherited when he passed away, and it has immeasurable value to me. I’ve decided to have it restored so it can live on in my memories, and hopefully those of my children.
I wanted to say a special thank you to Bernice Dutton, an online friend I haven’t met yet, who convinced me to post both versions of this story. I’m glad you did!
As promised, here is the original German version of this short story – the one I heard so many times as a boy growing up, and the one I wish I could hear my daddy read just one more time.
Merry Christmas, friends!
If you’ve enjoyed this, feel free to browse my archives tab for other posts.
Unter dem Schornstein
von Rudolf Kinau
Ich war noch ein kleiner Junge und glaubte noch an den Weihnachtsmann. Nicht an den, der abends von Haus zu Haus geht, an die Tür klopft und fragt: “Sind die Kinder auch immer artig gewesen?” Den kannten wir damals noch nicht. “Der kommt zu den Leuten, die einen eisernen Herd haben und ein enges Ofenrohr”, sagte die Mutter.
Nein, so weit waren wir noch nicht. Zu uns kam immer noch der andere, der mitten in der Nacht mit einem großen Sack übers Land und über die Dächer flog und überall, wo noch ein richtiger alter Herd war, etwas in den Schornstein warf.
Wir waren fünf Kinder im Hause, und ich war das kleinste. Und wir mussten am Abend vor Weihnachten jeder einen Teller auf den Herd stellen, alle schön der Reihe nach rund um das offene Ofenloch herum. “Nicht zu weit nach der Mitte”, sagte die Mutter, “das sieht so unbescheiden und gierig aus. Und auch nicht so weit weg an den Rand, sonst kriegt man nichts.”
Wir stellten unsere fünf Teller – jeder von uns hatte seinen eigenen Teller, und meiner war ganz besonders bunt – die stellten wir alle fünf in einem schönen Halbkreis vor das Feuerloch. Und dann beugten wir uns nochmals alle ganz weit über den Herd und guckten hinauf, ob der Schornstein auch wirklich offen war. Und dann sagten wir “Gute Nacht” und kletterten einer nach dem anderen in die Betten. – Mutter saß noch am Tisch und nähte.
Mitten in der Nacht wachte ich auf, und ich meinte, da hätte etwas gebrummt oder geknackt und ich dachte: “Nun ist er eben – gerade eben – ist er vorübergeflogen und hat was in den Schornstein geworfen!” Und ich dachte: Was das nun wohl gewesen ist? Was da nun wohl liegt – auf meinem Teller? Und weil ich meinte, ich könnte nun doch nicht wieder einschlafen und weil draußen ganz helller Mondschein war und alles war so still im Hause, so stand ich leise auf und schlich mich nach der Küche und guckte auf den Herd. Aber da war noch gar nicht viel zu sehen. Alle Teller waren noch leer.
“Dann musst du dich wohl verhört haben”, dachte ich und wollte mich schon umdrehen und wieder ins Bett, da meinte ich plötzlich, dass mein Teller diesmal etwas weiter zurück stände als die anderen vier. Und weil ich doch gerade in diesem Jahr etwas ganz Schönes und auch recht viel vom Weihnachtsmann haben wollte und weil mich niemand sah und auch keiner etwas davon wusste, so stellte ich meinen Teller leise und vorsichtig ein ganzes Stück weiter nach vorn und schob ihn mitten unter den offenen Schornstein. Dann ging ich schnell wieder in die Kammr und kroch unter die Decke.
Noch lange lag ich wach und wusste nicht, ob ich das nun so richtig gemacht hätte oder nicht. Aber dann dachte ich: “Ich steh’ ganz früh auf, dass keiner etwas merkt. Und wenn es ganz schlimm wird und alles auf meinen Teller gefallen ist, dann kann ich ihnen ja noch immer etwas geben.” – Dann schlief ich wieder ein.
Als ich aufwachte, waren Jakob und Grete schon in der Stube, und Johann und Heiner standen schon am Fenster. Ich wollte mich leise an ihnen vorbeidrücken, aber – “Halt!” sagte die Mutter. “Wo willst du hin?” – “Nur einmal sehen, ob was in meinem Teller …” – “Nein, hierbleiben! Und erst Hose anziehen! Und Strümpfe und Stiefel! Und die Hände und den Hals waschen! Wenn du fertig bist, gehen wir alle zugleich. Und ich gehe voraus, damit es nachher keinen Streit gibt.” Ich muss wohl ein sehr unglückliches Gesicht gemacht haben, denn Grete guckte mich so komisch an und Johann sagte: “Nun, schau zu, dass du weiterkommst! Wir warten auf dich!” Es ging an diesem Morgen nicht so schnell, wie es eigentlich gehen sollte, aber zuletzt war ich ja doch fertig und stand an der Tür und wollte hinaus.
“Halt!” sagte die Mutte wieder. “Erst komm ich, und ihr kommt alle hinter mir her!” – Und dann ging sie über die Diele, stand vor dem großen Herd und reichte uns unsere Teller. Sie freute sich bei jedem Teller mit. Johann hatte fünf schöne Äpfel und wenigstens zwanzig Nüsse und vier braune Kuchen – und ein Paar neue Schlittschuhe; Grete hatte auf ihren Äpfeln und Nüssen und Kuchen eine schöne weiße Schürze liegen; Heiner ein dickes Märchenbuch, Jacob einen Baukasten. Und ich – ich hatte in meinem großen bunten Teller nur einen kleinen Apfel und eine Nuss und einen braunen Kuchen – und sonst nichts – kein Stück weiter.
“Ja, was hat denn das zu bedeuten?” fragte die Mutter. Und sie suchte den ganzen Herd ab und guckte nochmals in den Schornstein, ob da nichts hängen geblieben war. “Wie kommt denn das? Bist du denn nicht artig gewesen im letzten Jahr?”
“Doch!” nickte ich nur, denn sagen konnte ich nichts. Mir saß ein großer Kloß im Hals. Und auch als meine Geschwister mich nun halb bedauerten und halb in heimlicher Schadenfreude aufzählten, was ich vielleicht angestellt haben konnte, schüttelte ich nur immer den Kopf: “Nein, nein – das ist es nicht.”
Nein, ich wusste es besser. Und die Mutter wusste es auch, das merkte ich – sie tat nur so. “Der Weihnachtsmann wird ja wohl wissen, warum”, sagte die Mutter, “wir können weiter nichts tun. Ihr könntet ihm höchstens etwas von euren Sachen abgeben, wenn ihr mögt, aber recht ist es ja eigentlich nicht.”
Grete und Johann gaben mir jeder einen Apfel. Heiner gab mir ein paar Nüsse. Jakob gab mir zwei braune Kuchen. “Und von mir kriegst du vielleicht auch noch was”, sagte die Mutter, “sobald ich weiß, warum der Weihnachtsmann dich so kümmerlich bedacht hat.”
Eine ganze Stunde drückte ich noch herum, dann ging ich zu meiner Mutter und sagte es ihr – leise, unter vier Augen: dass ich nachts aufgestanden wäre und dass ich meinen Teller vor die anderen vier und mitten unter den Schornstein gestellt hätte.
Die Mutter schüttelte den Kopf. Aber dann schaute sie mir still in die Augen und strich mir über den Scheitel. “Es ist gut”, sagte sie, “wir wollen nun nicht mehr davon sprechen. Du darfst deinen Teller heute abend nochmals hinstellen – mitunter kommt ja der Weihnachtsmann wieder zurück.”
Ich stellte abends – ganz allein – meinen Teller wieder auf den Herd. Nicht direkt unter den Schornstein, aber auch nicht zu weit weg auf den Rand, sondern so halb bis zur Mitte, als ob noch vier andere Teller daneben ständen. Und ich hatte am nächsten Morgen vier schöne Äpfel, etwa zwanzig Nüsse und drei braune Kuchen, und obendrauf eine schöne, weiche, wollene Mütze – mit einer bunten Quaste. Ich habe mich ganz toll gefreut und habe sie lange getragen und habe sie auch heute noch nicht vergessen.
Ich denke noch oft an diesen Weihnachtsmorgen und an diese weiche, wollene Mütze mit der bunten Quaste, besonders immer dann, wenn ich meinen Teller einmal wieder irgendwo vor die anderen und mitten unter den Schornsein stellen möchte.
Scars
Ugly? Scary? Maybe. But allow me to propose…. beautiful.
Let’s talk scars. Everything I say here can be applied to emotional scars too. I have a scar that can’t be missed. It goes from just below my right ear to where my neck meets my shoulder. Actually the scar takes a 90-degree turn there, and continues across my entire throat and was held together by 98 stitches at one time.
We were treated to a lovely evening out recently and I was asked about my scar. Actually, I get asked about my scar a lot. Whenever I start a new job, I can hear the whispering and I can feel the stares burning into my neck. It doesn’t bother me. In the past, I’d typically deflect the questions with the answer “It’s a long story” and kind of leave the person hanging. I’d even revel a bit in the dangling questions that were left, and the deepening mystery around my scar. I could tell it drove people crazy.
But I’ve changed my approach. I’ve realized that I had no good reason to keep the story of my scar hidden away. On the contrary, I have plenty of story to tell. And now, when I look at myself in the mirror every morning and see what some might consider a disfigurement on my neck, I am reminded only that I have so much to be grateful for.
So when I was asked about it, my wife and I told my whole story and it got us talking about scars in general. Which got me thinking. Which is why I’m here, writing this. Yep, this is me, sporting my trophy.
Scars are often seen as something negative. They are a reflection of pain, a wound, trauma, sadness. They are what remains of these things, and will forever remind us of what was suffered. They are horrible mementos, aggregating everything bad in recent and long-past memory into one ugly stripe. They make us sad. They make us angry. They bring about fear of the known and the unknown. When you think about it, scars are powerful and practically have lives of their own. But these marks, these flaws, these blemishes – they can do so much for us – if we would only let them.
Instead, they often cause us to judge people, to make assumptions and inferences. They can cause us to turn to our emotions. They can cause us to turn away from people, or conversely to turn to people.
I, for one, believe scars have a beauty that far outweighs their ugliness. And yes, scars can be inside of us too. I feel that scars on our skin, as well as scars on our hearts or souls, have a measure of power and potential that we should let them realize. I feel we shouldn’t categorically dismiss scars as ugliness, and even if we sympathize with their bearers. I don’t think we should consider scars as nasty things that we’d be better off without.
To me, scars are proof. Proof of so much more than we would be able to see without them. When I come across someone whose skin is scarred, or whose soul is clearly bearing scars of the past, I try to see these scars as signs of strength. I see them as absolute proof of resilience. And I see them as a sign of grace – somewhere, at some point in time, the bearer of that scar was shown some grace by someone, or something, and is here to tell the story.
I have more scars. My hands and knuckles are littered with scars, harking back to lessons I learned. I used to love to fight. I’d go out of my way to cause fights, and to get into them. I can’t explain it, and I’m certain that I had more wiring loose than tight in those days. Yet I learned a lot about myself and I can still look down at my battered hands, shake my head and see my being here as a measure of grace that I don’t deserve. I can then choose to be ashamed at who I was, dwell painfully on regrets upon regrets, or I can choose to look up, see the world around me and consider those scars a reminder of how far I’ve come since then.
Grief leaves some big scars behind too. I’ve been through my share of grief, having lost my dad and my brother in the same summer. Though it’s nothing to be considered extraordinary (for there are many who have lost much more than I have), it has had a big impact on me, and I bear scars from these losses. My whole family does. Even my kids do, because they talk about never having met their real Opa and one of their uncles. These scars never truly heal, because a real piece of us is ripped away and can not be replaced. Again, it is up to the person who bear these scars, and how they will choose to look at the scars inside of them.
I don’t actually feel that there are good scars. I just feel that scars can be seen in a positive light, and under that light, we can see wonderful things that can come out of the scars and the events that caused them.
There are scars that are more complex and darker, and difficult to see in any positive way. I feel that, when we look around ourselves, humanity is scarred with an indifference. This scar that is an air of apathy about our neighbours and fellow passengers on this planet is a result of constant friction. It’s not a deep cut, like some scars, but more like a carpet burn. It’s this repeated “looking the other way”, and lessening of the bonds and shared burdens between us and strangers, that have led to this scar. And it’s not easy to see it positively. But it is a great opportunity to do things differently.
I’ve spoken to people that bear what seems like a million scars – on their person, and on their souls. Unfortunately, there are those who choose to spend their years tracking who has caused their scars and keeping a careful, vengeful record of it, instead of seeing any of the potential good in them.
Sure, we can try to eradicate our scars. We can get laser therapy to try to rid ourselves of the scar tissue. We can try a number of methods to erase the scar – physically or emotionally – but in the end, we’re never really getting rid of the scars themselves. So let’s try to look at our scars for what good they might do. What use are these scars? Those of others can teach us lessons, and those of ours can be reminders.
In the end, it is my opinion that there is something beautiful in all of our scars. A scar means that what has caused the hurt is over. It means the wound has now closed and, at some level, has healed. If nothing else, the healing process has begun. It is a sign that we are alive, that we’ve been given another chance, and that we have survived the hurt, the lesson or the test.
What bigger measure of grace can we ask for? Am I crazy in saying that our scars are beautiful?
If you’ve enjoyed this, feel free to browse my archives tab for other posts.
The Don’ts of Airline Travel
Since I’ve flown four times in the last week, I feel highly qualified to comment on the do’s (or more specifically, the don’ts) of airline travel.
No, I’m not an accredited globetrotter, but I’ve spent enough time in close quarters with people whose true character shines through in these situations that I think I can compile a solid list of tips to make everyone’s travel a little less hemorrhoidal and a little more enjoyable.
Armrests are joint-custody real estate. There’s only one between you, which means only one of you is getting it at any one time. I strongly recommend discussing visitation rights with your neighbor before you have to do the elbow creep move. Especially if you’re sitting next to Rita McNeil. Just talk about it, people. Can’t we just get along?
OK, so you made it. The plane landed. It didn’t burst into flames. Don’t stand up the second the plane comes to a stop. Where do you think you’re going?
If you’ve enjoyed this, feel free to browse my archives tab for other posts.
Why I Can’t Sleep
Are you an insomniac? Well, that’s too bad for you, because I’m not. I can sleep like the dead. Anywhere. At least I could, until I got married and had kids.
I don’t know if this is unique to my house, but there are things that happen in my bed that cause me to be awake. A lot.
Rather than trying to explain, I decided to add illustrations to ensure my points are conveyed properly.
I’m just going to let you in on the secret right at the start. It’s my wife. If you’ve met Aimie, you know she’s tiny. She weighs 114 pounds. The poor thing. Unlike her, I’ve been blessed with the ability to store roughly an extra 100 pounds in a package almost the same height as hers. Circumference may be slightly more, but I haven’t measured, so who knows, right? I’m the lucky one in this equation. Just you wait until another seven lean years hit us – I’ll be the one who’s sitting pretty with plenty of reserves, thank you very much. Anyway, where was I?
Right! The sleeping thing.
So this is what we think of when we think of a blissful marriage. A relationship where the two people get along. There aren’t major issues. They love each other. It’s all just so…. perfect! Yes, folks, this is how we sleep in our bed. Yeah, not really.
Typically, our bed feels a lot like this. How is that possible, you shout in dismay? Your wife is tiny! You just said so! How can she make you cower in the corner of the bed, trying not to fall off?
I suppose I should practice full disclosure here. I do like cuddling. But it has its limits. Those ridiculous couples on TV that sleep like spoons for the whole night and wake up holding each other, and then roll over to stare into each others eyes, and say “I love you” don’t really exist. Do you know why? Have you ever tried to accept someone’s proclamation of love while smelling their morning breath? Not easy to do, is it?
OK, so what I’m saying is this: eventually, I like my own space. I don’t ask for much. Just enough for me. But often, I don’t get that. I get this instead. Crowding.
Sometimes, it’s not full-body crowding. The night starts off well. Things look good. Wildsau has his precious space, and happy times are here. Then, much quicker than you might expect, my wife re-aligns. I call it “The Alignment Shop”. She somehow angles her body so that she’s sleeping at a 45 degree angle to mine. I don’t even know how she achieves this perfection – it’s the same every time! There must be a giant protractor in our room somewhere, because she manages to get it right every time. And I have her legs laying on top of me. Being the loving husband I am, and respecting my wife’s sleep, I usually don’t do much about it. Including sleep. I don’t do much of that either.
There are variations to “The Alignment Shop” too. Often things start off great, as I noted. Aimie’s body stays exactly where it’s supposed to be. And then, just as I’m about to fall asleep, she manages to fire one leg over my legs. Even though it’s “tiny”, when I need my space, that one tiny leg feels like it weighs about 300 pounds. I don’t know if she straps jogging weights to it at night, or what the deal is. But there’s no denying that leg is on top of mine and it’s there to stay.
My wife tells me she has “restless legs syndrome”, which sounds a bit unbelievable to me. Is that a real diagnosis? I can assure you of one thing though. Her legs are the only things that are restless, because the rest of her is getting a fantastic sleep.
Often, it’s not Aimie I have to contend with. There are other peas for this princess. For example, her pillow. Aimie has this amazing ability to move her pillow magically to wherever I need space. Also, she never needs her pillow. I firmly believe she just brings her pillow into bed as a partner in this conspiracy against me. Most often, I will find myself jacked up on one side, wondering if I had a lift-kit installed while I was dozing. But no – that’s not it. It’s just Aimie’s pillow, crowding me out of my space. Somehow it finds its way into my personal space, and takes on a life of its own, pushing me to the edge. Of the bed, that is.
There are times where, and I’m not exaggerating, I think Aimie’s partner in this scheme is trying to off me. I have often woken up with that ridiculous pillow smothering me. Or at least it’s trying to. Ho ho ho, surely you jest, Wildsau. No pillow could be that cold-hearted. Really? Try me. I have a very strained relationship with this pillow of my wife’s, and it’s not for lack of me trying. I suggested counseling, I baked that pillow a cake, I did everything. Why, oh WHY does it hate me so?! I’ve went so far as to fire that pillow into the corner of the room after some of these attacks. Only to wake up later – with the pillow on me again.
Now, there are times when my wife isn’t to blame. I can’t explain it. I just can’t fall asleep. Occasionally, it may (but this isn’t for sure) have something to do with the fact that I’ve had 3 cups of coffee after supper. But not always. Sometimes it’s just an unexplained phenomenon. The wheels are turning, I’m thinking about something, and there is nothing I can do to convince my body to sleep. Of course, these are the times where every other factor is perfect. My wife’s body moves into the right sleeping position (nice and far away). Her legs stay where they should be when sleeping. Her pillow keeps to itself, likely plotting its next ambush on me. Everything is just right. Except I can’t sleep. So frustrating!
Finally! SLEEEEEEP! Beautiful, restful, refreshing sleep! I love it! I need it! I need it so bad that I might just snore once in a while. Of course, I know exactly what my snoring is like. It’s like music – soft, soothing, a gentle rhythmic lullaby to anyone’s ears. Really, I should record it and sell it, because that’s how awesome my snoring is. But hey – guess what? Guess who sleeps in my bed, and doesn’t agree with how awesome my snoring is? Not only does Aimie not appreciate all the effort I put into my snoring, but she has also devised an exceptionally cruel way to snap me out of it. She smashes her hand on the mattress about 20 times. Instead of rocking me gently awake and perhaps nuzzling me to assure me everything is OK, and just letting me know my snoring is a shade less than perfect for her, she BANGS THE MATTRESS WHICH AMPLIFIES THAT HORRIBLE SOUND DIRECTLY INTO MY EAR. That works out well for her, of course, because I stop snoring. Guess what I do afterwards? That’s right. I’m back to not sleeping. Oh, and I know you’re all concerned about my poor wife – she’ll invariably fall asleep seconds after the anti-snoring campaign has taken place. It’s unparalleled cruelty, my friends. Unparalleled.
OK, OK – fine! You got me. There are times when I can actually sleep well. Somehow things align perfectly, we both make it work, and I get real, honest-to-goodness sleep. And it’s amazing. And rare. I haven’t done a full study on it yet, but I believe I might have better odds of being struck by lightning in my bed than getting a good sleep there. Again, the scientific data hasn’t been compiled yet, but seriously, it’s got to be close.
There are ways for Aimie to get me out of this beautiful, beloved sleep too. There have been plenty of nights where we’re both having a great sleep. After what feels like just seconds of amazing, deep sleep, Aimie jumps up and gasps loudly, shaking me awake.
Aimie: ”What was that sound?!?! I’m so scared!!”
Me: ”Oh really? I was fine, until you just freaked out and I soiled myself. But I didn’t hear anything. Go back to sleep, and I’ll change my shorts.”
Aimie: ”Really? You didn’t hear that? Maybe I didn’t hear anything either. You’re right – it was probably in my dream. Good night. I love you.”
Me: ”Well, I guess I’ll just French-braid my ear hair, because there’s no way I’m falling asleep again. Want to help me? Aimie?”
Followed by the soft, even breathing of my wife who falls asleep in 2 seconds.
OK, so allow me to add one more variable. See me sleeping up there? So peaceful. So happy. Awww, we’re both getting a good night’s sleep. It’s a treasured thing, let me assure you. It IS possible, and it does happen on rare occasion. I’ll admit it. Here’s the rub. It’s called children. Anytime you think you’re having a good night’s sleep, count on the possibility of giving it all up. I don’t know about your kids, but mine have special talents. Like sneaking into our room. Quietly. And then standing creepily above me. Until I, in my deepest sleep, sense a disturbance in the Force. I sense that something is wrong, and a terrible feeling of dread falls over me. I slowly open my eyes, and THERE! There’s a black shape looming over me, causing me to scream like a little girl. Why?! Why don’t they whistle a little warning song as they come in? Not my kids. They’ll stand there, for minutes – silently awaiting old dad’s awakening and the cardiac arrest that will invariably follow.
Two things to take note of here – 1) I will never, EVER fall asleep after my kid scares the supper out of me in the middle of the night. And 2) See Aimie in the picture there? Yep, sleeps right through it. Really happy for her. That she can do that. Really happy.
So that’s why I can’t sleep. I’m sure I’m the only one who suffers from this affliction, but I feel a lot better now that I’ve shared it.
And of course, I’m still crazy about my wife. True story – I couldn’t sleep the night I thought of this post. I got up at 3:00 AM and drew out these illustrations on my iPad. The glow from my tablet woke my poor wife up. I felt bad, but she asked what I was doing. I showed her, and she laughed till the bed shook. And after I said I might write up a little post about it, she said it was a great idea. And she smiled at me sweetly, told me that she loved me, and fell asleep with that smile on her face.
I didn’t fall asleep until 6:00 AM.
If you’ve enjoyed this, feel free to browse my archives tab for other posts.
How Do You Love Your Loved One?
I’m hoping it’s the way they deserve to be loved.
I recently read a quote, tweeted by my friend Connie Peters, that made me realize I have to say this, and say it LOUD.
I want to ask you a personal question: how do you treat the love of your life? The person that is your partner, the one who makes you whole, the one who you’ve chosen to spend the rest of your life with.
How do you treat that person that, at some point in your past, had such an impact on you, that you decided, and made a choice, to be with them forever?
I ask this, because I see people out there, who treat their loved one with less than that person deserves. When I say loved one here, I mean the one person you have a partnership with. I suppose this could go for many of the loved ones in our life, but today I’m just talking about The loved one. And on that note, if you have more than one of these, you can stop reading right now, because we’re not on the same page. (I’m looking at you, Mr. Warren Jeffs)
I’ve seen people that have been engaged, just married and married for what seems an eternity – and I’ve seen them treat each other as though they are barely worth the time to look at. Barely. I’ve seen contempt in their eyes, and in their voices. I’ve seen hurtful things done and said. I’ve seen belittling commentary peppering an entire evening with friends. I’ve seen a complete lack of trust and faith in their relationship. I’ve seen complete glee in being able to tell others of the mistakes a person’s partner has made.
I’ve wondered what makes a person do things like this? Isn’t that the person you love? More than anyone else? Isn’t this your best friend? And if your partner isn’t your best friend, perhaps you could ask yourself why that is. You could ask yourself who is your best friend, and why it isn’t your partner.
Or maybe you could look at it this way – do you not see your partner as your friend? And if you’re heading down that road, I’d be interested in knowing what you might think your partner’s role is – in your life? What function do you need them to serve, if they aren’t your friend?
Our loved one deserves better, my friends. And I’m so grateful to be able to say that, for all the aforementioned behaviour that I don’t understand, I’ve also witnessed incredible love out there. I’ve seen amazing, whole, unadulterated, unconditional, pure love. Between real live people. It’s so refreshing to see people that truly love each other, and treat each other the way they ought to. And it happens in every station in life – I’ve seen it in puppy-love brand-new couples. I’ve seen it in newlyweds. And I’ve seen it in couples that have been together for a long, full lifetime.
I truly believe that perfect, unfettered love exists only in a vacuum – maybe in some Utopian world that I haven’t been to yet. Love exists to fulfill part of us, but it also takes more to make life work. I think that treating our partner the way they deserve to be treated is absolutely a conscious decision. It requires us to think about it. It requires us to act.
I think we need to show our loved one exactly how special they are, and I think no day should fly by (and they do fly, don’t they?) where we haven’t actively done something to ensure our loved one’s comfort in knowing they are the one for us. That they are everything to us. I mention that time flies by, because I would hate to have someone realize that too late, and see that so many days have, in fact, flown by – days they can’t rewind, full of regrets, words and actions they can’t take back.
How do you love the love of your life? Are you respecting them? Are you treating them like a grown-up? (that sounds funny, but look around – so many people belittle their loved one, and treat them like an idiot who knows little or nothing) Do you spend your time together nagging, arguing, being critical about absolutely anything you can find? Or do you spend your time supporting your loved one? Even if they’ve made mistakes? Failed at something? Done something you didn’t agree with?
Do you know when to listen to them? When to act? Do you still have passion for their goals, not just your own? Do you remember what it felt like to hold them in your arms the first time, and how you never wanted to let go? Should it feel any different today? Do you still go that extra step for them? Do you open doors for your girl? Do you put your arm around him? Do you kiss them, because you want to, and for no other reason? Do you go out of your way to make something special happen for them, each day? Something as simple as bringing flowers home for no reason at all – well, except that she makes your heart’s cup run over. Something like leaving a note in his lunch, telling him how important he is to you. Something like telling her to have a girls’ night out, when you’ll gladly take the kids and let her relax and take a load off. Something like never, ever leaving the house or going to sleep without telling her or him how much you love them.
This all sounds idyllic, I know. Trust me, I’m not saying this stuff happens automatically. That brings me back to making conscious decisions. If you’re treating your loved one the way they deserve, keep doing it. Keep making those conscious decisions. Do it in public, do it in front of your kids, your friends, complete strangers. There is nothing bad that could ever come of this.
And if you see an opportunity to treat your loved one better, do it. Do it for them. Do it for you. Do it for your kids, for whom you are the strongest role model. Do it for others, who are silently watching and, for better or for worse, learning.
You’ll never regret treating your loved one better than anyone else. And you’ll reap rewards for the rest of your life for it. And remember, you never know how many days you have with your loved one. If today were your last day with her or him, would you have done anything differently?
Oh, that quote I mentioned from Connie? It went something like this: “Treat your partner better than your best friend.” I love that! And man, do I love my wife. To be honest, I’m crazy about her. I’m not ashamed to admit that she makes me who I am. I’m so thankful to have someone that accepts me for who I am, faults and all. And I’m committed to never letting a day go by where I don’t tell her or show her that – in one way or another.
Friends, I wish you and your loved one an amazing day, an amazing weekend and an amazing, fulfilling life together.
If you’ve enjoyed this, feel free to browse my archives tab for other posts.
I’m Great With Names…. As Long As They’re Bob
Ever feel like you have Alzheimer’s – even if it’s temporary? Why is it that I can’t get people’s names straight sometimes?
I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m just terrible with names. I can’t remember them, unless I commit them to memory by force.
It starts at home. I can’t always place my own kids’ names at the exact time when I need to say them in a stern and “I mean business” kind of voice. I usually end up saying all three of their names before I get it right, and I throw in their mother’s name for good measure. Now part of this is my own fault, or at least partially of my own doing. I’m not sure what we were thinking, but we named all of our kids with names starting with A. Abigail, Amalie and Andon. Just saying them together makes for an alliterative nightmare, and confuses lesser mortals. Oh, and my wife? Yeah, her name is Aimie. I don’t stand a chance.
So I witness, or hear in another room, something going on that I feel I should, as a dad, react to. Something like this:
Abigail: “Amalie, do you want to be the princess or the ugly troll?”
Amalie: “Oh, I’m the princess. Thank you, Abby!”
Abigail: “Well, Am, you should really be the troll, because you’re a stinky-bum, poopy-head.”
Amalie: (laughing) “No, YOU’RE a poopy diaper face!”
Abigail: (laughing even harder) “Ha ha, you’re a stinky loser, pooper-head, troll-face ugly girl!”
Amalie: (not laughing at all, suddenly with tears in her voice) “YOU SHUT UP!”
Me: (thinking I should probably step in here) “Abigail, no Andon, no Aimie, no Amalie!”
After a long pause of silence, where my girls are obviously wondering how long it will be until they need to change dad’s diapers and why he’s a stuttering fool…..
Abigail: “Sooooooo, are you talking to Amalie and me, or mom, or Andon? Because you said all of us.”
Me: “You know what, smarty-pants? You just mind your own business, young lady. And please get along with your sister. And no name calling.”
Amalie: “Who? Me?”
Me: “BOTH OF YOU! Wasn’t that clear? I listed off the whole family there because I would like everyone to get along and not call each other names. OK?!??”
Abigail: “OK, dad. Whatever you say.” And then I hear her whisper: “You’re still a poopy-head, Amalie”
Amalie: “Moooooooooooooooom!!!!”
Another thing that causes me great concern is meeting new people. Especially in big crowds. If I am introduced to one person, by another person, and that’s the extent of it, I have come up with a trick that works for me. I try to say their name back to them, if it doesn’t sound ridiculous.
For example:
Our mutual acquaintance: “Wildsau, I’d like you to meet Bob here. Bob is a taxidermist.”
Me: “Hi Bob.”
See what I did there? Now if saying their name back to them sounds funny, or isn’t applicable within the conversation, I say their name to myself five times while looking at their face. Somehow that works. If I don’t do that, I will meet Bob again five minutes later, and be at a complete mental standstill, staring over the gaping chasm that is my ridiculously ineffective short-term memory and wishing I could find the bridge that crosses it.
I had breakfast with one of my best friends recently, who also happens to be my brother. He told me a hilarious tactic for “remembering” people’s names – I say “remembering” because really, it’s just cheating and it’s more of a reminder. He said he has the same issue with remembering names, and has done the following to try and get away with it. Upon meeting the person again, and drawing a complete blank when it comes to remembering even a shred of their name, he will ask: “Say, how do you spell your name again?” The hilarity ramps up a notch, of course, when the person is like: “Um, B. O. B.” At that point, you might choose to dig your hole deeper by exclaiming, “Really?! Man, I thought it was B. A. W. B.!” But realistically, you should be aware that you’ve been busted and it’s just clear that you couldn’t remember their name. But a very novel approach, if I do say so myself.
My final issue comes out to play when my mind displaces information with other information that isn’t valid. At my age, my brain often tells me that someone’s name is something it is not. As a matter of fact, it’s not even close, and it can make for awkward, but mercifully short, conversations. For example:
Me: (thinking, oh hey! There’s Bob! I should say hello. It’s been years!) “Well hello there!”
“Bob”: “Hey, how are you doing, Wildsau? Wow, it’s sure been a long time. How are Aimie and the kids doing?”
Me: (suddenly miffed that “Bob” remembers my wife’s name and that I have kids, and I’m barely stringing together his name) “Oh, um, they’re doing well. Thanks!” (this is followed by a wave of relief, because it’s clear I don’t have to say the other person’s name and our conversation is rolling along nicely)
This wave of relief quickly ebbs away and is replaced by a sinking feeling, as you see your “I have to be introduced to everyone” friend, Fred, striding over, with purpose, to join the conversation. And it gets worse when Fred says: “Hey Wildsau, who’s your friend? Why don’t you introduce us?”
Me: (thinking, no problem, I’m sure this is Bob I’m talking to) “Oh sure – this is my friend, Bob. Bob, meet Fred. Fred, Bob.”
“Bob”: (glaring at me) “Um, actually I’m Betty. It’s nice to meet you, Fred.”
Me: (and this is where the conversation stays mercifully short) “Oh right. Betty! It just sounds so much like Bob. I confuse those two sometimes. Right. OK, well – Fred, Betty, you’ve met. I’ll move along then. Look at the time!”
I realize now that I started thinking I was just horrible with remembering names. But as it turns out, I think I’m realizing I’m slowly getting old, and I’m just horrible at remembering anything now.
So, please, if I call you Bob, take pity on me. My kids will be changing my diapers soon enough, and I need all the help I can get.
You know what I say? Long live the nametag!
If you’ve enjoyed this, feel free to browse my archives tab for other posts.
The “S” word – the nasty one
I don’t get why this word seems to be one of the hardest words to utter in our language. I’m guessing that all the other languages in the world have a similarly difficult syntax around this word, because fitting it into any sentence seems to be an impossibility to some people.
So, let’s talk about saying “Sorry”.
Here’s a little something I’ve learned along the way – it’s nothing monumental or new, but it really does seem that some folks haven’t heard about this yet. You should become very, very familiar with the “S” word. I’m going to tell you why. As always, you’re going to get the husband and the father perspective on this one, and a little added bonus at the end.
As a husband, I’ve learned that being able, and willing, to say sorry when something has come up has infinite value. Seriously, you can’t even place a value on the difference this word can make in an unfavorable situation, never mind the partnership viewed as a whole. When something rears its ugly head between you and your partner, don’t just consider saying sorry and what the implications of saying it are. Just say it. With practice, you’ll become comfortable with it, and you’ll realize that you’re saying it for a new reason. You actually don’t have to necessarily say it because you’re so horribly sorry for what you’ve done. Although that helps. I often consider saying it just because I’ve become involved in something between my wife and I. An argument, disagreement, fight, or whatever it is that’s between the two of you – it warrants the use of the “S” word.
I firmly believe many, many partnerships, marriages, business deals, employment situations and any other kinds of relationships you can list could have been spared a painful and oft irreparable ending if one or more of the stakeholders had just been willing to take the first step and say “Sorry”.
As a father, I feel that it is imperative that I am able to say I’m sorry. I have spoken out of turn, I have disciplined my children wrongly, and I have made mistakes along the way. I have felt great power in that word – in those moments where I show my children that I’m not immune to making those mistakes, and also that I’m not above saying I’m sorry to them.
Asking your child to forgive you because you made a mistake somewhere along the way – either in how you treated them, how you spoke to them, what you disciplined them for, or perhaps having acted in a way you shouldn’t have toward someone else – is a great thing. You will teach your child that they too will likely make a mistake along the way. And that it’s OK. To fail along the way is OK, isn’t it, Dad? Sure it is. As long as you’re on the path to achieving something, I believe there’s no problem with not making every single thing happen right on the first try.
Now, here’s the bonus I mentioned: teaching your kids to say sorry, and that you’re able to do it, will help continue the cycle. It will teach your kids that saying “Sorry” is just fine. It will teach them that being part of a bad situation in any kind of relationship in life is not a good place to be, and that they CAN be the first ones to step up and do something about clearing the air. And it will teach your children a noble character trait which, in my humble opinion, will go a long way to garnering them respect along life’s road. Having a spirit generous enough to speak that word, and mean it, will equip our children for great things in their futures.
Yes, saying “I’m sorry” is an acquired taste for some, and granted, saying it freely the first few times may truly result in some discomfort and you might find the word sticking in your throat. Believe me, it gets easier once you see the results. I’ve talked to some brothers-in-arms, and what’s often come up is the fear of losing their pride, and even their dignity in the process of saying they are sorry. I will tell you right now: it never, ever has to come to that. My friend, if you are secure enough in who you are, and what you’ve done to get where you are today, you will be able to say sorry to someone without even the slightest risk of losing your dignity or your pride. There’s no need to feel weak or threatened by saying this word – it is a tool to be used and it has immense power.
Obviously most of the power of this word lies in its ability to diffuse what’s stinking up the room – any bad feelings toward each other, any tension, and anything else less than favorable between you and someone else. Sometimes the effect is immediate, sometimes it takes time. Regardless, who could argue with that result?
Saying sorry, and even the willingness to do so, also allows us to scramble to a moral higher ground. And believe you me, the view from up there is spectacular. Having uttered that magic word allows us to start feeling good about a previously-dreaded situation, and allows us to take a look at it from a new perspective.
So go ahead, friend. Use the S-word, and don’t be shy. It’s not as bad as you might think it is. And brothers, if you think buying momentary pleasures such as flowers, chocolates and whatever else you’re throwing money at is a valid replacement to just saying “I’m sorry”, I believe you are wrong. Try saying the words first, and then following them up with something your partner loves. The effect will be ten-fold. For both of you.
I often write posts that might ruffle a feather or two, and I always appreciate the counter-point that my readers have been able to provide to my opinions. As always, feel free to throw back some comments, but I will be surprised, nay shocked, if someone can come up with a great argument against saying they are sorry.
If you’ve enjoyed this, feel free to browse my archives tab for other posts.
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