Eye of The Storm

Disclaimer:  This is a copy of a letter sent to N.O.A.A. last week.  It was in production before Irene ever came near the coast, so it was not written to belittle the people who have endured her wrath or experienced loss as a result.  Now, that being said, I believe those who would get most offended are still without power, so…let’s just get this underway before they come back online… 

Dear NOAA,

In light of the recent increase in tropical storm activity, I have been perusing your website.  I saw a link for the Hurricane naming list and was fascinated by its history.  I did notice, however, that in the ‘H’ category, the name ‘Haven’ was not used.  I would like to take a few minutes of your time to make a case for why I believe this is a name worthy of entering your rotation.

I think you would agree with me that two of the most notable traits of a hurricane is that they are destructive and they are most often named for women.  Let me just say that I totally get the logic at work there.  It just so happens that I have a 10-month old daughter named Haven, and when I think of raw destructive power, this little girl is what pops to mind.

Since she learned to crawl, there’s been no end to the path of devastation she leaves in her wake.  She sweeps through the house, howling with glee at the mayhem she will cause.  Clearing a coffee table, emptying a cabinet, or yanking over a trashcan is done in the blink of an eye.  Other times, she moves silently, like the eye of the storm, waiting to get a hold of the really dangerous things.  She’s already destroyed her mama’s expensive candle stand (a hurricane candle stand), and it makes me extremely nervous at how she eyes the grandfather clock.

Caught in the act

“But what about water,” you may find yourself asking.  Yes, we have that covered too.  Haven is amazing in the water.  Bath time is an event that requires at least two or three towels to clean up.  No liquid is safe from this little one’s ability to gather and fling it with wild abandon.  The dog bowl is her favorite target.  She’ll silently crawl into the kitchen, stand up at the dog’s feeder, and splash water all over the floor and walls until the nearest adult extricates her from her fun.

Right now, she may be containable, but I estimate that she’s just building in intensity.  It’s for these reasons that I believe Haven deserves a place in your naming rotation.  It’s interesting to note that the word ‘haven’ denotes a place of refuge or rest.  I think the inherent irony is something the Hurricane Naming Convention has been missing for much too long.

Thank you for your consideration.  I await your reply.

Sincerely,

Michael Thomas

NOAA was kind enough to reply.  Here's their answer.

Pop Goes The...Elbow?

One incredibly annoying problem inherent in all babies is the inability to communicate.  The best they can possibly do when something is amiss, is cry for all they’re worth.  While this can roughly let the parent know that something is wrong, that wrongness could range from a wet diaper, to an empty stomach, to the vocalizing of displeasure at having her hand stepped on by the dog.

Therefore, it is quite a relief when they reach that age where they can accurately relay these important messages, and take the guesswork out of the whole parenting equation.  This is something I was very happy about this past weekend.

On Saturday, Tamara’s grandmother had her 91^st birthday.  It was a great party with smoked ribs, mac & cheese, and some of the best birthday cake I’ve ever had.  We had fun talking, doing a little archery, and playing football in the front yard.  My two boys also had a ball terrorizing Aunt Francis’ dog and cats.

It was during one of these canine play periods that Gage ended up falling to the floor and injuring his arm.  The boy was inconsolable and couldn’t use his hand to grip much of anything.  A couple of Tamara’s cousins work in the field of nursing, and they looked the boy over pretty closely.  There was no swelling or discoloration, but they advised us to get him some motrin, ice it down, and let him rest for a while.  At this point, we honestly didn’t know if he was really, really hurt or if there was just a good measure of tiredness involved.

We took him home, gave him the drugs, and put him to bed.  The boy went out like a light, and slept all night long.  However, the next morning, Griffin woke me up about 6:00 and said Gage was calling for me and he couldn’t get out of bed.  We got him up and Tamara took him to ProMed as soon as it opened.

The doctor examined him and suspected that it was a dislocated elbow, but took some X-rays just to make sure.  After all, you don’t want to go yanking around on an arm if it is, in fact, broken.  Gage thought it was pretty cool to look at the pictures of his bones, and the films ended up confirming what the doctor thought.

Gage had a dislocated elbow, and it was merely a matter of popping it back in.  It will not be an experience that ranks very high on his “All Time Favorites” list, but Gage was immediately able to move his hand and arm again.  His first item of business was to console himself by picking up his green blanket and rubbing the tag on his lip.  That’s our boy!

I’m so glad he was able to tell us where the pain was and what actions caused him physical discomfort.  It made it possible to quickly get him the help he needed.  I suppose we should enjoy this while it lasts.  For some reason, we tend to grow out of that phase where we can express our pain.  Physical pain, sure, but the stuff that eats us up from the inside we tend to just keep to ourselves. 

It could be because of pride, though when you sit down and think about it, that’s a pretty silly reason to live in misery.  It might be that we think we’re the only one going through an issue, which again, is a somewhat ignorant assumption.  Everybody has problems, everyone needs a friend, and at many points in our lives, we all need help to make it through.

This was really highlighted for me at Sunday night’s church service.  We had communion, then spent some time talking and praying with different individuals.  It almost seemed chaotic watching people randomly walk all about the church and meet in small groups to share and pray, but there was no chaos to it.  It was a deliberately choreographed event where people followed the urgings of God’s Holy Spirit.

I’m thoroughly convinced that we weren’t meant to fight through life alone.  Even though most of us can make it through a crisis, it’s the day to day living that tends to eat you alive.  We all have problems, and I think most all of us have friends that care enough to help us work through them.  It’s really up to us to point to where the pain is and tell them how it hurts.

Untagged

A desperate wail echoed into the early evening hours.  This was no ordinary cry of pain or anger, but a soul wrenching howl of anguish and loss.  Tamara quickly ran from the bedroom to find our youngest son crumpling to the floor in the hallway.  He was on the edge of pure hysteria.

“What’s wrong,” she asked, trying to usher Gage away from the full scale breakdown he was approaching.  Amidst the sobbing and tears, she was able to decipher one word…‘Tag’.  Yes, the unthinkable had happened.  The washing instructions had completely torn away from one of his favorite blankets and now lay lifelessly on the floor.  Those of you who know Gage can understand what a tragedy this is.  If you don’t quite get it, you’ve probably not heard about his love of tags.

It took a good deal of time to calm his aching heart.  With great care, Tamara was finally able to convince him that she could sew it back on.

As I was telling this story in my LIfeGroup, one of the other guys mentioned that his oldest daughter has the exact opposite problem.  She has a fit if any of her clothes have a tag in them.  He said they have no idea what size any of her garments are, or what the washing instructions might be for them.  They have to cut the tags out of every one or she won’t wear them.  The suggestion was made that they need to collect all those tags and then we could sew them on a blanket for Gage.  I think it’s a great idea!  I can almost imagine the look of befuddlement and delight on his face at seeing an entire blanket ringed in tags!

In other tag related news, we may have an issue of hard feelings developing between Gage and his sister.  For the better part of five years, our dining room chairs have sat virtually unscathed as they silently performed their duty.  Haven has changed all of that.  Single handedly, she has ripped almost every single manufacturers tag from the bottom of these seats. 

The first time Gage came across this grisly sight, he did nothing short of panic.  “Sister’s got a tag,” he screamed, loud and long enough to hear from three rooms away.  By the time I got to the kitchen he was bouncing back and forth with tears streaming down his face.  He couldn’t understand how she would even want to do something so horrible to those precious, hallowed things.  Those two may always be at odds over their contrasting treatment of tags.  Only time will tell.

Scouts Honor

Well, it’s reached that time of year, again, where my wife and I try to over-commit ourselves.  Soccer season is hiding just around the corner, waiting to pounce on us and kick the snot out of our Saturday mornings.  The difficulty is multiplied by the fact that both Griffin and Gage will be playing this season.  Despite the long days ahead, I’m certain they’ll have a wonderful time.

Aside from my wife being tied up with PTO this year, we’ve also added something new to the mix.  Griffin came home from school on Monday completely frantic about how awesome Boy Scouts is.  I’ve got to hand it to whoever did the in-class recruiting; You…Were…Incredible.  He hit me as soon as I walked through the front door, brandishing a colorful sheet of propaganda, showing boys in the midst of various exciting activities.  Usually our quiet one, Griffin continued to jabber all through dinner about the things we would do once we were in Boy Scouts.  “A bit excited are we,” I asked my wife.  “Oh, I’d say so,” she replied.

A good night’s sleep did little to diminish his fervor.  As he sat at the breakfast table on Tuesday, he held an apple in one hand, and his hallowed brochure in the other.  “We’re going to the meeting tonight aren’t we,” he asked.  I told him we would and went about the rest of my morning while he talked of camping, archery, and BB guns.

That evening, I was once again met at the door with questions of when we were going to go.  I told him it would be after dinner, and that’s when he asked me, “So, do we just follow the guy after it’s over?”  I realized right then that he had the wrong idea about what would go down this night.  I think he somehow got it in his head that we’d sign up, walk out the back door of the school cafeteria, hop in a canoe, and paddle toward our campsite.

It’s always a bummer when your expectations get dashed.  He did handle it pretty well, though.  I explained that we were just signing up tonight, and these fun activities were events that would take place throughout the year.

It should have come as no surprise that he’d think this way.  He’s being brought up in a society that’s just not geared to wait for things.  We cook with microwaves, we have the internet at our fingertips, and we have fast food that sometimes just isn’t fast enough.  Our family rarely watches anything on TV that hasn’t been DVR’d.  We don’t have time for commercials!  The kids are completely baffled at what “live TV” is.  We watched a show during Shark Week and they couldn’t fathom why we wouldn’t fast forward through the commercials.  There was just no explaining it to them.

Sure, we’ve made life convenient for ourselves, but it leaves me to wonder what kind of expectations we’re instilling in our children.  Are we making their lives easier, or hurting them in the long run?

The Pecking Order

I’ve touched on the various personality traits of my children before.  Despite the many hours I’ve logged studying the boys, I’m still amazed at the differences in their behavior and attitudes.  I’ve spent time reading about birth order and how it affects a child’s mental growth and the way they interact with each other.  Through all this research and observation, I have to say that Gage confuses the life out of me.

At three years of age, the family has unanimously voted him “Most Likely to Usurp the Head of Household”.  On multiple occasions, he’s called me out, claiming that he, in fact, was the daddy, and he would “spank my hiney”.  This is not an issue that concerns me too much right now, since he’s a skinny little preschooler that I can tote under one arm…but there’s a day coming.

The research I’ve done points out that Gage, as a middle child, should be the peacemaker of the family; working to bridge the gaps between all parties and bringing unity to the household.  HAH!!  Truth be told, my three year old is an opportunist, waiting to slip into any vacuum of power and seize control.  And it doesn’t matter who he has to step on to do it.  I mean that in the most literal sense.

For the longest time, he’s bullied his six year old brother, who is much too kind hearted to do anything about it.  Recently, however, Tamara instituted a new rule that anytime Gage hits Griffin, the older victim gets a free shot on the offending party.  It didn’t take very long to see this new rule blossom into full effect.

Last week, Tamara heard the outside door slam while a wailing three year old stalked to his room.  Upon probing into the situation, Gage stopped crying long enough to exclaim, “HE HIT ME BACK!!”  My wife looked the little one over and asked, “Did you hit Griffin?”  To which Gage replied, “YES, BUT HE HIT ME BACK!”  Walking outside she asked Griffin, “Did you hit your brother.”  My oldest looked up from his playing and said, “Yes, but he hit me first.”  “OK,” she replied, and walked back in.

Oh…things are a changin’!  Since that little incident, Gage has somehow managed to refrain from punching his older brother.  I guess it’s true what they say, some people learn by sight, some by hearing, some by doing, and then there are a select few that just need to have knowledge beaten into them.

Arm crossing technique at age 2

I’m happy to say that we’ve seen other improvements in Gage, as well.  Last Saturday, he got upset about something that the “supposed” leader of the house said.  Quickly, he crossed his arms, declared in a loud voice that he was not happy with me, and stalked off to his room.  Some might see this as impudence, but I see it as progress.  He didn’t throw anything, he didn’t scream, he just used verbal communication to express his feelings on the subject.

This victory in anger management, however, was very short lived.  On Sunday afternoon, the youngling and I once again found ourselves at odds.  As I calmly squatted down to correct my son on how he should and should not speak to his father, the little imp walked right up to me and kicked me in the shin.  It really didn’t hurt at all, but an action like that requires immediate correction.  Once again, Gage was not happy with me.

Obviously, we’ve still got a long way to go with this one.

Love Bites

Haven has two teeth.  Well, at least one and a half.  As with any teething baby, she’s been a bit cranky lately.  She’s had the low-grade fever that every doctor will tell you has nothing to do with teething, accompanied by an unappeasable grumpiness that can completely frazzle a parents nerves.

Cranky Baby Look

She has, however, managed to pick up a new trick.  Despite the fact that she only has the two front lowers jutting up from her little gums, she now knows how to bite people.  I’m not quite sure how she does it.  I wouldn’t think that she could exert enough pressure with her bare upper ridge, but the facts don’t lie.  My mother was the first victim.  Carrying Haven through her house last week, she had her cradled belly-side down which gave our darling angel the perfect opportunity to go dental on Mammy’s arm.

I thought this was a bit humorous.  I mean, how often have you wanted to bite your own mother but knew you couldn’t get away with it.  Grandchildren are an entirely different matter.  Mammy will just scream and then say something like, “Oh how cute!  She has sharp little teeth!”

I, however, did not think it was quite so adorable when she latched onto my tender, bare heel whilst I was giving the boys a bath.  She had been jealously watching her brothers splash about in the tub up until the point she disappeared from my sight.  As you can imagine, her reentry into my purview came as a complete shock.

I screamed loudly, yelling, “No, Baby,” prompting my badger-child to release her toothy hold on me and sit up.  “No bite daddy,” I pleaded, entirely sure that she would hit me again the moment I turned my back.  The rest of bath time was spent with me dancing to and fro at the tub, casting nervous glances over my shoulder in fear of her next sortie against my exposed flesh.  Thankfully it never came.

I realize that babies explore the world with their mouth.  Everything goes in the mouth and gets chewed on.  And I mean everything: dead bugs, dog beds, pencil shavings, papers, and apparently nice fleshy appendages.  I just hope that we can curtail this exploratory biting before she hits her toddler years and it becomes a form of communication.  As in, “Hey there, fellow preschooler, you’ve got my favorite toy!” Om-nom-nom-nom.

Back On-Line

I feel as if I owe an explanation to both of you people who still read this blog from time to time.  Things have been…hectic around our house.  In fact, you could say that we’ve been inundated by an overabundance of “First World” problems.  We bought a new house and moved, but a large amount of our time and energy has been spent fixing up the old one and getting it ready to put on the market.  We also ran into legal problems in the midst of trying to sell some land we own, costing us a good deal of money and adding a boatload of stress.

But as I mentioned these are First World problems which differ greatly from Third World problems.  While the stress and pressure we feel at working day in and day out on our old house is real, it pales in comparison to issues like, “Oh, my baby doesn’t have any food or clean water today,” or “Hey, this ruthless dictator is lining me up on a wall in front of a firing squad!”  You see, they just don’t compare.

Even when I woke up a few weeks ago with a 103° temperature and found out I had contracted pneumonia, it wasn’t as serious as it would have been if I were in another country with lesser medical facilities.  That’s not to say it was a walk in the park.  It was a completely unpleasant experience which more or less felt like having my head fed into a steel press while a bunch of roided-out gorillas worked my ribcage over with twelve-pound sledge hammers.  At the lowest point, my doctor gave me a third shot of antibiotics and threatened to put me in the hospital if I didn’t improve in 24 hours.  Thank the Lord, we didn’t have to go that far.

I wasn’t even aware you could get pneumonia in the middle of the summer!  But apparently it is possible to weaponize bacteria hiding in the dirt by running a lawn mower over it and kicking it into the air.  Who knew?  I’ve only been mowing for the last 24 years without it ever happening.  Regardless, it’s a miserable experience that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

So, with all my excuses out of the way, I just wanted to let you know that there will be more movement on this webpage.  I’m not quite sure how much or how fast, but there will be movement. 

I do appreciate the 3,000+ reads and the visitors I’ve had from countries all around the world.  Thanks for taking time to share the adventure of our life!

-Michael Thomas