What else could summarize chasing your son around the babysitter's yard, his pants wet from water-vomit, crying hysterically? I'm running from the deck (and trying not to fall in my brown Croc shoes) down the yard, trying to grab him like my wayward dog (who, ironically, ran through the neighbor's basket-weave style fence and into the side street where he found the sound of his barking a reverberating exercise in freedom and defiance). Why did he have water vomit on his shorts? Because on his third day being on medication for his attention, his gag reflex (a sword swallower he will never be) erupted into full force upheaval. I have some to blame (no, I don't mean in my DNA, but laugh at me if you must!) for the lack of timing, whereby my waking up late led to him being forced to chug his medicine. I knew the medicine would not hold simply because the thought of something grody and pilly setting in the back of my son's throat would be too much. First came the crying. Next came the screaming. These were the birth pains of an inevitable vomit storm.
Off to the doctor.
Good news on my health. After dropping about 44 pounds (dear reader, did I mention I have been on Weight Watchers? Well, now you know) all my levels have gone considerably down. I am no longer designated as diabetic. I saw myself in a picture this weekend. Sometimes when I see myself I still think, "Damn, I'm huge," but I know that being 300 is better than being 360, which is where I was headed.
Then to church.
There are more posters to be made for the people you meet who inspire you. Lately, from reading the book "Wild at Heart" and other events that prove more than coincidental, the lure of being around strong, devoted Christian men of faith has given me a new perspective on my own faith-walk. I was coined once as a "baby Christian" which I took as a compliment. I was learning, yearning for a relationship with the one person not of this earth that can fill those gaps and lift me from the crib. Hold me, God. Carry me around and let me be coochie-cooed by other Christians. No drug or relationship can fill this void that men (and I mean this as a species, men as in the human race, and men being gender specific as well) yearn for the minute they are birthed from their mother's wombs. Somewhere an angel has on a button with my smiling mug on it, like some doting parent at a softball game. "That's my kid playing second base!"
And now I'm growing in the only way I know how. I'm invested in reading books that mess with my life instead of messing with my head. I want to spend time with like-minded people, and it almost becomes a source of frustration when others around me don't feel the same way. Why are so many men deferring their faith to their wives? How many women at church are toting around their kids, their bibles, sitting alone because their husband has another excuse? How many times will husbands refuse their calling because they think their house or parenting skills were better than their fathers and simply "good enough"? Somewhere, we lowered our standards (and this is a world problem, not just husbands). We compare ourselves to other people to measure our own commitment. But if the person we are comparing ourselves to has little faith, aren't we just brow-beating?
So I'm beginning to raise my standards. I invest in men and couples that have it together (it's not unlike looking for the best practices in education). I want to spend time with them, watch them around their kids, watch how affectionate they are with their wives. I want to give them a hi-five like some kid on the playground. And in doing so, I'm conflicted with just how to motivate others to want more. When does love become overbearing? I'm sure God is laughing at me and rolling his eyes. "Dude, you were like this for 30 years!" I'm the only person in a packed Adam Sandler juvenile comedy (especially the ones lately), feeling like a snob because I don't think the pee, poop and fart jokes are that funny.
School.
On a day when I felt I needed some time to reflect, duty calls. I was swarmed on the playground upon my arrival. You'd think I was giving out chocolates (I admit, there was a time when I would have). All day the kids were side stepping me, talking about their days, their weekends, their random thoughts. Gone for just a few hours does that to them. We began discussing government rights and the government's role in society. They got a kick out of the fact that their homework was designed for their parents to work and not them. We have been discussing subsidized housing, welfare, government jobs and even Trayvon Martin lately. I know none of this will ever show up on a standardized test. So what. They learn more when they think for themselves.
But I won't fool you with my smile. I didn't feel "right" all day. Perhaps it was that yearning again to be picked up and delivered to a place of unknown destination. Perhaps it was the water vomit episode, that feeling that everyone was watching my kid run through the street like our dog, barking his disapproval. Birth pains.
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