AtwoodZoo

without a net

Since she got sick almost 12 years ago Suzie has had seizures.

Sometimes she has runs of big,nasty greasy seizures, other times it is little more than an inconvenience. Like "oh look...Suzie just dropped her pencil had a seizure. That sort of incidental seizure.

Which really sounds funny. But we have been round and round with these things for years, and so I guess you can get a bit blase about the whole thing.

Especially since the implant.

A bunch of years ago, maybe six or seven, Suzie had a vagal nerve stimulator implanted. Somehow, and the doctors are really not sure how. And in some cases, and the doctors are really not sure why in some people more than others, the vagal nerve stimulator tricks the brain into thinking that it just had a seizure so that "hey no reason to have a seizure here...nothing to see...just move along."

And for Suzie it has worked like a champ for the past six or seven years. She still takes a fistful of medicine twice a day, but the vagal nerve stimulator seems to have done some pretty cool things.

You can tell when the thing is working because every few minutes, when it fires off and does its brain-tricking-thing,it cause her voice to flutter. Like she is talking into a fan. Very cool stuff cause it is a sign that this little wonder is doing its job.

But recently the every-three-minute-fluttering seems to have stopped. Seems that vagal nerve stimulator's have batteries that eventually give out. We knew this from the start so we will need to go back to the doctor for an official test - hook her up the the VNS battery tester and find out for sure.  And we all know that dead batteries are not a big deal - you just pop open the flashlight or Game boy and change out the batteries.

Except in this case, the Gameboy is buried in her chest cavity.

So we got some figuring to do - all the while walking the seizure high wire with no electronic brain-tricking-thingy do its little flutter dance in her chest.

Which is frankly giving me a little flutter dance in my chest...

how did i miss this little piece of awesomeness?

Easter sunday

I got called up to "big church" on Easter Sunday. Normally spend many Sundays being silly in front of 250 kids.

But I got called up from the minors on Easter - the worship pastor just said "to write something to kick off the Easter Service."

So I did.

I was really intrigued by the difference between Easter 2009 and Easter 1.

So this is what I did...

Easter in the year 2009 is a time of celebration, rejoicing, of incomparable hope.

It is interesting to me that our Easter today is so different from the first Easter Sunday. Scripture tells us that the first Easter Sunday began not with cries of celebration but more likely cries of desperation. See the first Easter started with a handful of women gathering at dawn to take short walk to the tomb where not much more than 36 hours before they had seen Jesus, their King Jesus, laid to rest.

So on this dark, chilly morning the women gathered up the baskets of spices and perfumes they had prepared on Friday evening and quietly headed out to do the task they dreaded, anointing the dead body of the one they had thought would save them.

I imagine that the conversation they had was so much different than the conversations or greetings we had this morning. Instead of the general buzz and exicitement we had about life and hope and joy, they probably walked along quietly, their feet scuffing the hard dirt of the path to the rocky hillside where the tomb of Jesus was.

No “what a great day this is.”

No “what a beautiful dress she has on.”

No…it was probably just some muffled tears and whimpers of “what happened” and “what’s next.”

The women trudged through the pre-dawn darkness, arriving  with the rising sun at the tomb of the fallen king, their bags filled with spices, their hearts filled with despair.

We all know the story. Just when the women think it could get no worse, it does. The stone at the opening  to the tomb was pushed aside and when they peeked inside…no Jesus. No body to anoint. No friend to lay to rest.

Nothing.

Nothing.

There was nothing except a handful of clothes.

And an angel.

Telling them “He is not here. He is risen.”

I can almost see them standing there, incredulous, amazed, thinking “what…are you sure…we were here on Friday and…could it really be….don’t you remember, He told us, it would happen this way…but…”

And the angel told them to “Go…tell the others.”

Then take a final glance at the empty grave clothes and run down the hillside to tell the others what they had seen.

“He is risen.”

“He is alive.”

And this is where the story of the first Easter becomes like Easter today. Because in the blink of any eye despair turns to dancing, grief becomes hope, death is conquered by life, and joy…oh joy...joy surprises everyone…and because of the empty tomb…and because of the love of God…and because of the jpy of Easter morning, we can say forever and ever and ever…

“He is risen.”

“He is alive.”

“He is risen.”

“He is alive.”

(intro into song…)

 

 

well....

Two and a half weeks...

• Spring Break to California with 80% of the AtwoodZoo
• Easter
• Final Four (yawn...)
• Start of baseball season (yeah)
• Lots of new ideas and things.

Glad to be back to to the AtwoodZoo.

“No, exactly what time?”

“No, exactly what time?”

 

Ring. Ring. Ring.

 

Mommy                       (with breathless exhaustion) Hello…oh hi.?

 

Daddy                         So how are you? And how is little snookums?

 

Mommy                       (implied sigh) We’re fine. The same. Tired.

 

Daddy                         (trying to bring some sunshine to the darkness) Well I am glad that                                     you are able to…uhm…listen Mr. Rutledge just called, and guess                                               what…

 

Mommy                       what?

 

Daddy                         Well, you know how I said that he liked my report on the                                    performance of the overseas market, and that…

 

Mommy                       (muffled) Hang on a minute…(to the baby) Oh did you spit up                                     again… (bigger sigh, but to no one in particular) I just got a                                    shower and now you threw up on my neck and it’s…

 

Daddy                         is everything OK?

 

Mommy                       Yes…Snookums just spit up on my neck, and I just got a shower                                     cause she finally laid down…

 

Daddy                         (confused) You just got out of the shower? It’s like 3:30 in the                                     afternoon. Why were…

 

Mommy                       (cutting him off) because Snookums finally settled down and then I                                   got a load of laundry started and then before I could even dry my                                     hair she was up screaming, so I had to go get here, and then the                                      phone rang and so I was carrying her talking to you and then she                                     barfed on my neck. And so now I have barf all down my back so I                                                 need to get back in the shower, but Snookums is hungry so I can’t                                      so I guess I am getting ready to sit down and nurse her with my                                  back covered in baby yack and my hair still wet which really                                 doesn’t matter since I have to get back in the shower at some point                                  and Holly and Jeff want to come over and see the baby and the                                                   house is a wreck and we don’t have anything to drink and I smell                                  like baby vomit and everythinbg I won smells like baby vomit                                  except for the clothes that smell like baby poop and I just can’t                                  seem to get her on any kind of schedule and all the books and my                                  mom and your mom and my granny all they ever talk about is how                                              important it is to get Snookums on a schedule and the only                                                           schedule she wants to be on is to be up every minute  of the night                                 and every minute of the day and I thought that babies slept a lot.                                 So what did you want?

 

Daddy                      (haltingly) uhm, I was asking…I forget.

 

Mommy                   Did you call your mother?

 

Daddy                     (haltingly, again) Uhm…call my mother?

 

Mommy                  Yes. You said you were going to call your mother to come keep                                Snookums for a couple of hours one night next weekend so we                                could go out to dinner. Do you remember talking about that?

 

Daddy                     Yes, I remember. I just forgot to call. I’ll do it …

 

Mommy                  Do you not want to go out to dinner with me? Do you think I am                               gross because I smell like baby vomit and baby poop and baby                               everything else every minute of the baby day? Is that it? You know                               you are…

 

Daddy                    No it’s not that. It’s just that remember I said Mr. Rutledge called                               and he wants me to go to a meeting with him next week and talk                               about my report.

 

Mommy                 Oh, that sounds good.

 

Daddy                      Yeah, and the meeting is (said very quickly, like a machine gun)                                

Las Vegas

and I need to fly out first thing in the morning and I’ll                                 be back on Thursday afternoon and we…hello…hello…are you                                 there…hello….

The Impossible Buffet

Mabel and I had a hot date Saturday night - dinner and a show. 

She chose Chinese for dinner - a buffet to be exact.

And she made the most interesting choices - did nearly the impossible I think - by getting a plateful of food at a Chinese place and had nary a "Chinese" type of food.

Well rice...maybe...

That's why I love Mabel - she is never afraid of trying to do the impossible...

Dear President Obama

A letter I sent to President Obama.

Dear President Obama,

I saw the clip of your recent performance on The Tonight Show. (and just as a sidebar, the country is in a pretty difficult place right now, I am not really sure that the time you spent on the photo op with ESPN for your NCAA tournament picks or your jaunt across the country were the best use of your time...but I digress.)

I was amazed and dismayed at what your handlers said was an "off-handed" comment about Special Olympics. 

Like you I am the father of daughters. We have three, ages 10,11, and 12. Your are about the same age, I think. So we have many things in common. 

What we do not have in common (other than the fact that you are most powerful man in the world and I have a small business in Tennessee) is that one of my daughter's is disabled and participates in many events and activities like Special Olympics.  And I am fairly confident that If one of your beautiful daughters had ever been a participant in the Special Olympics I daresay that you would have never made the comment you made. 

Because stereotyping of any type (racial, gender, heritage, etc...) is repulsive and most often comes from a lack of understanding.

So, dad-to-dad, let me offer you this invitation. Grab your daughters and wife, hop on the plane, and run down to Brentwood some Saturday morning this spring and join us for the Challenger Baseball League. 

Look forward to having you with us.

Soft Spot

Some more thoughts from the book proposal...

So I thought maybe we could just drag out this hospital thing awhile. Like maybe eighteen years. Think about it…they have food, they have TV, they have people that are nice who help with things, and most importantly the place is fat with people who really actually know stuff about babies.

Stuff  like “which end is up,” and what kinds of screams are ok and which kind of screams are not ok and most importantly of all they know why you must always and forever PROTECT THE SOFT SPOT ON THE TOP OF THE BABY’S HEAD LIKE IT IS FOUNT OF ALL THAT IS TRUE AND PURE AND HOLY. I didn’t even know that there was a soft spot, so you can see how important these people were to me.

But much to my chagrin, the hospital people were not to keen on my extended-stay plan. They had a plan too. Which, simply stated, was “you are going home tomorrow.”

             So much for my thought about the hospital being a place full of people that are really nice who help with things.

With almost Twilight Zone timing, just as I had finished the last trip to the car, the previously helpful nurse appeared at the door and said, (like we were checking out at Wal-Mart)  “Here you are, one beautiful daughter.  Keep her wrapped tightly so she’ll think she is still in the mother’s womb. Be sure you don’t drop her and be especially careful not to touch the little soft spot on top of her head.”

 Again with the soft spot? I mean really, we live in

America

. Surely, we could find  someone with a background in manufacturing or engineering or logistics to address this national soft spot issue.

The nurse smiled, wished us luck, said, “She’s beautiful,” smiled again and nodded towards the door. “You can go now.”

Gulp.

 

And with a sense of “I hope my wife knows what to do with this sweet-smelling bundle of humanity cause I sure don’t” we were off.

 No wonder our society is in such trouble.  Leaving a hospital with a baby is easier than renting a video. No background check, no psychiatric eval, no deposit required. Just a happy smile, a gentle push out the door, and a thousand  warnings about the soft spot.

quick, think of something…anything…maybe if we keep asking questions she won’t make us leave and go out into that harsh, cruel world where they don’t bring you popsicles whenever you push a button….uhmm…

“Now what happens if we drop her pacifier on the ground?” I asked.

“You may want to wipe it off,” she said, mostly kindly.

“Wipe what off? The baby or the pacifier.”

“I’ll let you decide that.”

“Well then, how long?” I said.

“I’m sorry I’m not following you. How long what?” she replied, a bit less kindly this time.

“How long should I wipe it off?” I offered, insistently.

”Are we back to the baby or the pacifier question?”

“No, just the pacifier,” I said.  “How long should I wipe it off? Are there government regulations for things like this? You know put together by some sort of sub-committee or parental oversight watchdog group or something like that?”

"No, just long enough to get it clean.”

 “Oh, thanks. That helps.”

 Again, another smirky-faced nod towards the door. So with baby-daughter in hand, a fistful of papers, and a bag full of left over hospital stuff we were (sadly) out the door.

Important note to all the cheap Dads. I have learned that hospital policy is if "you open it, you keep it,” so you should “accidentally” take a bag of diapers to the car in one of your first 12 trips to load all the stuff.  Then, just before your final trip with the baby, you could innocently ask the nurse for a brand new jumbo ultra size bag.

“You know” you say to the nurse, “for the 15 minute ride home…just in case.”

 

So that was it. Nine months of waiting. Weeks of anticipation. Hours of labor, and then just seconds of instructions before we head off into the great unknown.

             And then the crying began. Not the baby’s, she was great. Not TheBeautiful Bride’s because she was composed.

             I was the one crying because I was not ready for any of this.

file this under "things I never thought I'd say...."

Seems this whole Show Offs Art thing the Beautiful Bride kicked off a little more than a year ago is the real deal.

She now has products in over 400 stores across the country.

And just this week, we began the move from our FOUR storage units to a warehouse. Or at least a corner of a warehouse. with a real place to pack and ship and pretend like we are a big company.

(see how cool...and this doesn't even show the real big "warehouse" part where they have a forklift and everything...)

So last week for the first time I said, "I'm going over to the warehouse."That is something I was pretty sure I would never sat.

But frankly, it felt pretty good to say it...(now if they'll just let me drive the forklift."

Parenting is an art, not a science.

Some kids in my neighborhood are building this tree house.  Scrap wood and duct tape. And probably a handful of nails.

When I was maybe 10 or 11, some friends and I built a tree house in "The Big Old Hickory Tree." As best as I can remember the tree was a thousand feet tall and we built our tree house about 900 feet up in the air. 

We scavenged through contrusction sites and garages to find the wood. We hammered steps into the trunk, carefully using at least two nails for each step. Somehow we got the larger pieces of wood up the 900 (or maybe 9) feet to the "perfect place."

After a handful of long summer mornings, (because the afternoons were reserved for swimming) we finished the up-to-fifth-or-sixth-grade-codes and scrambled up to the top. 

As best as I can remember, there was never a parental visit to the job site. Just me and Mark Conley and David Bell and Michael Pfeiffer and some scrap wood and bent nails and a big tree.

What were our parents thinking...

I guess they were letting us be kids. And probably watching from much closer than I realized.

It is hard sometimes to give the girls boundaries. To know when to let them stretch and when to hold them close. When to let them build a tree house in a too tall tree and when to suggest a shorter tree.

I guess parenting us really much more of an art than science. Cause the science part would say "there is no way you and a bunch of knucklehead friends are going to build a tree house made out of scrap wood half way up to the sky." And the art part says, "what would (or could) happen if they did?"