Filed under: stories
this is mark. not bethany. she doesn’t know i’m typing this, even so, i’ll keep it nice and clean so she won’t get frustrated or moan about how i always force her into awkward conversations — conversations where she has to explain why we actually aren’t as bizarre as the Munsters or the Seavers (like you didn’t know there was twisted stuff going on around that house — Mike’s best friend was named Boner for gosh sakes.) evidently, not everyone in the world makes their children strip down naked in the backyard to be hosed off when they “soil themselves.” see how polite i was just then? i’m practically British aristocracy. polite. moving on.
we don’t have good television. the actual device we stare at measures only 19″ and came free of charge. a rich guy we never met gave it to us because bethany agreed to marry me. nobody sent anything when i agreed to enter into a contractually binding mortgage at a 6% APR . not even a radio. regardless, the television isn’t a digital set, so we use the old rabbit ears; this year we went “digital” because the government mandated a broadcasting change. they can’t seem to figure out how banks work, but …broadcasting, sure. we march boldly into the future steely eyed with unwavering resolve. i purchased a digital converter and kept the rabbit ears.
this set up means we receive three stations; no more, no less. they are all PBS. we receive the Houston PBS and the Bryan/College Station PBS and the erotic stimulant of nerds the world over: the research channel. i don’t mind. my children are fed only education based programming. spelling has improved. vocabulary has improved. number theory is still elusive — to all of us, actually. my children hit each other less and Clifford the big red dog is slowly reconditioning their wayward souls. i think Burke may ask Barney into his heart really soon. keep praying, everyone. they routinely watch Roy Rogers and Nature and This Old House. i am pleased and i don’t have to pay for cable. that’s a double-rainbow blessing that is.
also, my kids don’t watch the buzzing, flashing neato world the Dark Overlord Disney pumps out from beyond the grave and for that i am happy. once Nickelodeon stopped airing the Monkeys sometime around 5th grade, i tapped out and revoked all commitments (public and otherwise) previously made to the winsome boys from Pleasant Valley. PBS has done right by us, or so i thought until last month. that’s when the following scenario unfolded before my blinking-in-utter-confusion-eyes.
i passed by the living room and noticed they were watching The Lawrence Welk Show. Liam and Burke sat cross-legged their chins tilted slightly upward enraptured by the strange people with large hair, painted faces and god forsaken costumes dancing…not dancing like normal people…but dancing like, well Romanians, actually. they twirled and hopped and…it was rough, like pastels and accordions and glossy, shining, painted lips — an Orbit commercial without the self-aware wink. i slowly crept up between the boys, but they didn’t notice because these two young men with their yet undeveloped brains absorbed crappy programing like it was the word of the Lord carved by the finger of god into granite tablets. that’s when the show panned left over to four women bobbing their massive hair side to side with the 4/4 rhythm in plaid skirts. sickening scenario. i couldn’t stand it any longer and just as i was moving to reach for the green power button, Liam spoke first:
“which one do you like?” he asked his brother.
“that one there…her.” Burke answered quickly as he pointed to a sassy-looking brunette with cleavage.
PBS rot in hell.
This past summer, while in Florida, the whole group ventured out to dinner at a restaurant that we had been told was “kid-friendly.” Aside from actually having highchairs, this place was nothing of the sort for kids, and certainly not amenable to satisfy your toddler cravings for movement and new experiences. Needless to say, Blythe, the two of us ended up outside while waiting for the food to arrive, peaceably swinging together on the porch. For a while, you remained surprisingly silent, sitting on your end of the swing, soaking up the last bit of day. I indulged your need for silence, cherishing this rare occurrence. Suddenly, you turned toward me, knees tucked just below your chin, and started talking. I laugh even now remembering your instinctive girly-ness, and how in that moment, although estranged from the normal adult dinner conversation (and barely able to understand yours), I couldn’t have imagined being anywhere else than with you and your girlish chatter and intermittent giggles.
Blythe, you crave adventure and play. From the moment you wake up, you never stop moving (only barely to eat). You don’t simply want to hear a story, you want to be apart of it: engage it; live in it. Life with you is an adventure. I love this about you. So much of who you are and how you are is difficult to capture in words, but it’s appropriate that you’ve recently taken to calling yourself, “spicy.” And that you are, Sweetheart. Even at this young age, you are fearless to express or fight for yourself (or your wants). However, for all of your tenacity of will and force of independence, you love deeply and reveal the kindness and tenderness of your spirit in the most unexpected ways — like when you repeat “e’cuse me, ma-ma” until you have my undivided attention, or how quickly you say “sorry, I-am” or “sorry Boo-ky,” or even your affinity for your “TWO bankies.”
I adore your your light-hearted, frivolous nature, Blythe. I love that you always have a song in your heart — everything from “E-F-G” (what you call the ABCs) to the Star Wars theme to the “cow song” (aka Old McDonald) to Jesus Loves Me — and that you always request me or Daddy to sing over you. At times we’ll catch you dancing through the house, waving your arms and shaking your hips to the music in your head. Although it’s entertaining, and even funny to see, we delight in the freedom and life of your little spirit. You bring so much vitality to our family, dear one. I love you and bless the Lord for you, Daughter, and today I celebrate you: happy birthday.
Below I included some pictures of your birthday breakfast and pan-”cake.” I especially love the picture of you talking on your new toy cell phone, while simultaneously building blocks: a multi-tasking toddler. Nina and Papa gave you the tutu and ballet slippers, which you kindly refused to take off for the rest of the day, and Kristen and Tito gave you a rocking toy that you wanted to ride even in exhaustion.
