Taking Mommy to work; having Starbuck’s breakfast with Papa; getting tires checked, replaced, and repaired; taking the trash to the dumpster; singing along with Neil Young on the player…
There’s only so much Daddy Day a kid can take before a crash is imminent. π
We headed to Dan Daniel Memorial Park today to enjoy the southern (and mostly shaded) end of the Riverwalk Trail. What an awesome way to spend the good part of a day! It’s definitely the best thing Danville ever did!!
When I asked them about their favorite part of the day, both Lucas and Atticus said they liked throwing sticks and rocks into the river best. π Kevin said the best part was that he got to kiss me. π And I liked holding Kevin’s hand and taking lots of pictures (and not having to be in a single one). π
Some other things we liked and didn’t:
And it’s in the gallery above, but I just can’t resist posting this rainbow picture separately!!! π
Thanks for looking. π
(By Kevin)
When my friend and coworker of about eight years, Scott, was a teenager, his dad was a Baptist minister and missionary to the Seminole Indians in Hollywood, Florida.
The Seminoles respected him so much that they gave him a ring they had made for him, and a couple of years ago, Scott gave the ring to me.
Silver with turquoise and jadeite stones, the ring is engraved with a badger claw on either side.
At first, I thought they were bear claws, but when I pulled the ring out of my drawer back in January, I started doing a little more research and realized the paws are much longer than a bear’s. Definitely badger.
According to Native American tradition, badgers represent passion, courage, leadership, health and strength.
Scott didn’t know why the Seminoles chose to make this particular ring for his father. Since much like Catholics, Native Americans see meaning in everything they do, though, it seems likely that it was because his father represented the qualities they saw in the badger.
Looking into the ring’s significance also spurred me to ask my grandmother about my own Native American ancestry. She told me that Loudema Shelton, my grandfather’s grandmother, was a full-blooded Cherokee.
That same day, Lucas, Atticus and I spent the afternoon running through the woods around my grandmother’s house, the woods I grew up in.
I told them about the ring and the badger, and we gave each other Indian names. I knelt down and let the creek water flow over the badger ring. That creek is like a part of my soul.
That day was the last time I saw my grandmother before she went to the hospital, where I lost her forever. π
Later, I researched the possibility of living on the Cherokee reservation and found out that, since I’m 1/16 Cherokee, I would be eligible for it with further documentation.
There’s a part of me that would love to immerse my family in that culture because of its symbolism and spirituality, much like the Truth, the Catholic Church.
Today’s captions brought to you by the letters K-E-V-I-N. π
#1: His get-up-and-go done got up and went.
#2: What IS that behind my eyelids?
#3: Aha! You can’t see me!
#4: I’m not tired.
And one from Mr. Atticus himself:
#5: I see Puppy’s head.
First thing this morning, Lucas had a comic to share with me.
“Look, Mommy, I drew you when I was in your belly. You were thinking about if I would have a square head or a round head.”
Very interesting! And perplexing!
You know this doesn’t really happen this way, right? Yeah, he knows.
Attie wanted to know why the guy has arms where his ears should be. Those are thought bubbles, Lucas said, not arms.
The picture didn’t make it long before Atticus had stripped it clean. This is actually the second version of it, since the first was gone before I’d taken a picture.
Later, we told Kevin about it. “I see she picked square,” he quipped.
And then ensued a lengthy discussion on whether or not Lucas favors the dentist from “Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer,” Shermy, complete with Google search. (A little bit, though not in head shape. :P)
I <3 my boys!
We used to sing that old hymn, “The Old Rugged Cross,” in church.
The chorus goes like this:
“So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross, Till my trophies at last I lay down; I will cling to the old rugged cross, And exchange it some day for a crown.”
When I was taking the scenic route home from school today, checking out houses listed for sale on my Realtor.com app, I drove down a dead-end street. As I was backing around to three-point-turn myself out of there, I noticed the trash pile at the street in front of the last house on the left:
Trophies. Big, shiny trophies. All laid out for the trash truck.
I wondered about the person who decided those trophies had lost their value. Did he work hard for them? Did she love them when she won them? Has he now died and left them to someone else who didn’t see them as valuable as he did?
I thought about the trophies that I’ve won, the awards and books and ribbons. Many of them are stored in a big plastic box that’s nothing more than a huge pain to move when we finally do (and we will). Why do I hang onto those things? Are my memories not enough?
When I read this to Kevin, he said it ties in with the words of his patron saint, Juan de la Cruz, that have been ringing in his ears all day:
“In order to arrive at possessing everything / Desire to possess nothing.”
The trophies, along with the status and prestige we “earn” through the years, hold only the value that we place on them, nothing in themselves.
And when we place value on these things and qualities, we distort the very reason we exist: to praise God every second of every day.
We’d walked blocks and blocks and blocks and blocks and blocks.
We could’ve taken the subway, but *somebody* didn’t like the subway. And, really, it’s always much more interesting to stumble across places we never would’ve made our destination or even our stops along the way than to sit in the swelteringly smelly subway.
But when we finally arrived at the Chelsea Theater, the showing of The Dark Knight we’d planned on was sold out. Sigh.
So we bought tickets for the late-late show and walked down to Jake’s Saloon for drinks and hors d’oeuvres to pass the hours. We talked and I drew on all the napkins, if our collective memory serves.
A little while later, we went back to the theater to find our seats. Somewhere on the way up the three flights between the theater lobby and our seats, Kevin met up with the Hulk. As you can see, they were kindred spirits at the time. (A lot has changed since the summer of 2008, but that green tattoo on the inside of Kevin’s upper right arm won’t be washing off any time soon. π
After the epic movie (epic because it was reeaaalllly long, not epic because it was that awesome of a movie … because it wasn’t really, although at least one actor — who’s no longer with us — gave an amazing performance), we walked down to the other corner to catch the train.
It was well after midnight and the Chelsea streets were pretty much deserted. Imagine my surprise when the newspapers and bags piled up around the corner there moved! No matter how many times we visit New York, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the homeless people sleeping on the sidewalks and park benches.
Thank God my Hulk was there to get me safely back to Midtown. π
This is our family as envisioned by a five-year-old Lucas, who is now six. He drew the picture and asked me to write the names he wanted on it.
I’ve spent a lot of time appreciating it over the last year or however long it’s been hanging on the fridge.
The main thing I love about this particular piece of art is that our family is all together. Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen very much anymore.
And we all look happy.
We’re not holding hands, but our arms are outstretched toward each other. (One of mine actually is right in front of Atticus’ face.) We’re enjoying each other’s company.
I also notice:
At the beginning of last summer, I went through the artwork box I’ve kept for Ryan all these years, hoping to weed out some things that aren’t so keep-worthy. But it’s so hard for me.
Seeing those little hand-print turkeys and cotton-ball Santas takes me back to a time when my firstborn was my baby. I look at him now and wonder where he went. As much as I love Ryan today, I miss that little kid.
And I know that someday I’ll look back on this picture by Lucas and all the other artwork that he and four-year-old Atticus make with a smile and a catch in my throat.
