"Time To Sit Back And Unwind..."

It took 21 years, but I finally downloaded DJ Jazzy Jeff and Will Smith's 'Summertime' off Amazon to set the tone for the coming months. 


There have always been difficult decisions to make during the summer: Which trail would be the best to run? What day of the week looks best to kayak? How often should sunscreen be applied? And more. 


My favorite summer to-do: sitting on the balcony watching the sky change.

Just give me a call before you stop by. 

This summer, things look different. It's not a decision of which trail to run, but if I'll have time to run at all. Believe it or not, I can't find a life jacket for a 6 month old; let alone anyone to give me permission to take him out on the lake. And my sunscreen is an afterthought compared to making sure the baby has enough on all the time.


I spent a few months  - and still do sometimes - sulking about how I can't run, workout, swim, bike, and watch my TV shows the same anymore. In between my tantrums, I sought out some advice that could help me cope. A few good friends shared their thoughts. 


Sacrifice is what we do out of love. Sacrifice is not saying farewell to the things I enjoy because I was forced to; it's giving up what I used to do and exchanging them for the new experiences because love makes it worth it. And it absolutely does make it worth it. 

We're off to a good start.

Pushed In

What is your choice method of getting into water? Pool. Ocean. Lake. River. Doesn't matter. When you stand at the cusp of a body of water, how do you prefer to get in? I think there are three methods. 


1. Inch-by-Inch. There are those who prefer to take things slow. This is the person at the beach who puts their feet in the sand where the waves crawl up. They spend the next 10 minutes surveying the scene like a lifeguard. After a while they'll go ankle deep. Then they go waist deep but still keep their arms hoovering above the water. They do that perfectly timed half-jump over the wave so not to get the water higher than their arm pit line. Takes about 45 minutes, but the inch-by-inchers soon find themselves submerged.


2. All At Once. These people are funny to watch. Before jumping in, they take off their sunglasses and watches so fast you'd think they're on fire. Almost like it's a race to jump in. Hot water. Cold water. It makes no difference. These people will negotiate the shock of the water temperature when they're in it. 


3. Pushed In. These people don't have much of a choice of how they're going to get in the water. They stand at the edge reaching in to grab the pool thermometer, or a stray noodle; then find themselves (and cell phones) trying to negotiate which way is up from the bottom of a pool. When someone is pushed in, they have to figure out how to handle the situation whether they like it or not.


Wife went back to work because her 12 weeks of maternity is up. She's got overnights and that means I've got the Kicker to myself for 36 hours a week. I spend all day at work and have to hustle home so she can catch some sleep before her shift starts. She leaves. Then she's back home in time so I can go to work. I confidently reassured her that everything would be fine while she was gone. But I sat up a while those first nights trying to negotiate in my head if I could handle a kid by myself for three nights a week.


We were pushed in the pool. We didn't really have a chance to step in a little at a time, or slowly get used to a new routine. And we certainly didn't jump willfully in to the new routine either. The dictating conditions pushed us in to the pool of our new routine. Now it's up to us to figure out which way is up and adjust accordingly. 


Thankfully, we manage. While adjusting was difficult at first, we've settled in to something that works. Me and the Kicker waste evenings away learning Free Falling on the guitar - he sings backup. Then we catch episodes of Lock Up on Netflix every morning. Wife wants to make up all the time she missed during her days off, and that gives her a chance to be with him. 


Despite the shock of being pushed in, we've surfaced. And the water's fine. Perfect time for a swim. 

Lessons (about the bird)

It is tradition - a rite of passage even - for fathers to teach their sons valuable lessons. Unknowingly, young boys soak in every bit of information their father's bestow upon them. 


My father taught me how to whittle a stick with a pocket knife (a valuable skill when I get the urge to topple a grizzly with a pointed tree branch). He showed me how to bait a hook, cast a line, set the hook, and reel in a fish. Dad told me how to handle the bullies at school with one swift hit (worked every time). Learned how to hit a baseball, shoot a basketball, and tackle a running back. 


One thing ol' Pop neglected to teach me was something I witnessed recently. 


I attended the Cleveland Browns game this past Sunday. They were playing a division rival and I heard there were a lot of seats still available. Wife and I nabbed seats for 5 bucks each. When others ask, "Where are your seats?" I always reply, "high." That's the only way to describe the general vicinity of our ticket purchases - high. "Up" is also another common term. 

Our view of the game is usually above the first cloud deck.  
(go ahead and count the little helmets on the field - there's 11 each). 

After the hike to the top of Browns Stadium, I realized the 5 dollar ticket price already paid for itself. We were in the only part of the stadium - the top 10 rows - that didn't get rained on. We had a large overhang above us. Sitting in the Stratosphere has it's advantages. I carried a 'Yeah I planned that' type attitude the rest of the night. 



This particular game featured a battle of defenses. The score was 0-0 for a while until our opponents realized scoring wasn't that hard after all. Running in the first touchdown of the game, the other team trotted off the field to a pouring of boos that the Cleveland faithful rained down as hard as the weather they sat in. Not surprisingly, there were a variety of obscene gestures directed at the opponents as well. 


Stewing in my own pot of anger, I glanced down three rows to see a gentleman flipping the bird. I wouldn't have thought much about it until it was obvious there was a young boy on his lap. I assumed it was his son. This assumption was confirmed as the dad leaned to his son and held the middle digit in front of his face as if to show the lad how the bird works. Still maintaining a good flipping-off posture, the dad continued to talk with his son. And talk. And talk. 


I don't know what he said, but I imagined some remarks went like this:


"Well son, this is our only answer to the constant drubbing of touchdowns."
"Only pansies wear purple and black."
"Sometimes words aren't enough, and we have to use hand signals."
"Use this gesture only in traffic and at Browns games."


For a quick second I thought to myself: it kind of looks like he's teaching his son his first lesson on the middle finger. Not a moment later the little boy raised his left hand with only one finger showing. And it wasn't to tell the other team they were in first place in the division. He was putting his thoughts into gesture. 


Couldn't decide if it was better to be proud of this passing of knowledge, or slightly disturbed. 


Either way, I was never taught how to show such distaste with one hasty flip of a finger. I plan on showing my son a lot of the lessons my dad taught me. Whittling, fishing, car care, shaving, batting, shooting, driving, money management, hanging up Christmas lights, and so on. Not so sure the bird is going to be a part of that..........depending on how the Browns continue to do.