Let the Games Begin

My primary job for today was – as usual – hoping my son survived whatever crazy notions struck his brain as “good ideas”. Naturally, I exaggerate. Most mothers do, I imagine. [By the way, am I the only person who conjures up matronly-hair-netted-rocking-chair-1830’s images at the term “mother”? Either that, or 1950’s-pearl-necklace-vacuum-cleaner-pot-roast.] But all the same, I’m never really eighty percent certain what he’s going to dream out next. So… it’s a little bit like Mischief Roulette. It’s not so much a question of “if” the mischief will come. It’s a matter of “what”. Or if not “what”, “how loud”. Carrie recommends I look into purchasing a personal handheld decibel reader for Puck to register his daily level of star-shattering sound. I’m beginning to think the kid was born with four lungs.

So my mind had been cooking overtime past 1:45AM, which sent my brainwaves into bank robberies in process and tiny half-deserted, highly-structured and labeled towns in semi-wooded regions of the Heartland.

Five hours of shut-eye later and a half-listen to Radiolab’s investigation of the origination of the high five and cowboy hats, Puck and I were deposited at Mom’s and Dad’s where Linnea had spent her night losing the “soggy burger” her body had refuted in a good old healthy round of Six Flags food poisoning. Fortunately, Carrie administered an antihistamine, and the disaster ceased. And Rose – still beating the heat – who had been hunting through twenty versions of “Baia” on Spotify according to Carrie, backed down the drive as we rolled in, looking more Californian than usual with the big round shades, blue and white stripes, and her tiny mint-green car.

So forgetting the recent past, Carrie waffle-ironed cinnamon rolls, sliced up apples and mango, and scrambled eggs, handing a dead pear to Puck to toss to the bees and squirrels. Then Mom cleaned out the Belgian waffle maker with Q-tips, while Francis phoned me to toss down a roll of TP to the basement bathroom.

This is typical.

Mom asked me to run errands with her this morning while Puck was involved in “auntie” activities. Fabric store and Costco. After all, I’m the first person you want around when it comes to discussing the intricacies of burlap, nylon, and pepper spray. Yes, that element did emerge in the conversation. But sometimes… a little break from the hours of decibel crashing… is sort of tempting. I love you, buddy.

When we returned, Carrie and Puck had made that goopy cornstarch stuff that drips like liquid but stays solid when you punch it. Like lethargic milk. It was all over everything, including, eventually, Pumpkin’s back. Puck was happy.

I caught up on a few trifles – IM-ing with Joe about his resume, discussing Linnea’s Chinese language program. “Want to sign up for snack duty again at church?” Mom asked, pulling out some papers. “Is that really necessary?…” I hinted. “The session wants it.” “Well, the session can go sit on a tack.” I don’t mean it literally, folks… Spending ten dollars every four weeks on Dierberg’s cookies – Do I bake my own cookies? Are you kidding me? – is no razor on the throat of my grocery budget. But why 194 people need to choke down fifty dollars worth of baked goods in eighteen minutes every Sunday morning… beats me…

I signed up for snack duty.

I met the Bear up at seminary to drive over for two-inch thick refinance paper signing. People seem to hate this job in general; I don’t know; I kind of like signing my name on things. Makes me feel like I’m coming into my multi-billion dollar inheritance, acquiescence to stepping in as reigning monarch of Finland… I don’t know. Something interesting like that.

And.

It is, after all, the inauguration of another three weeks of fantastic-ness, of course. So this time, Grandma Snicketts invited the tribe over to her jumbo television for an evening of British ceremonials. Carrie prepared red, white, and blue dipped strawberries and hand-rolled taquitos to add to the pomp and circumstance of her majesty’s parachuted arrival. So I joined the crew after sending off my boys to a River City Rascals Sun Drop Mug night.

Grandma already had the screen up and pumped, while I smashed into a corner with my three sisters to begin the always-odd-and-occasionally-disturbing introduction to the great games. Dad was busy scooching himself around on the floor sitting on Grandma’s walker. “Oh, he’s always messing around with that,” Grandma shook her head. Sometimes ten year-old Dad pops in here and there. This all somehow went back to Uncle Balthasar streaking through a bowling alley in the 70’s with a paper bag over his head. “Rub my neck, Linnea,” Carrie commanded two hours in, after noting, “I was up with you all night.” Linnea frowned, as Rose laughed. “Well, you didn’t have a cat eat your seventy dollar headphones,” Linnea protested on another count. Something about things and folded radar signals… I’m not always capable of accurately following flows of discussion during internationally televised sporting events. Until the parade of nations. Carrie and Rose slinked down to the floor for a closer view… “Well hello, Mr. Afghanistan!”

Thought of the Day

I’ve heard people complain about St. Louis before, sure.

People like to complain.

“You don’t have a beach, dude. How can you live there?” “You don’t have any mountains; if I were you, I would die.” “Man, it’s so quiet. There’s no nightlife. I would just kill myself.” “How do you survive in that humidity?” Etc., etc., etc. But see, these kinds of statements originate from lack of understanding and knowledge of the true essence of St. Louis. Sure, I agree with the “general” concepts of these complains – that certain things don’t “exist” here. But then again, we aren’t distracted with an array of glitzy diversions. I find the city to be more concentrated, more focused on similar goals and ideas. So there’s a better sense of camaraderie as a result, whether it’s in sports, preservation, charity, or the arts, etc. And yet, despite this concentrated collection of beauty, St. Louis is a city of etceteras. There is always something more. One more person who knows the person you know. One more person who went to your high school. One more nook down that one street you’d never seen before. We are a labyrinth of fascinating discoveries and you-never-would-have-known(s). But I don’t have time to type it up right now. Give me eleven years and seventeen reams of quality printer paper, and I’ll get back to you. But it won’t stop me in the meantime from publicly expanding on the glories of the West Gate.