Per my 6/1 post, these are some re-posts in honor of Father's Day...
Fred, King of Storytellers - February 2009
Let me just tell you about Fred Stephens, and how he rocks the family story-telling. Probably seems like an ill-deserved, or at least not-particularly-desirable and easily-gained trait to many. Here's where the man I married defies the rules:
1. You would think that the ideal story-reading/listening layout includes facing the same direction. Sophie and I, propped on one end of the couch, just enjoyed a fantastic tale with Fred, facing opposite. Who cares? Me. Because I can watch his face while he reads that story to our child. I can think of few things more endearing.
2. Have you done the voices for a children's book lately? Yes, but have you really done the voices? This man can do monsters with the best of them, toddlers with the worst of them, siblings, parents, grandparents, chefs, shopkeepers and farmers. They're all unique, and I love them all nearly as much as Sophie does. Cue the belly laugh.
3. It's all about timing, particularly when it comes to sharing the pictures in a book. You have no idea, unless you know what I mean. This man I married reads the book (see #3), pauses with the utmost eloquence, slowly rotates the book and waits. He waits 15 to 20 seconds. Seems brief? Try it. He waits for the five year old (and her mother) to glance rapidly at both pages. He waits while we scan the right hand page (out of order), taking in the details. He waits while our eyes move to the left hand page, and watches our faces as things fall into place chronologically with the story. When he is certain we've taken it all in, he rotates the book again, turns the page, and continues. You don't have the foggiest idea what this means and what it signifies, unless you do.
Marriage is a funny thing - it's like A Tale of Two Cities: the best of times, the worst of times. Mostly the best of times. You go about your business, at times living like roommates. But then there are the evenings when you prepare a meal together, discipline a child with the same virtues in mind, or your connection boils down to eye contact over the top of a book read aloud to your child as you all sprawl limbs over limbs and tangled blankets on a far-too-small couch. These are the best of times.
Showing posts with label Sophie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sophie. Show all posts
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
The Aspirational Husband
In honor of the approach of Father's Day, I'm reposting some past musings on my husband as well as my Dad and Grandpa, written between 2000 & 2009:
The Aspirational Husband - September 2009
It's a well-documented fact that I married beyond myself. In fact, I'm reminded of it enthusiasticly whenever spending time around my family - you know, the ones who raised me and would prefer I had turned out a bit more like the man I married. But hey - at least I have compensated by having someone of his caliber around, with the obvious confession that I will never BE that person.
Forgive me the indulgence ("although, it IS my blog," she said, saucily), but my husband is a rock star. As a case in point, he renovates century-old houses with the best of 'em. Having hung around this man since he was 20, I'm a bit unclear on when he slipped away to acquire these skills, although most certainly unperturbed about it. I should point out that his living in the aforementioned century-old house is another asset - his indulgence of me. Pretty sure he would not have chosen that particular path of his own accord.
Speaking of indulgences, Fred Stephens knows which battles to fight. In our stunningly remodeled chocolate-brown dining room with the lovely hardwood floors and old built-in cabinet, we sat around at dinner the other night and he remained mildly composed about the fact that the room is unbearable in August. Well, unbearable to him. I don't quite notice the apparent stifling heat. Sophie, gamely, chimed in with her recommendation that he replace the current light fixture with a fan. Fred explained that he would not do that in order to avoid war, and would perhaps just add a door to block the heat from the kitchen. Confused, she took the bait and inquired as to how a light fixture switch could incite battle. Fred calmly explained to her that Mommy adored and would never agree to part with the old-fashioned light fixture in the dining room, and as such, he would simply go the door route.
In a rare moment of silence and not contributing to the conversation, I smiled to myself.
I'm definitely maddening and Fred Stephens is surely the sainted one in our household, but he gives me a victory or two once in a while. While I have married above my means, I definitely think this man deserves a contract extension. I've officially moved him from an annual renegotiation to a five year reassessment - he's a keeper.
The Aspirational Husband - September 2009
It's a well-documented fact that I married beyond myself. In fact, I'm reminded of it enthusiasticly whenever spending time around my family - you know, the ones who raised me and would prefer I had turned out a bit more like the man I married. But hey - at least I have compensated by having someone of his caliber around, with the obvious confession that I will never BE that person.
Forgive me the indulgence ("although, it IS my blog," she said, saucily), but my husband is a rock star. As a case in point, he renovates century-old houses with the best of 'em. Having hung around this man since he was 20, I'm a bit unclear on when he slipped away to acquire these skills, although most certainly unperturbed about it. I should point out that his living in the aforementioned century-old house is another asset - his indulgence of me. Pretty sure he would not have chosen that particular path of his own accord.
Speaking of indulgences, Fred Stephens knows which battles to fight. In our stunningly remodeled chocolate-brown dining room with the lovely hardwood floors and old built-in cabinet, we sat around at dinner the other night and he remained mildly composed about the fact that the room is unbearable in August. Well, unbearable to him. I don't quite notice the apparent stifling heat. Sophie, gamely, chimed in with her recommendation that he replace the current light fixture with a fan. Fred explained that he would not do that in order to avoid war, and would perhaps just add a door to block the heat from the kitchen. Confused, she took the bait and inquired as to how a light fixture switch could incite battle. Fred calmly explained to her that Mommy adored and would never agree to part with the old-fashioned light fixture in the dining room, and as such, he would simply go the door route.
In a rare moment of silence and not contributing to the conversation, I smiled to myself.
I'm definitely maddening and Fred Stephens is surely the sainted one in our household, but he gives me a victory or two once in a while. While I have married above my means, I definitely think this man deserves a contract extension. I've officially moved him from an annual renegotiation to a five year reassessment - he's a keeper.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Please Disregard the Dirt Under my Nails
I've started to look toward corraling my various musings and essays into one place (i.e. this blog), and ran across this one from 2009 that I thought might be worth sharing...
Disregard the Dirt Under my Nails
Adventures of a novice gardener
Gardening is not a spectator sport - you can't help but to be swept up in it. Being around it can breed an interest, and an experimental plant or two can take you tumbling headfirst into a lifetime passion. My mother gardened, and I eventually succumbed to the point that my annual birthday gift to myself is a full day off work at my "payin' job" to play in the yard.
Mom is a real natural... plants tend to simply bend to her will, which is admittedly quite focused in the garden. And why wouldn't they... she certainly intimidated me into fairly good behavior most of the time. Roses in particular seem to want to perform at their very best for her, which is a feeling to which I can also relate. Now my four year old daughter Sophie trots around the yard with me, tinkering here and there, murmuring words of support to "her" plants and petting the lambs' ear like an obedient pet each time she encounters it (I do the same thing each time I pass it, with almost the same level of enthusiasm). I'm glad to see that her affliction seems to have been rooted far earlier than my own. Gardening with a child is a great delight, and helps me feel that if I succeed at nothing else as a parent, I am at least positively affecting her view of the world.
Both my grandmothers tried their hands at plant tending, although the Depression and many hard-working years may have prevented a full immersion. I suspect it was with their generation that the idea of gardening as hobby rather than necessity became more prominent for Arkansans. My Grandmother Lay cajoled rambling roses in startling hues, allowed periwinkle, the offspring of which is now in my yard, to surround an ancient tree and grew all manner of things in giant cast iron pots that resembled witches' cauldrons. Grandfather Lay encouraged a muscadine grape vine outside their bedroom window in Mena, probably a volunteer, and I was elated this past growing season to find one growing outside my own bedroom, since I'd always secretly coveted his since discovering it in my teenage years. Another happy coincidence, incidentally, is that my daughter and I can now stroll to the southeast corner of our yard for the closest view of the train headed through downtown Rogers; all my growing up years Grandpa would stand, with or without us, at his own southeast corner watching the trains amble past.
Grandmother Mallett was a slightly more rash gardener, like myself, rarely paying much mind to the minutia of planting guidelines and happily puttering around her yard in Texarkana, where an ancient tree was also a mainstay. I'm happy that a giant canopy tree now dominates my landscape as well... it's the little nods to our past that keep memories from escaping. Grandmother introduced me to chives and wild mint, and I loved to pick and nibble them, thinking to myself that I was like a native living from the land with only a few modern amenities such as peanut butter sandwiches. She had a makeshift greenhouse that amazed me, and birds and squirrels enjoyed the many sanctuaries she created throughout her yard. Our favorite gardening story about Grandmother Mallett is her year of planting all the bulbs upside down (they voraciously worked around the error), and her good humor as she laughed at her own mistake. Her irises now grace my yard - legacy plants need not be ancient or unique to conjure special connections to people and places in our lives.
I'm proud that I'm raising another gardener... my methods may lack expertise and sophistication, but I enjoy every moment my hands are plunged into the dirt. I don't know if my yard will ever all be "done," but I certainly hope not. I wouldn't have my gardening any way but by trial and failure. I know I'm succeeding when Sophie makes such comments as this one at the grocery store during the doldrums of December, when I'm dreaming of the things I'll plant come first hint of spring: "Mommy, let's buy these little red tomatoes to eat since ours still aren’t growing." Amen, little one.
Disregard the Dirt Under my Nails
Adventures of a novice gardener
Gardening is not a spectator sport - you can't help but to be swept up in it. Being around it can breed an interest, and an experimental plant or two can take you tumbling headfirst into a lifetime passion. My mother gardened, and I eventually succumbed to the point that my annual birthday gift to myself is a full day off work at my "payin' job" to play in the yard.
Mom is a real natural... plants tend to simply bend to her will, which is admittedly quite focused in the garden. And why wouldn't they... she certainly intimidated me into fairly good behavior most of the time. Roses in particular seem to want to perform at their very best for her, which is a feeling to which I can also relate. Now my four year old daughter Sophie trots around the yard with me, tinkering here and there, murmuring words of support to "her" plants and petting the lambs' ear like an obedient pet each time she encounters it (I do the same thing each time I pass it, with almost the same level of enthusiasm). I'm glad to see that her affliction seems to have been rooted far earlier than my own. Gardening with a child is a great delight, and helps me feel that if I succeed at nothing else as a parent, I am at least positively affecting her view of the world.
Both my grandmothers tried their hands at plant tending, although the Depression and many hard-working years may have prevented a full immersion. I suspect it was with their generation that the idea of gardening as hobby rather than necessity became more prominent for Arkansans. My Grandmother Lay cajoled rambling roses in startling hues, allowed periwinkle, the offspring of which is now in my yard, to surround an ancient tree and grew all manner of things in giant cast iron pots that resembled witches' cauldrons. Grandfather Lay encouraged a muscadine grape vine outside their bedroom window in Mena, probably a volunteer, and I was elated this past growing season to find one growing outside my own bedroom, since I'd always secretly coveted his since discovering it in my teenage years. Another happy coincidence, incidentally, is that my daughter and I can now stroll to the southeast corner of our yard for the closest view of the train headed through downtown Rogers; all my growing up years Grandpa would stand, with or without us, at his own southeast corner watching the trains amble past.
Grandmother Mallett was a slightly more rash gardener, like myself, rarely paying much mind to the minutia of planting guidelines and happily puttering around her yard in Texarkana, where an ancient tree was also a mainstay. I'm happy that a giant canopy tree now dominates my landscape as well... it's the little nods to our past that keep memories from escaping. Grandmother introduced me to chives and wild mint, and I loved to pick and nibble them, thinking to myself that I was like a native living from the land with only a few modern amenities such as peanut butter sandwiches. She had a makeshift greenhouse that amazed me, and birds and squirrels enjoyed the many sanctuaries she created throughout her yard. Our favorite gardening story about Grandmother Mallett is her year of planting all the bulbs upside down (they voraciously worked around the error), and her good humor as she laughed at her own mistake. Her irises now grace my yard - legacy plants need not be ancient or unique to conjure special connections to people and places in our lives.
I'm proud that I'm raising another gardener... my methods may lack expertise and sophistication, but I enjoy every moment my hands are plunged into the dirt. I don't know if my yard will ever all be "done," but I certainly hope not. I wouldn't have my gardening any way but by trial and failure. I know I'm succeeding when Sophie makes such comments as this one at the grocery store during the doldrums of December, when I'm dreaming of the things I'll plant come first hint of spring: "Mommy, let's buy these little red tomatoes to eat since ours still aren’t growing." Amen, little one.
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