Miracles

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Nothing shatters the illusion of control like being a parent. It starts the moment that baby comes screaming into the world (at least for dad; for mom, the feeling might start some nine months earlier). We knew we were in for an adventure when the delivery nurse—a woman who had witnessed thousands of births—responded to Squirts’ noisy arrival by saying, “Well, isn’t he dramatic!” Let the fun begin!

From there, the appearance of control has continued to crumble:

  • You never really appreciate the simple ability to decide when to sleep, eat or use the facilities until your carefree life turns on a dime to an hourly schedule of all those things.
  • Shopping for a birthday gift at Target takes on a whole new meaning when you turn back to the cart just in time to see your two-year-old projectile vomiting into the basket.
  • Driving to church becomes directed by a map marked with every easy-in/easy-out restroom to avoid another commando Sunday.
  • The five minute trek across the amusement park to the Shamu show takes 25 minutes because there’s so much for a four-year-old to see. Daddy, look at that rock! Mommy, I found a stick! Hey, that guy is old!

And those are just a few of the moments from the first four years. I’m in denial about what the future holds.

Last summer, DeDe and I met some people who have their own unique perspective on the illusion of control when we traveled with her church praise team to Northern Ireland. Read the rest of this entry »

Squirts has so many memories of his Papa (my wife’s dad) that the most random things will stir some recollection he is compelled to share with us. If we pass a certain restaurant, Squirts will point it out and say, “Oh, my Papa loves Chuck E. Cheese!”

Sometimes when we are eating a meal, Squirts will remember some of his Papa’s favorite foods. “Oh, my Papa loves mint chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce just like me.” Of course, he remembers some of his least favorite too. “Oh no, Papa doesn’t like peas either.”

Apparently Papa had some interesting careers as well. At different times, Squirts has told us that his Papa drove an eighteen-wheeler and that he was a pool lifeguard.

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Watching television with Squirts is never boring—not that the programs he chooses aren’t boring or repetitive or mind-numbing. But Squirts has a way of spicing it up by becoming a part of anything he watches on TV. Shortly after the show begins, he picks a character with whom he identifies—and then becomes.

“Mommy,” he says, “I’m Diego. And you’re that girl. Daddy, you’re Baby Jaguar.” Or, “Daddy, I’m The Incredible Hulk. You’re that guy with knives that come out of his hands.”

I’m not always the strange animal character, but it’s not unusual. In fact, lately, he’s been hogging all of the good characters. “Daddy, I’m Shaggy, Freddy and Scooby. Uh, you’re that ghost.”

As he watches the show, he becomes the character he has chosen. He even talks in first-person throughout his ongoing commentary of the program. It was a little startling at first when he said, “Daddy, you look like you want to hit me,” or when he asked, “Why are my feet so big?”

It took a couple of flustered promises that I had no desire to hit him before I realized he was talking about “my” character looking angry. And I’m not sure I was really any help when I assured him that, yes, he does have large feet, but I’m sure other kids wouldn’t notice.

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