Brookfield Wannabe

The preschooler has just been churning them out lately. This chuckle requires some backstory.

The preschooler likes to print pictures off the Internet websites that she is allowed to access. Recently, she printed out two pictures, wrote the words "I love you Mom" on both of them and placed them neatly on my pillow. She did the same thing for her sister.

Now, lest you think the preschooler is all sweetness and light, this is also the same child who, when she is mad at you, will draw a picture of your face, draw a circle around it, and then put a big, black line right through the center of it. She will then tape that picture somewhere around the house where you will be sure to see it and know the force of her wrath.

So, anyway, the spouse comes home, notices the pictures on my pillow, and, in a voice that is a tad too casual, remarks that there is no picture for "Dad" on his side of the bed.

Later, I pull the preschooler aside and say, "Maybe you should make a picture for Dad too. He might feel sad if he doesn't have one." That evening, the spouse came into our bedroom with a strange but amused look on his face.

Spouse: Did you tell her that I wanted a picture?

Me: Well, I mentioned that you might want one. Why?

Spouse:  I was tucking her in, and she looked up and said, "Dad, there are two pictures in the garbage.  If you want one, you can go get it and put your name on it."

The season of giving -- preschooler style.
 

*******

Humorous Quote of the Day: 

"Anything you bring a monkey to is instantly 30 percent better.  Family reunions, labor negotiations, the DMV."

-- Jack Ferraiolo, Head Writer for the PBS show "WordGirl"

(I gotta admit that this quote just cracked me up when I read it, not sure why.  The spouse thinks it's just weird.)

Out of the mouth of my preschooler...

Preschooler:  Mom, you need more pzazz.

Me:  (defensively) I've got pzazz.  What do you think pzazz means anyway?

Preschooler:  It means fun.  You only do ordinary things.

Me:  Well, where should I get some pzazz? 

Preschooler:  From me.  I'm full of pzazz!

She's full of something alright.  I'm just not sure what.
 

So, the powers that be (TPTB) decided to institute a commenting feature on the blogs awhile back.  So, now, it's getting a little out of hand.  So, now TPTB have decided that there are going to be rules about comments.  I got an email about The Rules this evening.

The Rules will soon be posted on all blogs.  If readers' comments do not follow The Rules, I am not supposed to publish them.  If something gets by me or TPTB disagree with my decision to publish a comment(s), they will pull the comment(s) themselves.  That is also part of The Rules.

When we started with the whole comments thing, I reviewed all of them before they posted to the blog.  But because I don't generally write "inflammatory/controversial" material, I decided to let comments publish automatically. This worked well until just recently.

So, now we have The Rules.  So, now I have to review everything again.  If I don't, I'll get in trouble.

I'd tell you what The Rules are, but my head hurts right now.  I think it's all these rules... or maybe the sushi I had for dinner.

(The Rules are going to be the same guidelines that the JSOnline bloggers use.  Click here to view them.)

Sometimes you find laughter in the most unexpected places.

I had to have a diagnostic mammogram last Monday because I felt a lump in my left armpit the Friday before.  The good news is that everything is okay. The bad news was that I spent the weekend terrified that it was cancer.  As loyal readers may remember from my "Teddy Bears" blogs, my mother died of cancer last year, and earlier this year, I had a scare during my annual mammogram.

So, once again sad and afraid, I went to have another diagnostic mammogram at Aurora Sinai Hospital in downtown Milwaukee (the old Mount Sinai Hospital).  Aurora Sinai, because it is the hospital for the downtown area, can sometimes be host to... shall we say "unusual" ...patients.  I went to school at Marquette so "unusual" people who, let's say happen to be talking to themselves, don't really phase me anymore.  (No disrespect intended.)

One of these unusual people was sitting in the waiting room with me.  I'm going to call her "Susie," but I have no idea what her real name was.  The first clue that Susie was "unusual" was the personal, wire shopping cart at her side, the contents of which was a large, battered, dirty cardboard box.  The second clue was that Susie was chattering non-stop to the woman seated across from her.  The third clue was that the woman didn't really appear to be listening to her and instead sat with her eyes glued to the magazine on her lap. 

Although there was an empty seat next to Susie, I deliberately chose the seat that was farthest from her.  I had just gotten done with the exam, and I was anxiously waiting for the preliminary results.  I didn't want to speak to anyone.  So, I too kept my eyes down, so that Susie wouldn't engage me.

It didn't matter to Susie; she just kept talking away.  After awhile though, I began to listen.  She wasn't rambling incoherently; she wasn't saying anything inappropriate or vulgar.  She was just talking, albeit without much interruption, moving from one topic to the next.  She was actually quite pleasant.  So, without actually looking at her yet, I lifted my eyes to her shopping cart and started nodding and smiling at some of the things she said.  I kept wondering what the heck was in her box, but I didn't really want to peek inside.

Then, as she continued to speak, I thought to myself that there probably weren't a lot of people that looked her in the eyes while she spoke, and I thought what a terrible thing that would be to have people "dismiss" you like that.  So, I lifted my eyes further up and looked at her face. 

Susie spoke about her cat, about getting lost at Mayfair Mall, about the outrageous neighbors in her apartment complex, and then she started talking about Carrie Underwood, the country singer.  I listened to it all, even though I was still feeling scared. 

Then, Susie started to sing her favorite Carrie Underwood song, "Jesus, Take the Wheel."  These are part of the lyrics she sang:

 "Jesus, take the wheel

Take it from my hands

Cause I can't do it on my own

I'm letting go"

I didn't really hear the rest of the song because after she sang that small part, I realized that there was nothing I could do about the results of the exam.  The result was going to be whatever it was going to be.

After that insight, I was able to laugh at some of the funny things Susie was saying, and we had a good ol' time in that waiting room until the nurse gave me the thumbs up. 

Susie reminded me that there are things that we can't control and that sometimes you just have to put it in the hands of whatever higher power you believe in and let go.

I am ashamed to admit that I don't think about the war unless I am reading an article in the newspaper or watching something on tv or on the internet.  Like many others, I am guilty of the "indifference" that comes with living my everyday life in my safe, comfortable, suburban cocoon.  On Sunday though, as I sat in church, the war wasn't "distant" any more because it had a face.

Because we have a young child, my family tends to sit at the back of the church, and at a whopping 4' 11", I generally can't see much of what is happening down in front. This Sunday, I had a clear view of the young, Brookfield man who was being called to military service.  He's not the first man from our congregation to be called to serve, and he probably is not the last. 

But his was the first face that I really got a good look at, and when I saw him, I thought, "He's just a child."

The pastor didn't mention his age, but to me, he looked to be about 19 or 20 tops. I thought back to when I was that age.  I was lucky enough to be in college at Marquette, taking classes in new subjects and meeting new people.  I thought of myself as grown-up, but now twenty years later, I realize I was just a child.  I was just beginning. 

Twenty years later, I was looking at a boy, standing on an altar, just beginning, who was facing something much different.

Then, on Good Morning America or the Today Show this week, I saw a news spot that said that the military was now giving out medals to the children of fallen soldiers -- the Gold Medal of Remembrance.  I watched the faces of the featured children receiving their medals, watched as they struggled for composure.

I was humbled by their sacrifice.

Soon, it will be Veterans Day, a day to remember those who have served, including the ones who have fallen in this war. But perhaps, we should also take time to remember the ones left behind -- the parents, the spouses, the children, the friends, all the ones for whom the war has a very real face.