Bruised Noggin

Our darling Dylan had an accident in early May that scared Evan and me into being much more vigilant in our observance of our little boy's activities. See, he's the only boy we have, and we are used to Amelia who is not even remotely a dare devil and sometimes even exceedingly cautious, to the point of being a complete "scared-y-cat". Dylan seems to be the antithesis of this quality when it comes to exiting trampolines.

We were visiting my parents on a Sunday evening. The grandchildren were jumping on the trampoline outside with a few adults, including me, chatting and casually observing their activities. Evan was inside with the remaining adults. The neighbor's dog started barking on the other side of the fence and the jumping children all decided that they wanted to see the dog. So, one by one they started climbing off the trampoline with a little assistance. The second to youngest, Jared (the elephant from an earlier post), got off with my help and then needed help seeing over the fence. Dylan had been on the other side of the safety-netted trampoline and while I turned to help Jared, dashed like lightning across the trampoline and right off the side onto the concrete court below.

It was horrifying to watch and be so helpless for those few critical seconds. The spot of impact on his forehead proceeded to swell and turned into a golf ball-sized goose egg. Dylan cried and cried, but eventually settled down. Miraculously, he didn't have a concussion or a fracture. He looked pretty beaten up for a few weeks, which yielded countless sympathetic looks from family, friends and even strangers.

Now, the only evidence of his accident is a residual little knot and slightly darker spot that the doctor says will eventually clear up. While that little forehead has perpetual bruises and scrapes, many moms of boys smiled at his terribly bruised noggin and said, with great empathy, that Dylan's double black eyes were most likely the first of many.

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.

Soccer--The Experience

So this is all not so timely, which seems to be a theme for me, but Amelia played her first season of soccer ever this spring. She played for the YMCA Scorpions, with her uncle Bryan as coach. Honestly, I think she was most excited about soccer because she wanted a soccer outfit and cleats and shin-guards. She was mildly engaged at the first practice, but when it came to the first game, she stood in the center of the field, a ponytail and hair ribbons to boot, and put her hands over her face.


So, we didn't give up.


She explained later that she liked practice because they played games and had fun, but that the actual Saturday morning soccer game was just too scary. The kids moved too fast and she never got the ball, apparently.


So, we kept at it.


She became more engaged at practice, usually following Uncle Bryan's requests and then moving the cones he set up when his back was turned. Each consecutive Saturday morning, she did a little better. She moved from flat-out refusing to play to playing for short spurts, to giving us thumbs up as she ran-skipped along, heels clicking her behind. The last game, Amelia was shoving other kids out of the way to get the ball. And, she even scored a goal!

(It was for the other team, but who's really keeping track?)

the first game

action at the last game

the team photo

The best part, according to Amelia, was the trophy with her name on it. It sits proudly displayed on her dresser. And if you come for a visit, it is very likely she'll show it to you, whether you ask to see it or not.

Skevan

So I missed writing any kind of tribute to Evan on Father's Day. I actually had a card that I purchased two years ago and misplaced. I found it once and put it in a safe place, but forgot about it Father's Day 2007 and gave him another one instead. My plan was to use it this year, but then again, it would not appear when beckoned. The card is either really shy, or I have lost it--again. So this post is my late, but sincere and sort-of-public tribute to the Skev-man (a nickname I did not bestow upon him, but have some how accepted whole-heartedly. Its etymology traces back to the laughter and delirium of Evan's youth.)

I wrote what follows a few years ago, but I know it's been a while since Evan or I have read it. And it's the first time any of you have read it. So here's to Evan:

My husband, Evan, has what my sister and I call “dad hands.” They are thick and strong. The description is derived from our own father’s large, protective hands. As a small child sitting in my father’s lap I would often compare the size of my own very little hands to his; my dad’s wedding ring was so large it fit over my big toe. I would turn his hands over and over and examine and memorize every ridged nail, every crease in his knuckles, every scar. For me, Dad hands are safety and protection. They are strength and patience. They are not flimsy, delicate, skinny-fingered palms, but thick, scarred, beautiful dad hands.

Evan’s hands have undergone this same examination process. He has a scar on the knuckle of one of his thumbs, but I can’t ever remember which one or how he got it. He also has a speckled birthmark on the top of his hand directly below the curve between his thumb and his index finger. When he was little, his mother told him that this mark resembled a seven. A teenage Evan made this information lucrative by shaping wooden skim boards that he shellacked and then duplicated that birthmark on each as an insignia. Evan planned to make and sell those boards. When I saw the only one he saved, I was impressed with its curve and obvious resilience, but I still found it necessary to chuckle to myself at the thought of a sixteen-year-old kid actually making a business of selling these things. Evan didn’t laugh about it, however, and proceeded to tell me a story of a multi-million-dollar surf clothing company that began with a guy making silk-screens at home in his basement and selling T-shirts out of the trunk of his car.

Evan’s mom must have also told him that day that the seven was lucky. Or maybe, Evan just believed that it was.

One night in the dim and crowded auditorium of some downtown theatre Evan and I waited, lounging in red faux-velvet seats, for the latest Warren Miller ski film to start. Young, hip people dressed in cargo pants with bungee cord fasteners and chunky J. Crew sweaters were milling through the isles passing out 8 ½ by 11 cards on which we were to fill in our names and addresses and other personal information. We were supposed to enter the cards in a drawing for door prizes, but the ulterior motive was for different companies selling skiing and snowboarding equipment to pad up their mailing lists. I proceeded to obediently fill out my card and folded it in half like the local DJ who was running the contest had directed. Then I watched as Evan only wrote in his name and then crumpled the card up into a hard little baseball. To my questioning expression he flashed his white teeth, smiled with his dark eyes, and explained that this was “strategy.”

At intermission the DJ got up on stage and had some little blond, spiky-haired kid in over-sized clothing from the audience pull out the winning cards from a big box for each prize that he announced. “The next prize, one $50 gift certificate to [insert the name of some nearby ski shop], goes to…” As he was finishing the sentence I watched the little boy on stage hand him a crumpled ball; it struck me at that moment that of course some little kid is going to pick out the card that is the easiest to grab: Hmmm… hard little baseball? Or flat slippery card that’s like all the rest? Indeed, this was strategy. Or was it luck? The DJ began to peel apart the crumpled ball and mentioned something about “some wise guy thinking he’s funny” and then he read the name “Evan Rogers.” The owner of the name let out a big celebratory whoop and the DJ mentioned something about too much alcohol.

There are countless amazing stories of fortune filling Evan’s life history. He rarely has difficulty finding parking spots, which is a combination of creativity, temerity, and luck. And he always seems to be the guy walking by when some poor soul needs to get this perfectly functional washer and dryer off his hands because he has to move to Las Vegas that very day. Evan flashes his smile and gets free lunches, insurance waivers, and discounts on car repairs. People like him because he breathes benevolence, and they know that he wouldn’t blink an eye before returning a favor. So sometimes, while we’re waiting for a movie to start in some dark musty theatre, I’ll glance down at those beautiful hands intertwined with mine.

Then I’ll remember that I must be the lucky one.

We do not have a digital camera

We do not have a digital camera, which restricts the immediacy with which we can post our photos. So below are some relatively recent photographs that I had to scan. This explains their quality, or lack thereof. I am now committed to purchasing picture CDs when I develop film, and eventually purchasing a digital camera. (Here's a math problem and a query: How many picture CDs would equal the value of a digital camera? Is Jayne really being cost-effective here?)

Now for a few photographs:

Go figure. Dylan is 20 months old and loves wearing a tie. He wants to put one on with his t-shirts in the morning. I think the truth is that he adores Evan and wants to do whatever his daddy does. This includes using power tools, digging in the dirt, and driving the car. We let him do only one of those three things. You figure out which one.

Amelia turns five on June 30th. She is as spunky and spirited as we predicted her to be. When we named her "Amelia" we loved that it meant "independent" and "industrious".

What the heck were we thinking?

Actually, we'd much rather have her be this way rather than be a lump into which we are constantly trying to breathe life. Amelia exudes energy and vitality! She's the red balloon full of helium whose string we are currently hanging onto, even tying down sometimes. Someday it will be best to let go, but not for some time yet.

Check out her smirk.

And lastly, these bath-time pictures just crack me up. Dylan and his cousin Jared as "monkey" and "elephant" respectively.

Commencement

After a bit of haggling and much encouragement from friends and family, we are (or rather I, Jayne, am) launching a blog for our family. I have no idea if anyone cares about what we're doing, but in the event that someone in the computer-slave universe might, we're attempting to create a little space for ourselves to record what seems important in the moment.

A Disclaimer and Apology: I do not gush very well, nor do I use words like "special" or "precious" very often, if at all. I have nothing against those who do. It's just not my style. I seem to like a bit of sarcasm, mingled with drama, absurdity, and humor. I have no idea what that means for my blogging mortality.

By the way, I am a happy person. I am a realist and an optimist. I like to pretend that I'm wise and experienced, but half the time, I'm faking it to avoid looking stupid.

So there you have it. My back story.

And so you know, I'll probably constantly contradict myself. So, some of what I just wrote won't be true tomorrow.