Normalcy, Schmormalcy!

The countdown to normalcy has begun. By Wednesday, I should be driving short distances. By August 3rd, I'll be back to work. By Labor Day, back to full duty, including airplanes and hotels, although hopefully in more manageable doses. So, that's what "normal" has begun to look like through my particular set of filters.

All this has got me thinking about the whole concept of "normalcy," and I have decided there just "ain't no such a thing," as Dad would have said.

Maybe normal is what we get used to. The Three all say I "look different" without the cervical collar I've worn since breaking my neck three months ago. The Three say that it will "be different" when I can play catch with them or do more than walk stiffly along the street with them while they dart this way and that. My wife, God bless her, has likely begun to think that me being no help at all around the house is "normal," and I can't wait to disprove that theory, now that my lifting limit is a whopping 20 pounds, and now that I might be able to drive myself a bit by later this week, after 13 weeks of the "Smokin' Hot Wife Taxi Cab Service" being my only means of being any where other than right here in The 'Burg.

Maybe normal is what others expect. Actually, since this is me, let's not even consider that, since the thought has simply never, in my memory, crossed my mind. I really couldn't care less what someone else thinks, so we'll blow right past that one...

Maybe normal is what society imposes. I hope not, especially in light of where society is headed. Explaining to The Three that college is going to be really hard 'cause Daddy and all of Daddy's generation are in the process of being taxed to hell and back isn't, and shouldn't be, normal. Or should it be? No where is it written that life will be without trials, or that those trials might not be inflicted by those to whom power has been entrusted. (Hmmmmm, perhaps a post on "power" lies in the future...?)

Maybe normal isn't really normal at all. Remember Pleasantville or The Truman Show?

So, with our six-year-old defending his club championship this week, our 9-year-old auditioning for one of America's top children's theatre programs and our 3-year-old convinced that The Potty still deserves Jelly Beans and that every day calls for her prettiest dress -- maybe my job as a dad....as their dad, is to listen, and to let them know that all they can do is all they can do. Maybe "normal," as The Three will define it, should come to be defined as doing their best, every time, and being completely at peace with the outcome -- as long as they did their best. Maybe my job is to create a "normal" where Daddy's more tolerant than he usually is, and to make sure that they are comfortable in their own skins, doing their own things.

Maybe normal lies within the confines of each family's interaction with each other, and with their God. And maybe that's more than ok -- more than "normal."

Maybe that really is the best that we can do.

Anticipation

My wife calls me the "King of Anticipation." She does not intend it to be a compliment.

Now, look, not only is it hard for me to title a post after a freakin' Carly Simon song, let alone one that conjures up memories of an ad for ketchup, but to publicly acknowledge that my wife is correct in this critique, well...

I'm pretty sure it was Thomas Jefferson who said, "Our disappointments in life are almost always tied to our expectations, and almost never to our circumstances." (It was either him or one of my early dates, but I digress...)

Checking the list of circumstances: I know the surgery was "successful." I know the incision isn't infected. I know that I can't work yet, but that I can't play with the kids or swing a golf club either. My circumstances, candidly, aren't all that bad, despite all the incredible friends and family who keep sending their support, their well wishes and saying, "I am really sorry this happened to you..."

Perhaps, if my circumstances ain't that dire, some of the expectations ought to come under the microscope. My own expectations -- for a full, fast, complete recovery -- one that allows me to salvage not only some of the summer with the kids, but to give my wife back enough of her summer (they are danged short here, let me tell you) that she gets to enjoy some sunshine before the hectic school year starts back up. My kids -- "Daddy, when will / can you pick me up again?" "Daddy, when can we play golf together?" Daddy, when can we go to see Grandmas and Aunts and Uncles...?"

Other expectations, and some of the questions they beg, creep in to the anticipatory mind, too.

How aggressive can I be in addressing the changes that have occurred in the three months I've been away from work? How much of what I've envisioned as the industry has continued to change radically will I be able to implement, and how quickly? In general, both physically, culturally and mentally, how much will I have to pace myself? When can I travel again, and how much am I willing to be gone?

As my wife tells me, "you just don't know the answers, so let it happen." As my Faith tells me, it's all part of a plan, and the hard part for dopes like me is balancing the use of our gifts and talents within the plans of He who gave them to us in the first place. (I joke that I quit praying for patience, because I didn't like the way God answered those prayers...)

All joking aside, I am comfortable with my circumstances. I broke my neck. Big deal. I could have died or been paralyzed. I could be in a dramatically more difficult place than I am, physically and in all other aspects. In short, I have it better than 99.9765% of the people on the planet so if I'm disappointed, them shame on me.

If our disappointments stem more from what we expect than from what we encounter, and I believe they do, here's to working harder to remember what blessings I have, and to applying the wisdom, ability and resources available to me to make the most of what comes next -- whatever it might be.

If Some Boxers Are Punch Drunk...

...Barbara Boxer might be the drunkest. And I'm not sure she's ever taken a shot to the chin.



(That long pause you're hearing is discretion making it's all too rare visit to my thought process... Rest assured that before this post hits, several hundred characters will have hit this page, been deleted, re-typed and been deleted yet again...)

"Could you say 'senator' instead of 'ma'am?' " Boxer (D-CA) remarked recently to Brigadier General Michael Walsh. Walsh was testifying at a hearing that Boxer was chairing on the levees in New Orleans. "It's just a thing," she babbled on. "I worked so hard to get that title. I'd appreciate it."


(Long pause again. Wondering if I shouldn't just pick a different topic.)

Oh, how I wish the Brigadier General would have gone all "A Few Good Men" on her sorry, useless behind and said, "Right, you arrogant heap who disgraces our very form of government, and why don't you call me General, because I actually did have to work hard to earn that title."

I grew up on a farm. I have first-hand experience with hard work. I've noticed that it is often preceded by hard and thorough thought. In fact, very few people who work hard do so without realizing it. All too many, Barbara Boxer among them, mistake hard work for things that oh, like, aren't hard. People like Barbara Boxer have mistakenly come upon the perception that they matter; let alone that they matter more than anyone else.

My greatest fear is that unless we somehow correct the trend we face today, that the Barbara Boxer's and Nancy Pelosi's of the world will unduly impact my children's futures. I know they've already spent the money I've worked so hard to earn to educate and provide for them; my fear is that they will lower the bar on decorum so dramatically that somehow one of these generations will get the idea that laziness and misinformation are adequate perspectives from which to govern, or simply from which to decide. Heaven forbid that one of my daughters will consider Barbara Boxer a role model.

At least I can use Boxer as an example of how not to display proper manners. We've taught our kids that "Yes, Ma'am," and "No, Ma'am," are terms of respect. Sadly, respect is a topic that Barbara Boxer can't relate to, understand or recognize, even when it's aimed in her direction. Perhaps she's just that uncomfortable due to the realization that she hasn't earned it...or much of anything else, for that matter.

The "Secretariat" of Spouses

There is a legend in sports that Secretariat's heart weighed 22 pounds. The "average" horse's heart weighs only about 8 pounds.

In other words, the legendary 1973 Triple Crown winner-by-a-rout had nearly three times the heart of most horses.

No one has weighed my wife's heart yet. I doubt they'll ever have reason to do so. For the record, though, just in case you're wonderin' -- actually, whether you're wonderin' or not -- my wife has about five times the heart of your "average" spouse.

One learns a lot about relationships in times of trial. One learns a lot about limits when limits are tested. One learns a lot about what makes them tick when the very "ticking" is drawn in to the gray area, as mine has been of late. After six weeks of caring for me in addition to The Three Who Will Not Be Tamed, and with seven more weeks ahead, including starting over tomorrow after a major surgery, not once has she wavered, not once has she complained, not once has she missed her stride. The kids are lucky to have her as their Mom, but not nearly as lucky as I am to have her as my partner, and as my wife.

Yesterday marked 11 years of marriage. Like most couples, there have been some bumps in the road during those 11 years, but the simple fact of the matter is this:

If I live to be 100 years old, no greater honor will be possible than the honor of being married to my wife.

With prayers for a steady hand on the part of my surgeon, and many years of good health to show my wife how much I appreciate her, I sign off this post knowing that Secretariat had nothing on my wife when it comes to matters of heart.

Time Passes, and Not At My Pace

"Back in the day," our high school baseball games were on Monday and Thursdays. I lived for Mondays and Thursdays. I recall Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday being really long days. Growing up on a farm, we'd watch the weather pretty closely, and if it was supposed to rain on a Monday or Thursday, well, I'd be hard to console -- sometimes three days in advance.

"Don't wish your life away," Dad would say. "The weather might change between now and then, and besides, someday, you'll wish you had all that time back."

I thought he was nuts. Admittedly, as a kid, I often thought he was nuts. Too bad it took 35-some-odd years and pancreatic cancer for me to realize he was the smartest guy I've ever known. (He knew that, too. "It's amazing how wrong I was then, and how right I am now, even though I haven't changed my mind, huh?" he'd say in those last few years before he died...)

I am pretty sure today is Saturday. I am pretty sure that the normal plan would have had me getting in a quick round o' golf with the boys this morning, then meeting Jodi and The Three by the pool. Maybe some lawn work toward day's end and then some decent dinner at a decent spot tonight -- a decent bottle of wine or two -- and home at a decent time for another "normal" day tomorrow.

Normal ain't so normal these days.

Six days post-surgery, I expected to get up, feel better than any of the five days prior, maybe take a couple walks, maybe even take #2 of The Three over for a lesson at the golf course.

Instead, I spent most of the morning in bed, wondering if and hoping that this mix of meds was the right one, and wondering when it was going to feel like I was on the road to recovery, instead of on The Highway to Hell -- which, while a great song on my iPod -- is not so much what I had in mind when I was wishing away all those non-Mondays and Thursdays.

One of those pathetic soap operas that my folks, sister and grandma used to watch was "The Days of Our Lives." "Like sands through the hourglass..." the voice-over before each episode would start, and I'd run, wretching, for a baseball bat or glove, or a bicycle, or anything that got me away from the TV...

But, you know, when Dad was telling me not to wish it away, he was reminding me that our days are like sands through the hourglass....and they pretty much chug along at their pace, not ours. Sometimes, I don't think I get that so well...

Dad "got it." I hope I "get it" more on the other side of this whole episode, and I hope, somehow, I help our kids "get it," before the proverbial 2 x 4 to the side of the noggin' is involved.

American Idol: A New Perspective From A TV Curmudgeon

Yes, I freely admit it. Prior to this season, I thought American Idol was crap. Pure, steamy, unadulterated and icky poo, like 98% of all the other programming on the tube, save for The Golf and Weather Channels.

Along came Kris Allen.

I don't know Kris. I've never met him. A few months back though, I heard of him. A young member of our sales trainee team at work, Katy, was excitedly preparing for her wedding. She was giddy. All her friends were giddy for her. "Tell me about your fiance," I said. "He's the best," she replied, adding that he was still a student at UCA (The University of Central Arkansas), and that he really wanted a career in music somehow, some way.

Yep, fiance, now husband, Kris Allen.

Then, she talked about the stuff she was working on for our company, and the same unbridled enthusiasm came through -- perhaps not as intently as when she was talking about Kris, their new apartment, the wedding and the pending excitement around all that. Ours is a company full of wonderful people. Talented, hard-working, dedicated, caring -- they're the reason we win. And, this young class -- the Katy Allen's and Dana Lund's of the world, well they secure us for the future... Even as I've become more cynical than I ever intended to, I remember that morning, thinking, wow, these are some really talented young people in this row of cubes -- and Katy, one of the two "new kids on the block," fit the bill -- in fact, she was gonna be one of the really good ones.

So, along comes American Idol. My wife loves it. Our nine-year-old, oldest of The Three, who loves music and the stage, really got in to it. One of the contestants was from a church right here in MKE. "Oh, and, hey, I wonder if there's any chance that that young kid from Arkansas is Katy's husband..." I thought.

Whodda thunkit?

Long story short, I don't like the tag "Idol," and I think the show is somewhat over-baked, but what I know now that I didn't before is that there's a young lady I've met who's living a once-in-a-lifetime beginning to a once-for-a-lifetime marriage. There's a handsome young man from Conway, AR, USA, who's dad isn't afraid for the whole world to see how proud he is of him. I also believe that his dad's pride in him is exactly the same as it was before the show. You get a feel for true quality that penetrates even cynics like me. There's a young guy in Milwaukee who finished third, but now has a whole new means of honoring his late wife -- not just with his talent, but with the stage that's been provided by this show. My wife and daughter watch it together, and my daughter asks us what we think, and we talk about it together.

So, some weeks later, I am a fan. I watch it now. It's fun. It might still be crap, but for the people whose lives have been changed, I bet their arguments to the contrary are much deeper than my suspicion of crappiness. In an era without a "M*A*S*H*," or a "Cheers," or even a "Seinfeld" or "Friends," and with the exception of CBS' Golf Coverage with David Feherty and Gary McCord, it's by far the best thing on TV.

I hope Kris wins, and not just because I have a "connection." He reminds me of Phil Mickelson (see an earlier post to this blog), in that he clearly knows he's blessed, he knows he's talented, but he doesn't think that makes him special, and every time he opens his mouth, his dad has reason to be proud of him. I also hope Kris wins because Adam, despite being a wildly talented artist himself, just feels to me like Todd Marinovich with eye-liner, and I like the understated manner of Kris and the Family Allen more.

I also keep hearing Katy's voice in my head. "He's the best. He'd really like to have a career in music..."

Clearly, he will, and I bet he would have, even without American Idol. And I bet his wife still turns out to be one of our best, if she wants to.

Music

I only have about 800 songs on my iPod.

Over 600 of them are great songs.

The other 200 are pretty decent.

There's a lot of Lyle Lovett, not enough Cake, quite a dose of Bob Seger and a healthy ration of Clapton. The Refreshments, from Austin, TX, are well represented and might actually be my favorite band, but I also love The Self Righteous Brothers from Lincoln, NE. Sadly, I recently learned that they are no longer performing. The Rainmakers, who played the college circuit out of Kansas City back in the early 80's show up on my iPod about a half dozen times. Surprising how much Green Day and Toby Keith, too. (There are two artists seldom mentioned in the same sentence, huh?)

Quirky stuff like Leon Redbone and Frank Zappa pops up pretty regularly. There's vintage Hank Williams, and literally dozens of blues standards from B. B. King, John Lee Hooker and all the expected blues greats.

My wife is one of the greatest gift-givers of all time. She hates golf, but she gives great gifts. She doesn't like it that I am gone so much, but she gives great travel gifts. Example: One of the greatest gifts she ever got me was a set of those Bose Noise Cancelling headphones. Even with them, and they rock, with the exception of European or cross-country flights, I'd still get only a couple hours of non-stop music, though. And half the time, I'm working, and the music is just sort of "there."

Not today. Today, with the exception of an hour or so, I've had the iPod playing non-stop. And, with the exception of sorting 12 years of recipes that we've thought "hey, we should make that someday," I've just had the music. Jodi and her mom, and The Youngest of The Three are off to the mall, and it's just me, my neck brace, 2000 loose pieces of paper and about 12% of these 800 songs.

Man, I miss music.

Somewhere along the way, the TV got way too prevalent. The phone rings all the damned time. The BlackBerry pings with a bunch of e-mail that I can't do anything about while I'm on leave. It seems the sheer noise of life is pretty oppressive, and I never realize it until I get a day away from it. And that is simply not often enough.

Aerosmith just followed Patsy Cline, with Stevie Ray, Clapton and The University of Iowa Marching Band after that. I snuck a quick peak and Cake is up next.

Gotta go.