Color my World

“If you want an interesting party sometime, combine cocktails and a fresh box of crayons for everyone.” -Robert Fulghum

(My sister is traumatized at losing her favorite crayon.  So this is for her.)


In Owen’s world, navy blue ruled over all.  The other colors were meager pebbles in the mighty ocean of navy blue.

The blue jeans that he wore in his self-portraits were navy blue.  The ocean, the sky, the bird, the mailbox, the rays shooting out of alien spacecraft; they all had to be navy blue.  Even the goldfish.

crayon-clip-art-4T9ERzjTE“But Owen”, his mother would inquire, “why is the goldfish blue?  Shouldn’t it be, just maybe, a little more orangey?”

“Mom”, Owen protested as he rolled his eyes.  “The goldfish is in the blue lake.  That makes it blue.”

“Okay, but why are the rocks at the bottom of the lake grey and the leaves at the bottom green?”

“I’m drawing Mom”, was Owen’s reply.  His mother did not understand his artistic choices.

As it goes with all favored crayons, the navy blue had seen better days.  Even with Owen’s reluctance to share his cherished possession (“No!  You get cyan.  I’m using navy blue.  Use coral or sumthin’.”), the crayon had still lost its point long ago.  What had once been a peak or a point was now worn down to a very obvious nub.  The tip was as blunt and round as Owen’s chubby fingers.  Often, his mother would call him to dinner, interrupting his latest landscape, and find that he had just as much crayon on his hands as on the paper.

The wrapper was torn down to half its original size.  The dozens of other crayons towered above navy blue in their cardboard container.  Yet Owen’s loyalty to his treasured selection remained.

In front of him was his greatest masterpiece.  Owen scribbled in the finishing touches.  A few streaks here or there made their way to the tabletop.  In a flurry, Owen filled in the last blank spot and beamed at his work.  Two blue cars racing in front of a blue sky, around a blue lake as they passed a blue house and approached a blue stoplight.

He wiggled out of his plastic play chair.  The blobs of flesh that covered his legs and arms jiggled as he slid over and stood up.  With his artwork in one hand and his precious crayon in the other, he ran to the kitchen to show his mother.  His chin, tummy, and limbs all jostled and bobbed as he bounded across the carpet.

Then, just before entering the kitchen, an obstacle appeared.  On his over-stuffed pillow (navy blue, of course), Charles Barkley lay sleeping.  His jowls rested on his front paws while his hind legs jutted out.  Barkley knew how to use his massive frame to occupy floor space.  And laps.  And yards.  And the backseats of cars.

dog-sleeping-RcgELQ-clipartOwen had not been running to pet or play fetch.  Owen had been running to encourage art appreciation.  In his zeal, he did not notice Barkley.  But his legs did not miss tripping over the hind legs that were blocking the kitchen doorway.

Part flying, part tripping, and part flying, Owen was flung into the kitchen.  He bounced off of the linoleum, falling short of a wooden chair, and found himself at his mother’s feet.

“You okay?”

Owen nodded, more confused than anything.  He looked at his hands.  His artwork was crumpled, but otherwise fine.  His other works had survived far less.

“Whatchya got there?”  His mother kneeled down, gently took the paper from his fluffy hands, and smiled in appreciation.  “Shall we put this on the fridge with the others?” Owen’s mom pointed to the already cluttered refrigerator door and started searching for a free magnet.

It was then that Owen looked at his hands.  His eyes got wide.  Panic set in.  What should have been his mighty navy blue crayon was now a fragment of its former self.  He looked around and found another chunk of blue a few feet away.  The force of the fall and the surprise of the event had caused his thumb to snap the crayon in half.

Owen’s mom turned back to him and saw him waddle towards the crayon piece.  He very quietly, very slowly, picked up the crayon bit.  He looked at each hand.  First he observed the left one with the crayon still in part of a wrapper.  Then he looked to the right one, stubby on the top, jagged at the bottom.  A confused look loomed large on his furrowed brow.  Back and forth he moved his neck, his eyes getting wider with each turn.

“Sweetie?  It’s only a crayon”, his mother tried to reassure him.  “It will still work fine.”

Owen did not hear his mother’s words.  A thought had entered his mind.  An unbelievable idea.  A notion that changed his world.  The thought swirled and built in his brain.  It burst out of his mouth in a mighty exclamation.

“I have two blue crayons!”

“Why yes”, his mom said with a smile.  “I guess you do.”

“You wanna color with this one?”  Owen offered up what had been the bottom half of his crayon, holding his left open.

“Maybe in a bit”, his mother answered.  “I need to finish this up.  Why don’t you go put that one in a safe place for now?”

“Okay!”  Owen ran back to his coloring table, joyfully plopping the navy blue crayon chunk in its cardboard slot, secure amongst the other crayons in the box.  He then grabbed another piece of paper, more excited than ever about all he could draw with twice the crayon power at his disposal.

The Universe’s Largest Messy Room

Do you know what you call those who use towels and never wash them, eat meals and never do the dishes, sit in rooms they never clean, and are entertained till they drop? If you have just answered, “A house guest,” you’re wrong because I have just described my kids.” -Erma Bombeck


“Ralphie, get in here right now!  You are in big trouble mister!”

Almost against reason, Ralphie walked up the stairs and stood in his bedroom doorway.  Seeing the look on his mother’s face, he decided not to venture inside.  He remained where he was, half in the hallway and half at the scene of the crime.

“What did you do?”

“I cleaned my room”, Ralphie replied as he looked to the carpet.

“No, I don’t think you did.”

“Well, there’s no stuff on the floor anymore.  And there’re no toys around.”

“Yes”, Susan admitted.  “But there are also no toys neatly put away on the shelves and no clothes folded up in your dresser.”

“There’s no stuff on the floor”, Ralphie repeated.

“Ralphie, tell the truth.  Did you use your tesseract dimensional storage unit to hide all your things?”

Ralphie only looked at the floor, wondering if some sort of escape hatch might open and help him escape his mom’s question.


“Maybe”, he said quietly.

“Now you know what your father said.”  Susan was exasperated with her son.  She thought that this matter had been taken care of before, but apparently it was time for her youngster to get a refresher.  “When your father invented a portal to fourth dimensional space so that we could access an infinitely sized realm, he gave you instructions, didn’t he?”

“He uses it all the time”, Ralphie argued.

“Yes and he’s an adult.  Adults get to make decisions that young people don’t.”

“I don’t see what the big deal is”, Ralphie said as he finally looked his mom in the eye.  “Dad stores his tools in there.  You told him he couldn’t keep his table saw in the garage anymore so he put in it the tesseract with that old clunker car and the extra dining room furniture.”

“Does he toss his clothes in there?”

“No…  He never said I couldn’t though.”

(Click to see the tesseract model.)

Susan sighed.  “I think you knew that you shouldn’t.  When your father places things into that endless realm of size and proportions, he makes sure to attach a special tracking device and a long cord to them.  Plus, he always puts on a pressurized suit in case the entrance’s walls buckle and gravity and oxygen are compromised.  Did you take those precautions?”

“I had Mr. Fluffin watch the door!”  Ralphie pointed to his stuffed bunny with the top hat.  Clearly, he believed there was no more responsible act than having his treasured toy act as his second in command.

“I told your father you weren’t ready for this.  I told him that you weren’t grown up enough.  If that doorway collapses, then we’re going to have an area that mimics the absence of space trying to merge with your bedroom.  Do you know what sort of calamity that could cause?”

“That depends”, Ralphie replied.

“Depends on what?”

“What’s a calm nighty?”

“A calamity is when everything goes terribly wrong.  Like in those comic books you read?  Every time a bad scientist gets careless, they get changed into a monster, right?”

Ralphie nodded, the images of scaly faces and claws for hands filling his head.

“Those accidents are calamities.  You don’t want to be the reason something like that happens, do you?”

Ralphie worriedly shook his head back and forth.

“And what about Rodney the Righteous Turtle?  Remember how he got lost in the tesseract?  How your dad had to send in a robot probe to bring it back?”

His eyes went wide as Ralphie remembered the turmoil that his favorite action figure had gone through.  Its shell-launching action still wasn’t the same.

“I’m going to talk to your dad.  We’ll see if he can get the probe to launch some sort of net over your things.  Hopefully they haven’t floated too far away from your portal.  If, if we can get all your stuff back, I expect you to take care of it.  Understood?”

Ralphie nodded again.

“That means you need to keep it organized and clean in this room.  You can’t just throw it into a boundless dominion with no shelves or physical constraints and expect it to be okay.  You need to take care of things here, in this room.  Got it?”

“Yeah”, Ralphie responded.  “Only…”


“Do we have to bring back the itchy sweater too?”

Swinging to Their Own Rhythm

In “Anecdotal Tales”, stories will be told. Some will be fun, some will not. Some will be great, some will be less so. Some stories are true, some are merely possible. This is one of them.

Swinging to Their Own Rhythm

Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect.” -Mark Twain

Ralph was the type of person that seemed as ordinary as could be.  His frame could hardly be called tall or muscular.  He was just a little too short to be of average height.  His hair wasn’t buzzed, nor was it shaggy; it was in that rather standard range in between.  With brown hair and a perfect triangle for a nose, Ralph was almost the token definition of non-descript.  If there was anything Ralph was good at, it was blending in.

There seemed to be no job better suited for Ralph than that of a guard.  He spent his days surrounded by beautiful paintings and sculptures in the museum.  When he was feeling lonely he would stroll through the Edward Hopper paintings, when he was homesick he would walk up to the museum’s lone Norman Rockwell, and when he felt like life just didn’t make sense, he’d stroll down the wall of Impressionists.  Ralph liked art a great a deal; he appreciated how these artists could express themselves and their emotions in ways that others could understand.  Ralph had yet to master that a remarkable talent for himself.

Ralph’s skill for being unnoticed, however; that he had down to an art.  As soon as someone started to take out a camera or reach out to a painting, Ralph was right there.  The most common reaction was that of surprise.  Ralph never tried to walk quietly, but his gait hardly employed stomping.  People didn’t register his presence when they passed him in the halls.  Then, before they knew it, Ralph was standing by them; tapping them on the shoulder.  Once they recovered from the shock, many of the visitors putting their hands to their chests, they apologized and cooperated.

Ralph’s supervisors had seen how stealthy he was and how he approached quietly.  The higher-ups thanked him for being so diligent in his role, but asked him to try to make his presence known when a guest was first visible.  They offered that part of his role was to serve as a visible deterrent.  If patrons saw him and were reminded that there were rules, then perhaps he wouldn’t startle the guests so much.  Ralph had heard the suggestion repeatedly, but was unsure how to go about doing so.  A small man with a slight build and a quiet voice could hardly compete with the wonderful canvases and breathtaking installations that surrounded him.

There was one area, one lone activity where Ralph felt confident and bold.  The activity didn’t require him to be tall or strong or good looking.  All Ralph had to do was show up.  There was no competition involved, Ralph only had to participate and his world was made better.  Yes, despite his age, Ralph still received great joy from playing on swings.

Oddly enough, the swings were the one place in the world where Ralph stood out.  Walking around in the crowds and throngs downtown, Ralph was invisible.  His feet would get stepped on, people cut in front of him in line to get coffee, and bartenders always managed to ask for his drink order last.  On the playground, the situation was completely different.  It didn’t matter how many children or families were near the swing sets, if Ralph was there he became the center of attention.  He tried not to take away from the children’s enjoyment and was quick to give up his swing to any youngster that might want it.  Yet, even if there were no kids wanting to swing, Ralph remained a curiosity

The day came where he was about to give in.  Ralph started to wonder if he shouldn’t start enjoying the relaxing swing sets early in the morning when no one was about.  A mother and her small daughters were approaching and the eldest had a wary look on her face.  The playground had eight different swings to choose from, but Ralph still felt like he should disembark to alleviate her concerns.

As he started to slow the swing down so that he could casually walk away, Ralph noticed something.  Two squirrels were gathered at a large oak tree about ten feet away from the playground.  Both animals were standing on their hind legs, apparently arguing with the other.  They chittered back and forth as a lone nut sat on the ground between them.  The chatting and excited noises came out louder and louder.  Suddenly, the slightly bigger of the two squirrels took its right paw, swatted the other squirrel upside the head, grabbed the nut, and then ran off.

Ralph burst out laughing.  He couldn’t help himself.  The action had been so quick, so completely unexpected that he guffawed at their squabble.

The two girls opened their eyes wide.  They ran forward asking Ralph what was so funny.  He pointed to the lone squirrel that was recovering on the ground.  It shook its head and began to run off.  Ralph told the small children about the nut and fight.  The retelling of the story only made Ralph laugh more.  The two girls didn’t fully understand his story, but they laughed along with Ralph regardless.

The mother rushed forward, rather upset that the girls had broken free of her.  She stood there, taking the scene in.  Her two children stood laughing while a stranger in a swing chuckled and laughed with them.  The scene was an odd one, to be sure, but she couldn’t help herself.  She too started laughing.  Before long, the four of them were assembled around the playground enjoying the day and commenting on how nice everything seemed.

Ralph stayed up that night thinking about what had happened.  No one had pressured him to leave the playground that day.  If nothing else, he had made some new friends.  Ralph wasn’t about to invite them over for tea yet, but he doubted that he would feel awkward if he saw them again.  Ralph wondered if the day hadn’t opened up a new opportunity for him.

The next day at work, Ralph tested out his plan.  He didn’t really change anything about himself, but he did take things a bit less seriously.  Ralph stopped worrying about what people would think and loosened up.  For many years he had been walking around, looking at the paintings and chucking at some of the stranger, more avant-garde creations.  And one day, not too far from that happy time in the park, Ralph cracked a joke.

The visitor didn’t laugh out loud.  She didn’t burst at the seams.  She merely smiled and went on with her visit.  Ralph grew a little bolder from that success.  He made another joke.  After that came another.  It didn’t happen overnight, but gradually Ralph became something of a go-to guy for light-hearted visits.  He would kneel down to talk to small children and sometimes tell them a joke.  Ralph was never an intimidating guard, but he became more and more of a good-natured one.  By the next year, Ralph had received several letters complimenting him for making peoples’ visits more fun.  Children especially, thought he was quite delightful.  He only spoke a sentence or two, but those few phrases made all the difference.  And when he laughed, everyone around him chuckled along.

Ralph is still the same person that he always was.  He probably won’t stand out in a crowd.  Folks who don’t know him pass him by.  He is still “that guy in line at the grocery store” or “a neighbor I know”.  But once people get to talking to him, they laugh.  For Ralph, it’s a small thing; one he rather likes.  And now he fits right in with every other kid, big or tiny, that likes to play on swing sets.


Scott the Pretty Great Ventures Out

In “Anecdotal Tales”, stories will be told. Some will be fun, some will not. Some will be great, some will be less so. Some stories are true, some are merely possible. This is one of them.

Scott the Pretty Great Ventures Out

If a man walks in the woods for love of them half of each day, he is in danger of being regarded as a loafer. But if he spends his days as a speculator, shearing off those woods and making the earth bald before her time, he is deemed an industrious and enterprising citizen.” -Henry David Thoreau

(This is a continuation of “Scott the Pretty Great”. That first part can be found –here-, but I doubt that it is required reading.)

Scott whistled to his pet raccoon and the two walked to the other side of the room. Scott turned and walked to the back door. He was pleased to see his creation was following his movements from a distance. It wasn’t every boy that could create a robotic blue robot, let alone one that was so loyal.

Scott again turned to the rest of the warehouse, eager to share his robot with someone. Nothing had changed; all the eight year-olds were still focused solely on their workstations. The arrows on the floor pointed towards the main exit door, least the children should forget their instructions. Scott was feeling rather contrary and he began to exit through the entrance doors. A thrill that can only come through rebellion rushed through him as he continued walking in the opposite direction that the arrows instructed. He wondered what the other children would do and he looked around. Not surprisingly, no one had noticed. The others still toiled to make more car brakes and they had no time to see Scott’s curious act.

Scott waited for his raccoon to catch up. One of the hind legs seemed to be a little bit shorter than the rest, so the robot was forced to compensate. Scott considered going back to the bench and making the needed adjustments, but he couldn’t do it. The idea of turning around and voluntarily sentencing himself to another day of work was more than he could handle. Scott swung the door open, stepped outside, and was quickly joined by the raccoon.

The weather outside was quite pleasant. Climate was one of the great challenges that continued to plague the technological world. They could create perfect children, but they couldn’t guarantee them a perfect day. Most buildings were earthquake and hurricane proof, so structurally and property-wise, the weather and nature was a non-issue. Besides, should snow or rain ever start to fall from the sky, shelters and awnings would protrude over every walkway. Since no one ever veered from the walkways, there was never a need to be more than a foot away from the coverings.

Scott decided that he didn’t want to follow the paved path that was lain out before him. There was a tree that stood tall across from the warehouse. It was accompanied by a small patch of grass that was irresistible to Scott that day. He scooped up the robot in his arms, looked back and forth to see if anyone would stop him, then he ran right for the tree.

Looking up close at the base of the tree, Scott couldn’t help but smile. He put his fingers to the rough bark and felt the bumps and moss push against his hand while his robot pet rolled merrily in the grass. Turning his attention to the top of the tree, Scott marveled at the many branches that shot out. Each branch looked so healthy and alive complete with green leaves that waved to him in the slight breeze.

“Are you going to climb it or just stand there?”

Scott stumbled backward and almost fell on his toy robot. The raccoon saw him falling and skittered off to the side, allowing Scott to fall on the soft grass. He crawled on his hands and knees around the tree and noticed an old man sitting with his back against the bark.

“I didn’t mean to startle you son, but you were frustrating me.”

“What, I, what’re you doing here?”

“They still let a few trees grow here and there”, the elderly man replied. “Somebody’s gotta use them for something other than offsetting all those industrial smokestacks.”

“How do you use a tree?”

The old man sighed. “Son, that may be the most depressing question I’ve ever heard.”

“Sorry”, Scott answered.

“The really depressing part is that I’m not at all surprised that you asked. Guess they don’t think that sort of thing is important enough to program into yer noggin.”

“Actually, I…” Scott started to explain that he didn’t have all the information that other kids did, but he stopped himself. There was a more important topic that he wanted to know about. “Actually I’d appreciate it if you’d explain what you first said.”

“What, about climbing it?” The old man shook his head. “It’s as simple as that son; you grab a limb, pull yourself up, and then keep going as far as you’d like.”

“Then what happens?”

“There’s only way one to find out.” The old man punctuated his point by taking his bony finger and pointing it up the tree. “There’s no better way to do it than to just do it.”

Scott looked back up at the tree. It certainly seemed possible. The branches were close enough together, they all seemed healthy, and there was no one openly discouraging him from trying this activity. Scott looked back at the man who only jerked his head upwards impatiently.

Scott turned to his robot raccoon. The sun through the branches was giving him a new appearance. The parts of the metal and plastic that weren’t shaded by the leaves were reflecting the sun and showing each little screw and splash of paint that Scott had so joyfully added. The last time he had done something just for fun, it had turned out quite well. Why not?

Scott reached his hands above his head, the branch only just out of reach. He jumped, grabbed as firmly as he could, and felt his legs swinging slightly. With the few muscles he had, he managed to pull himself upwards while his feet made contact with the trunk. Half walking, half pulling his body up the tree, Scott felt exhilaration rushing up his body. No one had ever told him how much fun the outdoors could be. He climbed higher and higher until he couldn’t even see the ground through the leaves.

Scott stopped two-thirds up the tree and finally looked out at the world around him. The buildings were ordinary and depressing, but there was so much more to see. The crowds moved in a flow around the streets, cars zoomed to intersections then slammed on their brakes at the last minute. Beyond that, past all the ordinary, was a horizon Scott had only glimpsed before. Past the city, past the everyday business, was a sun shining on mountains and lakes. Scott had explored the outdoors before, but never in this kind of panoramic setting. For he didn’t know how long, Scott simply sat and took it all in.

Dressed for the Dirty Duty

In “Anecdotal Tales”, stories will be told.  Some will be fun, some will not.  Some will be great, some will be less so.  Some stories are true, some are merely possible.  This is one of them.

Dressed for the Dirty Duty

(Over at her site, kiradault suggested that folks write about a funny memory.  If this story amuses, you have her to thank.  If it’s just all kinds of odd, then blame me.)

As I was growing up, my two siblings and I had our share of pets.  My mom had her birds here and there, my dad was indifferent, and there seemed to always be a fishing floating around in a glass container somewhere.  There was the giant fish tank that I had no desire to ever clean.  I still remember Jamie, the fish that I kept in a small bowl on top of my dresser.

Jamie met his end at the paws of a cat.  I know what you’re thinking, but Jamie did not die in the typical fashion.  Our cat at the time felt it deserved a more unique kind of death.  Instead of putting her paw in the bowl, catching Jamie, and eating him for dinner, our cat took a more sadistic option.  She used what kitty-strength she had and knocked over Jamie’s bowl.  There we found Jamie, gasping for air (or in his case, water), as the cat looked on.  Maybe she was gloating about her triumph and was going to eat Jamie but we interrupted her?  It seems possible, but I always figured that cat simply wanted all the attention for herself.

ImageI, being the youngest of the three, thought I should get all of the cat’s attention and none of the effort.  My brother, much like my dad, did not really have any interest in our cats.  So I happily let my sister do all the dirty work.  One day, for a reason I do not remember, I was assigned the task of cleaning out the litter box.  Thinking back on it, this was not the greatest hardship that could befall a small boy.  But for me, this sort of smelly task required reinforcements.

First and foremost, I donned a pair of woodshop glasses.  You know; those flexi-plastic light-green things that hug to your face to keep the sawdust out.  For some reason, I thought it was imperative that I have those over my eyes.  Quickly added to my supplies list were gloves.  Now, one hears “gloves” and thinks perhaps some food handlers gloves or maybe some mittens.  Nope, I once again raided my dad’s woodshop and got the thickest, roughest, most industrial gloves one could ask for.  One never knows where a cat has been or what trouble they have gotten into; clearly their poop required extra protection.

You would think that would be enough. Perhaps this eight year-old in his hyper-color t-shirt (tie-dye orange, thankyouverymuch) would wear a bandana to cover his nose.  For some reason, that was the one part of me I did not cover.  No, in the middle of summer I decided to don my winter coat as protection against the two or three pithy clumps that needed to be scooped.

So there I was; a young fellow with combed-“enough” hair decked out in jeans, the aforementioned tie-dye shirt, a puffy winter jacket, green worker glasses, and burlap-like gloves.  I of course felt the need to top it all off with a hardhat.  Bright white; to contrast the black winter jacket, I’m sure.  And I did it.  I comically held my breath long enough to get those three little pieces of pee and poop into a milk carton.  I made quite the show of exhaling the now “clean and refreshing” air.  I am not entirely proud of this overly dramatic show of wackiness.  I would like to just scoop it up, toss it in a carton, and pour some cat litter over it.  But I cannot.  There is one obstacle standing in my way; my family.

I have a family that remembers far too much.  Should my family ever forget?  They have photos of the whole thing.  So whenever I get too full of just how spiffy I am, they have the perfect ammo to deflate me.  Darnit.

The Unborn Child

In “Anecdotal Tales”, stories will be told.  Some will be fun, some will not.  Some will be great, some will be less so.  Some stories are true, some are merely possible.  This is one of them.

The Unborn Child

Picture a girl like many other girls.  She was born to a quiet family; complete with siblings, fish, and every now and then a cat.  She lived in the suburbs, sledded down the hill when there was snow, and shared lawn-mowing duties in the summer.  She wore leggings as pants in the eighties, had her share of toy horses, went to church each Sunday, and her room was painted in light pink.  She didn’t become overly involved in school, but she had excellent grades and spent much of her summer reading books until three or four in the morning.  In short, her childhood was pleasant.

Then she left the home and went to college.  Being the nice, quiet gal that she is, she made friends with her roommates.  Nothing terribly sordid or untoward occurred at their Christian college.  She studied plenty and came home each summer.  She worked the typical cashiering jobs but always exited the workforce when college season rolled around again.  Of course, she excelled and graduated on time.  She moved in with her parents and looked for a job that would suit her.  Not long after, she found a rather special guy.  She took her time, waited until she was absolutely sure, and then the two of them got married in a nice summer ceremony.  As was usually the case with her, it was a bright and sunny day.  There would be no rain on her parade; that would come later.

Sure enough, the two bought a house.  They had a son and eventually added a few cats to the mix.  There were a few surprises added to their lives.  Giant potholes opened up in the street, winter storms unlike anything she had been used to as a child were commonplace, and their son was more of a handful than she had first expected.  However, theirs was nothing to complain about.  They liked their lives.  They loved their son, so they thought they would have some more children.  He wanted four to six little ones while she would have been happy with two to four.  So they tried and waited.  They waited.  The waiting wasn’t going well.  That rainy day had come around for them.

Medical assistance was sought.  Tests were run, procedures were attempted, and things got hairy.  Over the course of several years they tried their best and prayed.  They had moments of hope here and there.  But along came a miscarriage.  They mourned, slowly recovered, and got up the courage to try again.  Then came the news; twins.  But, because things don’t always go as we would like, those lives ended in another miscarriage.  After more suffering and more praying, it was decided that there was only so much that they could take and they tried the adoption route.

Raising a child that someone else birthed proved to be just as challenging.  This was not the storyline of a sitcom that they had been shown.  There were the fees to be paid, the applications to fill out, and the interviews to be presentable for.  The couple had a lovely quality to them, yet they hoped and waited to be found perfect for the perfect child.  Parents met with them.  Feelings and gut instincts were taken into account.  Each time, the result was the same.  They usually felt some peace with each child that was not to be theirs.  However with each disappointment they started to wonder if they weren’t thinking big enough.  They considered adopting internationally.  Skin color wasn’t an obstacle that would stop them; why not give a child who was struggling an opportunity to live with them?  In the end, this didn’t sit right with them either and they abandoned the notion.

That was how things were.  For all their attempts and all their work, they found their house emptier than they would have like.  Sure, their son was pretty fun.  He liked to watch construction work happen and enjoyed being outside with ducks and ponds.  The cats did their neurotic thing that felines do, the child went to school, and the parents worked at their jobs and with the church.  They decided that the life they had was enough.  They could work and toil and continue making themselves miserable by hitting their heads against brick walls, or they could let the world turn as it would.  They would be content with what they had.

Now imagine the joy they had when they found out they were pregnant last fall.  Picture how nervous and concerned they were when it had all happened unexpectedly.  The first few weeks were a test on their trust and their hopes.  They didn’t want to see yet another child taken away when they just wanted to love them.  They wanted this child to survive and be healthy.

She is.  She was born yesterday.  And I’m very happy for this couple I care about.  I’m glad that their seven years of waiting ended the way I always thought it should.


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This blog, swallow you whole


easy reading is damn hard writing


S1NGLE living H1GH thinking

Listful Thinking

Listless: Lacking zest or vivacity

Kim Kircher

Strength from the Top of the Mountain

The Byronic Man

We can rebuild him. We have the technology... Drier. Hilariouser. More satirical than before.

The One Year Challenge

A one-year chronical of no flirting, no more dating and absolutely no sex.

Beth Amsbary

Workshop Leader, Storyteller, Grantwriter,