Finally, a Picture!!!

This may or may not be my son's residual self image. Let's hope he grows out of it. Or at least learns how to crawl bakwards.

A Tail of a Residual Self Image

This is hardly an original idea. For those of you who don’t live under a rock (or some developing country), you might remember The Matrix brought up the idea that we all have a true image of who we are. My wife and I have discussed this and Tammy’s blog reminded me that even as we grow up (and out), there is still a kernel of who we are that really doesn’t change. On a recent Sunday as I was getting ready to go out, I looked in the mirror and saw my (almost) exact residual self image.

Thin, metal-framed glasses. Ancient, huge, Ironman watch. Khaki pants with a brown belt. Brown shoes. Long sleeve dress shirt in a solid primary color (sometimes blue but in this case white). Sleeves rolled up. Unremarkable tie, loosened slightly.

If you have a picture of me at some planned, even remotely formal gathering, I probably am dressed in some variation of that. Maybe I have a suit jacket on. Maybe I’m in a polo shirt or have jeans on (likely with a suit jacket). The watch might be different. But those are just variations.

When I really think about it, though, I’m missing a tail. My residual self image needs a long tiger tail curled around to the front. When I was something like five I used to wear a tiger costume whenever I could. I would chew on that tail. Maybe it was some fascination with the Wizard of Oz – I would also jump out from around corners and try to scare people when I wore that. I think that’s part of me that I just can’t shake. And I don’t think I want to get rid of that part of me.

Yeah, even now, I’m pretty sure I need a tail.

Missing Home...r

Today I was watching my son play with his favorite toy and I realized how much I miss my family. There’s something to be said for visiting every night, or at least every Sunday night, with those you truly love.

I miss living in the shadow of the power plant. I miss riding my bike up to the lemon tree – or where it used to be. Or listening to the Lovejoys on Sunday mornings. Remember what we used to learn at the chalkboard after school? We gave Principal Skinner such a hard time. I miss visiting Moe at his tavern and Grandpa Simpson at the old folks’ home. I hear that a certain someone finally came out of the closet. I miss Maude (may she rest in peace). I miss stopping by the comic book store.

I wonder if Bart and Lisa and Maggie have changed. I wonder if the Mayor has finally been charged with a crime…I wonder if Barney is okay. Is Crusty still funny? Is does life continue there without me? Does everyone still remember me there? And would they call out my name when I come to visit or would I be like every other Cliff who stops by?

I miss my Springfield.

Getting older

I got older this week (Thanks Jessica for pointing this out.) But it has little to do with age.

We don't get old simply because we live longer. Days, weeks, months, years really don't matter. I got old when I moved out of my parents' house. I got old when I stopped being mistaken for a student at Eureka. I got old last year when I fell out of a tree and a month later was back in the hospital for the birth of Atticus (if I was a different person this might have confirmed my immortality but that was determined only by an invitation from someone else.) We get old when events force us to leap from who we were to who we are to who we will be.

Two people who Amanda and I are very close to left this country on Wednesday. They taught us a ton by loving us and putting up with us. They were and are amazing, talented, gifted people who will do great things whereever they are. We continue to be busy with work but now so much of what we do will lack their counsel, insight and passion. We have to grow up.

Their absence will mean that Amanda and I have some growing to do. Atticus will have noone to call him Gizmo. The learning curve will be steep for a while as we grow into the next part of our lives here. Sitting at lunch yesterday, it was clear that two chairs were empty. During a meeting, two voices weren't being heard.

I clearly still have some grieving to do.

My point is that getting old is much more than counting coffee spoons.

Juggling porcupines

One of the things I love about my current home is that "porcupine quills" really are one of their major exports. You can get them on ashtrays and bowls and nicknacks. It's great!

But for the last week I feel like Amanda and I have been juggling live, hyperactive porcupines. Suddenly I am not just a professor and father and husband. I've had to learn to fix computers, calm the nerves of two college visitors and one mother-in-law, practice my pediatric dental expertise by reassuring my wife that that our son is fine even though it appears that he will be getting forty-seven teeth in at the same time (it's like he's getting multi-row shark teeth or something). I'm also becoming an expert packer/mover/papershredder. It's a good thing that my car's odometer doesn't work because I've been making runs all over town. Today is the first day I've been in the office in a week.

So what I want to hear is your most stressed out, porcupine juggling story. I'd tag some people but I'm too busy. I figure it'll be good for me to hear somebody else's stories. Revisit that time in the airport, snowstorm or being locked in your grandmother's bathroom...

Anybody can juggle chainsaws. Let's see Sheri Storer do this.