Tug-of-War

It’s me and the three year old on a quiet early Wednesday afternoon just before the holidays. We’ve been to my office for a get-together. Now, it’s time for her to go back to daycare. We have to walk from one building to another and then down two long hallways. We leave my office and take a short elevator ride and then exit out a back door to the outside.

As I too often do I find myself in a rush. Some who know me or think they know me may find that perplexing as I sense I may come across a bit more laid back than what I really am. Maybe some take my quiet nature as always being calm and cool. I would like to think I am those things but the reality of it all is deep down the obligations I feel churn deep inside, away from any calm exterior others may see. Having a child doesn’t make this any better.

I’m in a rush because it is nap time at daycare and we’re a couple of minutes late. I’m in a rush because I set aside eating my own lunch to make sure Hannah ate her lunch and could then socialize with my co-workers and because of this I know I will have to scarf lunch down quickly when I return to my office so that I don’t fall too far behind with the work I have to complete.

The walk back gets stopped once when someone stops on a golf cart to say hello to Hannah. She, of course, doesn’t know this person despite this person knowing so much about her through my stories. Hannah decides my arms are a safe haven for the moment from the stranger before her. We visit for a moment, or as much as a three year old can visit. Soon enough, we are on our walk again. Hannah discovers her three year old independent streak and decides she wants to walk so her two feet hit the ground and off we go across the pavement and into another building.

Even here, what lies ahead for my day rolls around in my head as if someone is poking me with a sharp stick. We need to get going, there are things to do, there are people to talk to, projects that need attention. Hannah though walks at her own pace asking questions about the rock she picked up on the pavement, about the vending machines we pass in the hallway, about a business card left face up on the floor in a hallway, about why some lights are on and some lights are off, about where we are going, about what we will do later in the day all sandwiched around an apparent never-ending stream of questions and comments from a young curious mind.

I know I am a couple of steps ahead of Hannah, a second sense that parents somehow inherit when a child is born and then is sharpened and honed from when a child clings nearby when scared or needs attention. I turn to look for her and notice she is trying to keep pace with me but I am taking longer strides with the steps I take. I tell myself to slow down but the small voice in the back of my head reminds me how we need to get going, how we can’t dilly-dally, how we have to be somewhere, how people have expectations and how we need to make sure we follow through on our word.

And in these short five minutes one December afternoon I found myself pondering this dilemma that never seems to stray too far away from me. I feel I always am rushing Hannah. Get your clothes on! Eat your breakfast! Get in your car seat! We’ve got to get going! We’re running late! And there’s Hannah with her own clock, her own timetable, her own set of expectations and these things are seemingly always crossways with my own clock, my own timetable and my own expectations.

Mix into this the occasional reminder how time is fleeting, how children grow up too fast, how the little moments matter. And they do-but so does responsibility and commitment and honoring your word and the things you promise and the just doing things you have to do.

Soon enough, we are back at daycare. Hannah walks down the hall there to her classroom. She turns back to me and begins to whimper. Goodbyes here are temporary but temporary isn’t yet a viable word in the vocabulary of our three year old. I have to reassure her I will be back in a few hours to pick her up then. I kiss her and hug her and then the classroom door closes between us, a nap waits on her side and work waits on my side.

I then reverse the path Hannah and I just took, past the lights that are on and the lights that are off, past the business card on the floor, past the vending machines and onto the pavement where Hannah discovered a rock. Even though the things that I need to do are pulling at me, I find my pace returning to face those obligations a bit slower than before. I find myself weighed down with the constant tug-of-war between the duty I feel as an adult and the reality a three year old brings into my life. And, I feel it’s a struggle that won’t end soon.

One Day She Will Break My Heart: A Different Kind of Love Story

One day she will break my heart. Today though she is three years old and her world is filled to the brim with Minnie Mouse and the movie Frozen and songs from Sunday school class, selfies with her cousin, trips to Mammaw & Pappaw’s house and hanging on to her ever-constant companion, Mabry, the stuffed brown puppy dog. It is hard to imagine that one day her world will ever change from what it is now but it will.

As her dad, I know this day will come. While I would love to think I could keep her and hold her at the age she is now, I know it is also my obligation with her mother to prepare her to become a responsible adult, and, when the moment comes, to let her go.

When that moment arrives, she will tell me she still loves me. And I will know when I look into her eyes that she really does still love me. I will also be able to tell though that everything else has changed. I imagine her Mom will search my face for any expression of emotion at that moment knowing how I will struggle with this. While I will likely mask my aching heart, her Mom, my wife, will see the very corners of my eyes well with water and will see my teeth tug at my bottom lip. I will then have to accept there is some young man who has captured her heart, some young man who has made her swoon; some young man who she thinks is the best thing going. Daddy’s precious girl will have become someone else’s sweetheart.

Most likely, by the time this moment comes; we will have come to know this young man better. Maybe her Mom and I will even like him. Maybe.

Realistically, there will be a lot of days between now and then and with that time I hope to be somewhat prepared for that day. Still, I know how fleeting time is, and so, I can’t help but feel a greater need to make sure her Mom and I prepare her well for that day.

When this day comes, hopefully, our daughter will already have tested this young man, and, hopefully, he will have passed those tests. Hopefully, he will recognize honesty between the two of them is essential understanding that once truthfulness is broken between two people it takes a lot of work to rebuild trust to put things back the way they were before. Hopefully, she will expect him to understand that communication works on several levels and that listening and valuing what she says and feels validates her. Hopefully, she will expect him to be patient and forgiving of her when she misses the mark but also to be patient and forgiving of himself when he needs to forgive himself. Hopefully, she will expect him to appreciate her appearance but will need him to look beyond her looks and into her heart because who she really is lives there. Hopefully, she will expect him to realize how she prayed to God for someone who could love her despite her flaws and that God answered those prayers when he came into her world. And if a promise is to be made between the two of them, hopefully, she will expect that the promise belongs to the two of them and God and that making such a promise is worth keeping, worth holding tight and worth never breaking. And hopefully, he will understand that before she expects these things from him she expects the same things from herself for him.

And while her Mom and I can tell her these things are important, hopefully, she will understand how important these things are because she has seen these things in us, however imperfect we may be. We hope she understands we rely on honesty and trust. We hope she sees that communicating with each other sometimes means knowing when to speak and knowing when to not speak but to really listen. We hope she sees us being patient and forgiving of each other and sometimes understands one of us may have to remind the other to be patient and forgiving with ourselves. We hope she sees us look beyond physical appearances and into each other’s hearts to fully appreciate each other. We hope she understands that we are praying that God provides her with someone who can love her for who she is, warts and all, just as He provided for us. And we hope that she sees that while we sometimes fail in some of these things we think are important, it is still that promise between the two of us and God that we made seven and a half years before she was born that we understand is worth keeping, worth holding tight and worth never breaking, and in the end is just worth it, really worth it.

We also have more hope. We hope somewhere else there is a Mom and Dad raising a son who will capture our daughter’s heart, who will make her swoon and who thinks our daughter is the best thing going. We hope this young man’s parents are teaching him to be honest and to listen and value what others think. We hope they are teaching him to be patient and forgiving of others and himself. We hope they are teaching him that while appearance is a surface thing it is truly what is in someone’s heart that accurately measures what kind of person they really are. We hope they are praying to God and teaching him to pray to God for someone who can love him for the flawed person he is. We hope that they are teaching him that a promise made between a man and woman to love one another forever is made together, not taken lightly and in God’s presence.

If she brings a young man home tested in these ways then letting her go will be a bit easier.

I imagine my heart will still break.

The Rhythm of Falling Leaves

After summer has slipped into autumn but sometime before winter wedges into the world, I find it my duty to rid our yard of every leaf imaginable. Prior to our marriage when Jennifer and I went house hunting there were so many things we wanted in the place we would live. Once we found that one certain place and landed here, then we found ourselves living with what we wanted but also with whatever else came along with what we wanted. In this instance, we liked the yard, the trees in the yard and the trees that sat at the edge of our backyard that made an entryway and a boundary into the woods behind us. Now, each October and November those same trees hold leaves that turn colors and then let go and fall into the yard where they stack up and wait for the day I come along to move them along to a better place.

Lawnmowers, rakes and leaf blowers all become tools of my trade for this experience. No matter which tool I choose I still find it takes a long time to accomplish what I want to accomplish. Knowing this I have added one other tool to my arsenal of tools to tackle this task: my iPod.

On a recent Saturday afternoon I determined to spend time moving leaves from one location to another. I put on my work pants, my work shirt and layered it with a hoodie. I put on my work shoes and my work gloves and stuck my iPod in my pocket. I filled up an insulated mug with ice and a Coke, for an occasional break, then filled up the leaf blower with it’s own strange brew and set off on an afternoon adventure.

I primed the pump, ripped the handle and the staccato rumble of the Troy-Bilt backpack leaf blower filled my ears. So, I put my headphones in, set the iPod to shuffle my music and off I marched into the yard.

The backyard before...

The leaf removal process is a tedious one. That is why the music makes the job much more tolerable. A shuffling waltz from Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris started things and before I realized it, the leaves were blowing in every direction.

Looking around at how the landscape around our house had changed in the last few months from the vibrant greens to the more rustic browns and reds and yellows it just seemed somewhat appropriate, at least in some way, when the iPod began playing “Dead Flowers” by the Rolling Stones.

BB King and Muddy Waters brought in the blues for a few minutes. A Roger Miller tune had me laughing out loud. A sports podcast, dated by several years, filled the time for fifteen or twenty minutes before I realized I needed some music to keep my feet moving.

About that time, James Brown helped me out with his rousing rendition of “Get Up Offa That Thing”. If you could have spied into our backyard at that moment you may have seen me do a fake faint like Brown used to do on stage before whipping his robe off and getting back into his show. I may have even done a strange dance step or two, as if I were one of Gladys Knight’s Pips, as the music seemed to re-energize me.

Before I knew it Texas filled my ears with the music of Billy Joe Shaver. Dolly Parton’s exquisite bluegrass gem “Silver Dagger” played before the hard edges of Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers rattled through my headphones.

As I trudged on, growing weary and tired, the Georgia Satellites’ “All Over But The Cryin’” started. While I continued the effort to chase the leaves out of the yard, in my mind I suddenly found myself in an old red Dodge truck years removed from the moment with the windows rolled down rolling through the dark of night as if time had rewound and I was back wondering what had gone wrong in a relationship fated to memory. The bite of the cold air brought me around to the here-and-now and to the reality that the life I have now is better than some other road I may have almost traveled in the past.

As the monotony of the job at hand began kicking in again, Todd Rundgren’s “Bang On The Drum All Day” gave me some added juice to make the final push as the sun began to disappear behind the trees and mountains to the west.

As I walked the yard and driveway one last time looking for stray leaves with what seemed like tons of leaves pushed down to the woods’ edge, Don Henley’s “The Boys of Summer” began to play. I couldn’t help but think back to the fun we had the last several months in this very yard: Hannah playing on her swing set or running around the yard kicking an over-sized soccer ball or playing in her miniature pool or the late evening fire pit with flames reaching skyward while we fought the mosquitos over a s’more.

The iPod spoke to me with the lyrics: “A little voice inside my head said, ‘Don’t look back. You can never look back.” 

Somehow, when I heard those words I knew I was finished for the day. I forced the electronic music box to my grasp and turned it off on shuffle selection number sixty-seven then pulled the headphones out to let dangle around my neck. The crisp air bit at me through my sweat soaked clothes. I sniffed the air and smelled the perspiration mixed with the gas and exhaust from the leaf blower. I shed the motorized contraption from my back, peeled off my gloves and made my way inside our basement. Of course, I don’t live and die by the words of songs, so I went against Don Henley’s advice and I did look back because sometimes I can’t help but look back.

The backyard after...

When I looked back, I saw a relatively leaf free yard thanks to a few hours of hard work. This enabled me to look ahead just a bit, ahead to warmer weather, to spring time when the rustic tones give way to the neon greens and when a little girl is busy playing on her swing, when the fire pit spits out sparks and when the laughter of family and friends fill the air and rise to the budding green leaves on the trees. I look around one last time and realize I have spent a few hours ushering away the warmth and memories of the past spring, summer and fall into the encroaching arms of winter but knowing it has to be done so that if God is willing we can experience it all over again in a few short weeks.