The House on the Point, by Benjamin Hoff

Benjamin Hoff, who wrote The Tao of Pooh (which I liked) and The Te of Piglet (which I did not), has set out to rewrite his beloved Hardy Boys. I must begin by saying I have never read a Hardy Boys novel, only a couple of Nancy Drews, so perhaps this book is not meant for me anyway. Actually I enjoyed the story; not having read the original it was based on, The House on the Cliff, I think the reworking worked. However some of the lingo from the 40's and 50's is a bit unnatural to read and clusters around certain scenes rather than organically sprinkled throughout. His lists of items included in various kits are a bit tedious. Another minor annoyance is his tendency toward being pedantic and bemoaning the ills of an unenlightened society (which is why I did not like The Te of Piglet). He simply cannot resist trying to teach us a lesson and includes a 25 page essay on "The Art of Seeing" which I skipped because my @** was twitching. These annoyances oddly enough did not actually detract from the story. They simply highlighted Hoff's inexperience with period fiction.

Jon Nicholson, "A Lil Sump'm Sump'm"

Please regard this album cover.


There are definite impressions made, are there not? You expect a particular sound on this album, based on what you are presented with on this cover. At least I did. I expected, to be quite specific, redneck rap, another Bubba Sparxxx perhaps, white Southern hip-hop from the hills, that sort of thing.

I did not expect, nor was I emotionally prepared for, pop standards. If you are familiar with Michael MacDonald, former Doobie Brother and AT&T shill, you will have a very good idea of the overall sound of this album: jazzy, free-wheeling, with a saxophone on every single track.

That being said, however, the album is pretty enjoyable. Nicholson's lyrics range from quaint to downright cheesy, and it is not my typical first second or fifth choice of musical styles. But the final track, "Grandma" -- with backing vocals by Big & Rich -- is a special treat.

Doing no longer

Since I was pregnant I've been agonizing over something nameless. Even when I escaped the dreaded bout of post-partum depression (I think partly because I was fulfilling one of my true vocations) there was still a struggle muddling my happiness. Reading Parker Palmer's Let Your Life Speak today while my baby slept beside me, I finally had a moment of clarity.

Since Aidan's birth I've been trying to establish goals, guidelines, figuring out reasonable expectations of myself (and my husband). I was constantly tempted to compare myself with my idea of pioneer women as well as getting overwhelmed with interior design ideas. All the while trying to live by affirming beliefs about breastfeeding, attachment parenting, and spiritual/natural living. Essentially my unnamed struggle was between Doing and Being. I'm rebellious by nature and have always resisted labels put on me like dramatic, emotive, perky, muppet-like, a tease etc. What I was blind to were the labels I was creating for myself: strong woman, progressive catholic, musician, actor, feminist. It makes casual conversation less personal, less time-consuming if we can flash those titles into someone else's mind. But as my life changes there are labels I can't deny like wife and stay-at-home mom that don't create an accurate picture of my life in my own mind or anyone else's. This is not an original epiphany, but it is my current experience — the interior work of being right now blows away all those doing labels. When people ask how I'm doing I'm flummoxed because the answer isn't very interesting/telling — I did laundry or dishes (but I'm not a very good housekeeper) — I am doing some singing but that's not going to fill a Christmas card, neither is my husband's job switch from the romance of bookselling to something with more financial security. The struggle has been how to describe our being with a doing vocabulary and it has finally sunk in that I don't have to. I am still gifted and using my gifts but (and this goes beyond getting a paycheck) I can no longer hide behind labels to define my being.

So this year's Christmas card and hopefully my conversation will reflect this revelation. Let me tell you how I am. I am practicing being responsible, honest, intuitive, and graceful in ways that are challenging. I am beginning to align my head with my heart, "my insides with my outsides" (28 Days). I am not cooped up at home, my talents wasting away. I am vibrantly being, using the gifts I have in nameless ways, because they "must be given" (Palmer). I don't need to prove it by writing a mental resume. It is enough to be.

Life With Father by Clarence Day

In preparing for our latest storytime (for grownups) I reread Life with Father by Clarence Day. It must be read as a product of it's day, late Victorian New York, but even so I had to do very little in-my-head editing. The stories were written by the son for the periodical The New Yorker, appearing in the 1930's. As a child visiting my maternal grandparents I would watch the movie of the same title. It was a favorite there because the 'Father' was so like my own grandfather. Almost all of the stories make me smile, several make me chuckle, and my favorites make me laugh out loud and want to read it again.

Whole Child, Whole Parent by Polly Berrien Berends

This is one of those rare books I will buy whenever I see it (it's out of print) because I know I will want to give it to everyone I know. Even though I have yet to finish it I foresee reading it on a regular basis, even semi-annually. It is wise, non-judging, and true true true.

He is so beautiful it breaks my heart

[After working on this piece in some form or another for the past half-year, I finally offer it to the reading public. I considered back-dating it to sometime when these thoughts mind seem to "fit" into some kind of context, but then I thought, no: it's done, it's new, and you should read it right now. Enjoy.]

I have a son. Not particularly unusual, that, but I do want to make a big deal of it. I love him. I was certain that I would, even though things did not turn out as I had expected.

We had planned on a daughter, or at least I had, since I knew my wife dearly desired a girl for our first-born. She herself is the fourth generation of first-born daughters, and I wanted more than I have ever wanted anything for her to be able to continue that wonderful legacy.

But it was not to be, as she had suspected all along. And so, having planned for eight months or so that it would be a tiny daughter we would be welcoming into our lives, I had absolutely no idea how to react, how to feel, when a little boy emerged at the end of that heartbreakingly-long day.

My first reaction was acute disappointment for my wife's unrealised dream, followed almost immediately by overwhelming guilt for not being able to give her what I thought she wanted most. I was exhausted anyway at this point, so beyond exhausted into some other place that this additional weight of negative emotion was literally incapacitating.

But then I held him.

Those of you who know me will know that I am not the most masculine of men; aside from my natural ability to mimic the sound of flatulence with my armpit and my occasional urge to lie shivering in the woods and slay large gallinaceous birds with my own hands, I am somewhat lacking in stereotypical maleness, at least as commonly defined in this country we call ours. So the desire for a son was not a strong one for me. Yes, I wanted a child (at this point) and children (perhaps one at a time, like an installment plan). I looked forward to teaching them about life and the world and God, sharing with them the things and activities that most bring me joy, and generally sharing and facilitating their respective paths through life. All pretty non-gender-specific dreams. The whole "carrying on the family name" thing was pretty far down on the list of things that ever cross my mind; a quaint and useless fixation at best these days, and especially so for me, given the fact that my surname is an (apparently arbitrary) fabrication of the United States government, or some impatient agent thereof who could not be bothered to ascertain the actual names of yet another clan of Norwegian immigrants.

So I didn't want a son and heir. But there he was, and as I met him for the first time, my emotions were overwhelmingly, well, paternal. I kept saying to myself, over and over again in my head (although I was so tired at that point I could well have been saying it out loud for all I know) "I have a son." I have a son. I have a son.

I love him. I gaze at him now as he lies sleeping and wonder what will become of him, what amazing things he will see and do in his life, almost all of which stretches out into the dizzying distance beyond my poor sight. Will he love me, or resent me? Can I ever hope to be such a father as to deserve such a marvel for my son?

The Italian Secretary by Caleb Carr

This is a good story and an okay pastiche. There is a mildly worrying spiritualism about Holmes that is satisfactorily resolved. Watson is pleasantly sharper on the uptake (the possible result of tea brewed in one of Holmes' beakers?). Mycroft has most troublingly lost his aura of omnipotence; despite mentions of his genius, he is not much quicker than Watson and certainly no match for his brother. However the most telling point besides language nuances is the author's modern willingness to detail violence and perversity in Watson's voice. If you don't expect Doyle you'll enjoy the read.

Why not?

For those who have not met me I have (as my husband nervously admitted when confused and pressed) a dominating personality. Before I was aware of this about myself I would use my various talents to get anything I wanted, no matter how false. I have been aware of this quality (both weakness and strength) for quite a few years now and if I am not vigilant it will twist my strengths back into well worn weakness. My mantras for at least a decade have reflected the various ways I have needed to give up control: "let go and let God", "Breathe", "Let God be God", "Mercy", "Relax (your jaw)", "Release (your shoulders)" "Be empty", "Be still", "Be quiet", "Listen". The latest incarnation reflects my new role as mother, "Why not?"

Our son is 10 months old and finally has the means to become the physical manifestation of scientific inquiry. I try to keep his "laboratory" safe and vaguely ordered. Generally I can figure out his why's. Mostly my criterion for letting him do or not do something revolves around "Why not?" The not's revolve around safety, maintaining functionality (mainly of electronics) and keeping treasured books out of reach. The do's keep our toy budget way down - small stiff h.s. senior photo albums, laminated maps, and a million other found "why not?" objects.

This question "Why not?" has extended into his care as well. Why not change his diaper standing or draped over my leg face down and let go of my idea of his once docile way of laying on his back until I was done? Why not nurse on the go in every conceivable position (as long as it's not painful for me) and let go of our pre-nap snuggles from two months ago?

Most of my earlier attempts at self change were self imposed and sporadic. The efforts doubled when I had to face the consequences of inauthentic living. Coupled with my struggle to let go is my reticence to accept change. Every parent tells you "It goes so fast". You could also say "Constant change has never been so visible!" Parenting has been a (mostly) welcomed forced confrontation of change and letting go. Several times a day I question how I live, why I do things, why I do them a certain way, and if doing/thinking it another way would be more practical/truthful.

My epiphanies are only new to me and hardly revealed in a vacuum. I will try to keep a running tab on my reading material etc in flies and minnows.

Ikea

We are becoming Ikea people.

We long held out, not so much in the deliberate sense, like I held out for years from reading the Harry Potter series; we just didn't go. Friends would ask us: "Have you been to Ikea yet?" and we would say, "No, we haven't gotten out there yet. One of these days..." Of course, in those new-baby-without-a-car-to-take-him-places days, we didn't go anywhere we didn't have to go. It was a narrow cycle of grocery stores, doctor's appointments and the occasional visit to dear friends. Ikea seemed a long ways off, and what money did we have to spend there, anyway?

Well, we have been there now, and it is, I must say, pretty sweet. The prices are excellent (although there are certainly some prices I could not begin to sneeze at) and the quality seems pretty good (coming as it is from dirty Swedes). My wife and I agree that much of the Ikea "look" is not our "look"; we hanker more for classicism rather than contemporary Euro styling in our home. So I don't think we will be setting up any big Ikea items in our pad anytime soon. But for useful everyday things, the verdict is simple: we love Ikea!

Cod: Biography of the Fish That Changed the World by Mark Kurlansky

What a fine little book. I have been sitting on this for something like three years, and I finally dusted it off. I am not typically intrigued by matters of economic history, but this was just fascinating. Who knew a fish could be so important to the unfolding of a thousand years of world events? Although having grown up with a fifteen-foot statue of a cod at the entrance to my hometown, I might have guessed that something bigger than lutefisk was at stake. Highly recommended (the book, not the lutefisk, although I do enjoy a small bowl at Christmas).

The Men Who Stare at Goats by Jon Ronson

I don't usually go for paranormal-heavy conspiracy theory stuff, but I couldn't pass this one up. Imagine an ultra-secret Black Ops program to train American soldiers to walk through walls, achieve invisibility, and even have the power to kill a goat just by staring at it. According to Ronson's research, just such a program existed in the late 1970's, and his interviews with the various people involved indicate a renewed interest in such bizarre schemes as part of the War on Terror. An absolutely fascinating little book. I couldn't put it down for a minute, which is something that I haven't been able to say for a long, long time.

I am a father now

I am a father now. This is something that I have always wanted to be; even during the years I was studying to be a priest my thoughts were often turned to the family it appeared I would never get to have. And now here I am, a little baby boy asleep on my shoulder, a little person who will look to my wife and I for his every need for the next, well, for many years to come. This set of circumstances seems to have a particularly difficult time in seeming real to me. I am not in denial or anything, but this is taking more getting used to than I had expected.

He is a beautiful little fellow. I know this is because he looks so much like me, but it is still something I marvel at. He is an exquisite creation, with his tiny little fingers and toes, his toothless grin, his querelous hairless eyebrows. I treasure him, for I know that I am undeserving of such a wonderful charge. I hope I do not fail him, I hope he will not be disappointed when he grows up and learns that I am his father. I hope that he will love me, as I most certainly love him.

I am a father. I have a son. I am happy.

Heads on backwards

Why is it that whenever babies lie on their backs with their head turned to the side, it looks as if their heads are on backwards? It never fails, and it puzzles us.

We have a son!

Oh strange and overwhelming day! After the longest day I can ever remember, after unspeakable suffering on the part of my beloved wife, at half past midnight our beautiful little baby came out into the world. I cannot wait to tell you more about him, but there is a lot of sleep to catch up on first.