Thoughts and Musings on Faith, Music, Family, Life

I'm Thankful (the newly-lit back porch edition)

So I just finished installing some pretty sweet lights on our back porch. Listening to an old R.E.M. album and staring at an empty blog post screen.  I know I gave myself permission to not feel obligated to blog as frequently, but I have this feeling that something's percolating.  For some reason I feel compelled to blog about what I'm thankful for, which is strange because I already did the same sort of thing a few Thanksgivings back.  But this will be different. 

I'm thankful for porches.  Even it it's on the back of the house and not on the front, like they used to be.  You ever notice that?  Check out homes built before the 50's - porches on the front.  That's because porches were the primary place of social interaction, long before phones and television and a little thing called Facebook.  You sat out there and talked to people as they walked by - or talked to people beside you and across the street as they sat on their front porches.  Around the 60's, though, in the midst of suburbia flight, porches found their way to the back of the home, and yards became fenced in, as privacy and solitude took precedence over chatting it up with the neighbors.  I guess I'm a front-porch guy at heart.  But I'm still thankful for porches of all kinds. And it helps if they have cool new lights.

I'm thankful that my youngest son loves sports.  I guess he really got into it a few months ago, for some reason, right around the NBA playoffs. I've never been a huge fan myself, but I do love talking sports.  Now, finally, I have someone to talk to.  Every day he'll wake up and want to check last night's score, and who scored how many points.  Just now, in fact, he came out on the porch to give me an update on the Heat-Celtics score.  It's 24-16 Heat, but by the time you read this it'll be something different.  And if you ask my youngest, he'll be happy to tell you what it is.

I'm thankful that my oldest son does what he loves doing.  This is his second year taking dance lessons, for example.  He had his dance recital last weekend.  They all did a great job, of course, but I couldn't help being biased about my son.  What can I say, I'm his father.  I think what impressed me most is that, out of a hundred kids or so, he was the only boy in the bunch.  The only one.  Friends, that takes guts that I sure didn't have when I was 9.

I'm thankful for my wife.  For one thing, she was the one who came up with the genius idea about the porch lights.  I still had to install them, but the idea had to come first.  She also made breakfast for dinner, which was pretty awesome.  She's also a phenomenal parent, especially with my crazy schedule and all.  Exceedingly patient.  I hope our boys realize one day what an exceptional mother they have in her.  I know I do.

I'm thankful for Words With Friends. Except when it's the end of the game and I get stuck with a "Q" or "Z" I can't use.  That stinks.

I'm thankful for good long runs.  Well, "long" is relative, I guess.  I'm not like those crazies that can knock out 15 miles on a lunch break.  I'm thankful that I can run what for me is a long way. 

I'm thankful for "Fall On Me" off R.E.M,'s "Life's Rich Pageant.  Phenomenal tune. 

I'm thankful for June evenings when it's past 9pm and there's still a faint light in the sky.  And then the sun rises before six in the morning. Long days are the best.

I'm thankful for people who, in their own special way, remind me of life's priorities, and what is most important, and how I tend to over-inflate the importance of things that are not.  And how they remind me of all of this without even trying.  You know people like that?  They're good to keep close at your side.

I'm thankful for cool summer evenings on my newly-lit back porch, eating a late dinner with my oldest son who just got home from "Seussical" practice, hearing yet another update on the Heat-Celtics game from my youngest son. Yep, life on the newly-lit porch is not bad.  Not bad at all.

My sports purgatory

We've had some snow and ice today; schools were closed and the family has been hanging out at home all day.  It's been a nice break from the mad dash to the finish line known as Advent and Christmas.  It's given me a chance to catch my breath.  And it's allowed a stark reality to finally catch up to me; one that I've been avoiding and suppressing for months now:

My sports teams stink.

 I mean, really stink.  As in, there are really no redeeming qualities whatsoever about them.  Across the board, the football and basketball teams I annually pledge my  allegiance to have not only demonstrated their astounding ineptitude over the past four months.  They've come to redefine the meaning of the word.

Every weekend, it seems, I'm reminded of this unpleasantness in new and astounding ways.  The latest installment came this morning when I opened the sports section of our newspaper (which more and more feels like opening my graded college calculus exams) to learn that my Wake Forest Demon Deacons basketball team had eeked out a 69-67 win against the hoops juggernaut known as the University of North Carolina at Greensboro.  Just in case you don't know, the Spartans play in the Southern Conference and brought an 0-8 record into last night's game.  The only reason they lost their ninth is that they turned the ball over in the final seconds.  Wake, meanwhile, sits precariously at 6-4, with three of those losses coming to Stetson, VCU and Hampton.  And the brutal ACC season is just around the corner. Ho ho ho.

Things haven't been much better on the football front, either.  You really don't know the first thing about football frustration unless you happen to be a Wake Forest/Carolina Panther fan.  Know how I know this?  Their combined record so far this season is 4-25.  That's not a lot of happy Saturdays and Sundays, folks.  Wake came out of the gate fast but promptly lost ten in a row.  The low point was probably the 62-14 thrashing we suffered at the hand of Maryland one day before Halloween. Scary indeed. 

At least Wake has managed to look competitive in some of its games, which is more than can be said for the Panthers.  Oh, the Panthers.  Each week they seem to find new ways to engage futility - like the one game where all three game-roster quarterbacks were rookies, or the other where they were outgained in first quarter-yardage 115-6, or the game where they were up 24-0, only to let the other team score 31 unanswered points. About the only thing the Panthers are excelling at these days is the race for Cam Newton or Andrew Luck and the top pick in the draft - a nebulous reward, but at this point you're inclined to see the silver lining in even the darkest gray.

I'm not much of an NBA fan, but even if I were I wouldn't have much to cheer for.  After finishing last year at 44-38 and making the playoffs for the first time in franchise history, the Charlotte Bobcats suffered a terrible blow.  Meaning, Michael Jordan became the majority owner.  So far that's brought them a 9-16 record and a mess of team discontent.  Meanwhile, castoff Raymond Felton is practically redefining the point guard position for the New York Knicks.

I am well aware that there are many things in life more important than sports; and it's easy to offer a shrug of the shoulders and echo the sentiments of my eight-year old when he sees me moping around the house in a sports funk: It's just a game, Dad.  True, it is just a game.  But with all out there in this world that can drag you down - a sluggish economy, a government that won't play nice, Palin's kid making it to the finals of Dancing With The Stars - sports are supposed to be there to pick us up.  Sports should help us transcend the dull mundane existence of our everyday lives with things like victory, success, conquest, teamwork.  Sports are meant to be inspiring tales of women and men putting their God-given gifts to use, coming out on top and taking us along with them.

But not for me this year, it appears.  It seems that I and other Demon Deacon/Panther/Bobcat fans are destined to remain in sports purgatory for the forseeable future.  Which means I may have to actually start watching hockey.

5K glory

I ran a road race today for the first time since I was 14 years old.  I had a little stomach thing yesterday (note to self: if you don't know the expiration date of the yogurt in the back of your fridge, don't eat it) and it was a tad chilly this morning. But that's the idea: they don't call it the "Rosy Cheeks 5K" for nothing.  Our registration fee was an unwrapped toy that will be given this Christmas to a needy child in our community.  Tis the season, folks!

I got a little caught up in the emotional of it all at the very beginning - adrenaline pumping, cheerleaders cheering (yes, middle school cheerleaders!) and just the general excitement of my first race in such a while.  So I went out a little faster than planned.  That last mile was no fun, but I was determined to keep my pace.  Thankfully, the course had very little hills.  Finished at 25:00.  This being my first race in almost 30 years, I can live with that.

My wife was running her second race, and after basically not running for a month she added only a little over a minute to her time from her first race two months ago.  Not shabby at all.  In fact, I have her to thank for getting me back into the running thing after lo these many years.  I've lost some weight and I feel great.  Thanks, dear!

Now it's time to go sit for three hours with the family at the Nutcraker performance in the big city. I can only hope I'll be able to get out of my seat at the end of it.

The Lindsley Racers

Younger ran the 1/4 mile Fun Run, Elder ran the half-mile Fun Run.

And a special shout-out to the wife, who ran her very first 5K!

My theory about the Tobacco Road rivalry

In the aftermath of Duke's nail-biting victory over less-heralded Butler in this year's championship game, I'd like to take this time to share with you a theory that I've been developing for years now; one that has come to me after much first-hand observation; one that I am 100% certain is completely accurate:

Carolina fans get more excited about a Duke loss than a Carolina win.

It's true.  And I can say this about our state's most heated collegiate rivalry because, as a life-long resident of the Old North State, I am and always have been an unbiased observer.  Raised a Wolfpacker, I saw the light and spent four wonderful years in the Holy Land known as Wake Forest University.  We are truly the forgotten step-child in the North Carolina ACC family tree.  It is a common sight to go to a sporting goods store and find paraphernalia for the other three ACC schools and not Wake Forest - even in Winston-Salem.

But I digress - I'm over it.  Being a Wake fan is a beautiful thing; if nothing else it teaches you humility.  When I was in college we had our own cheer for the football team: Up the middle, up the middle, up the middle, PUNT!  Up the middle, up the middle, up the middle, PUNT!  Very effective (and accurate).

Alas, this post is not about my beloved Deacs.  It's about this theory of mine.  I really believe it is true, based on all that I see and hear.  Take, for example, the Facebook status and Twitter streams on two recent occasions: one, last Wednesday, right before Carolina played Dayton for the NIT Championship; and two, last night during the Duke-Butler game (and yes, I know this is not anything resembling a scientific study of sorts, but bear with me).  The first was practically a non-event: out of all the Carolina fans I'm Facebook friends with (and it's a lot), there were maybe two or three posts cheering their beloved Heels on.  Granted, it was the NIT, a year removed from taking top honors in the Big Dance, and following a lackluster season that sapped the life out of even the most hardened fan.  Still, it was a championship game, and it was the Tarheels; one of the most heavily fan-supported teams in all of college nation.  Barely a ripple in the vast Facebook/Twitter land.

Compare that to Monday night, when Butler was giving the Blue Devils a serious run for their money.  The Baby Blue were rabid in their excitement about the possibility of a Duke loss - and not just any loss, but a loss in the championship game against someone they were supposed to beat handily.  You would've thought every Carolina fan had suddenly morphed into a Butler grad, the way they were posting status updates and tweets.  Alas, Butler did not beat Duke, which only served to make Carolina fans want Duke to lose even more.

I know you can't totally draw such a conclusion from this one instance; it's not fair.  Carolina fans are rightfully bitter at their ridiculously-disappointing season by their high standards, and just the thought of their most hated rival being crowed national champions a year after their own turn in the limelight is enough to make even Ramses hang his horned-head in shame.  But the thing is, it's not just this one incident.  I've noticed this for years and years.  Even in stellar seasons like last year, Carolina faithful would greet a win over a top-ranked team with a shrug, as if to say, Yeah, well.....  But once they heard the sweet, sweet news - Duke lost! - their response was much more animated.  They clapped, cheered, smiled.  They took noticeable satisfaction in another team's misfortune.

I've tried to bring this up to my dear Carolina friends and their response typically falls in one of two categories: the first is a stark denial of the assertion, usually followed by disdain that I would even mention such a thing. Of course they love it when their team wins, why would I ever question that?  I must be honest; it has all the marks of a defense mechanism.

The other response is a simple nod of the head as if to say, Yeah, I'd agree with that.  No disagreement or contention.  It's the way it is, so why try and deny it?

And I'm not saying anything's necessarily wrong with this; just strange.  Taking pleasure in someone else's misfortune.  But that's the nature of the Carolina-Duke rivalry and its storied tradition.  And it is so rich and deep that a book has been written about it.  I've been surrounded by these stories all my life.  I think my favorite is the one I heard a few weeks ago on ESPN; a former Duke basketball star now sports broadcaster.  During his playing days he found himself in a grocery store near Chapel Hill (the two campuses are separated by mere miles) and came upon a cute little girl around four years old, decked from head to toe in a Carolina cheerleader outfit.  She stopped still and started staring at him.  He moved toward her with a smile on his face and she recoiled, letting out a huge scream.  She then proceeded to call him by his name and told him in no uncertain terms that he sucked, that his team sucked, and that Carolina would whip Duke in the game next week.  Four years old.  It starts young.

Which is why I'm proud to be an unbiased observer of all of this, even if I don't have a team to root for very long in either tournament.

Why Joannie Rochette is better than Brett Favre

Each Olympics has their amazing stories, their high drama: the Tonya Harding/Nancy Kerrigan battle in 1994, the underage Chinese gymnasts in 2000, the death of the Georgian luger and the major "oops" made by the Norwegian speed skater coach this year.  It's a big reason why we are so drawn to these games every two years.  But every now and then there is a story that transcends the sport itself - one that reminds us that these are not just skaters or gymnasts doing their thing every four years for their country and for our entertainment.  They are human beings.

Witness Joannie Rochette, Canadian figure skater in the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics.  By now I imagine everyone has heard her story.  A decorated athlete in her country and in her sport, Rochette entered the Olympics poised to win a medal - which she did, taking the bronze.  But the path she took to get there was far more difficult than the two ladies who stood higher on the platform.  Two days before her short program, Rochette's mother died suddenly of a heart attack. She was in Vancouver to see her daughter skate, as she did every one of her competitions.  Rochette got a frantic phone call Sunday to rush to the local hospital.  Instead of seeing her mother alive she viewed the body.  48 hours later, she was scheduled to take the ice in the women's short program.

There is precious little Rochette and I have in common.  I am, obviously, not a woman.  I lived in Canada for a few months when I was a kid, but I'm not Canadian.  And the few times I've taken to the ice were disasters compared to what this young lady can do on it.  We do have one thing in common, though; something we have in common with lots of others.  We have Moms and we love 'em.  And in this particular situation I cannot fathom how Rochette kept skating.  I know this is what she'd spent the last four years working for and everything, but it is hard to imagine the strength and courage it took to do such a thing.

In the end she did so, according to her interview with NBC's The Today Show after winning the bronze, because in the immediate aftermath of her mother's death, while still in shock, she made a promise to herself that she would skate.  And even though many doubts crept in over the following 48 hours, she felt like she couldn't go back on her word.  She did it for herself, her coach, her father (also in Vancouver) and for her country.  And most importantly, she did it for her mother.

So she skated Tuesday night, which I missed.  But I saw the video and pictures of her after the skate, the tears overflowing, the standing ovation.  Two days later she took to the ice again for the long program.  She was in the top six, the last group to skate, all vying for Olympic medals.  The odds were stacked heavily against her. The young girl from Korea was freakishly good.  The long program is nearly twice as long as the first; a crazy test of combined endurance and grace.  She was on home soil, always an added pressure.  And she was still bearing the heavy emotional burden of her mother's death in a sport where heavy emotions of any kind can spell disaster.

I watched her skate - according to the NBC commentators, who one assumes knows what they're talking about, it was a very clean skate.  The emotions weren't as visible when she finished, but she still got another standing O.  And in what will be for me THE image of the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics, Joannie Rochette looked heavenward and blew a kiss to the air, presumably to her mother, before doing the same to her father in the stands.  When all was said and done, Rochette scored enough points in the two programs to take home the bronze.  It could be argued that no figure skater in the history of the Olympics was more deserving.

No one would've faulted Rochette if she bolted Vancouver the second that bronze medal was draped around her neck.  Instead, she stayed.  She did a couple of interviews with NBC the next day, where the topic of conversation was not just her bronze medal-winning skate but how she managed to do it in light of her grief.  In each of the interviews she demonstrated amazing fortitude and grace, speaking openly and without reservation about the journey she had been on.  Bob Costas, one of the most seasoned interviewers of our generation, seemed in awe of the 24-year old.

Rochette is certainly not the first athlete to play the game despite the loss of a parent.  Who could forget that brilliant Monday night football game in 2003, when then-Green Bay QB Brett Farve led his team in a rout of the Raiders just one day after the death of his father?  It was amazing.  And not just because he threw for 399 yards and four touchdowns - a stellar game for any QB - but because he did so under the circumstances.  I was in awe of Favre that night; still am.

But the thing is, Favre had fifty-some other guys with him.  He had linemen to block for him, receivers to catch his passes, running backs to take the heat off.  He had a defense who held the opposing team to a single touchdown. Not to diminish his accomplishment or his pain that night, but he was surrounded on the field by a band of gridiron brothers who most certainly played above-average inspired football, seeing the agony their leader was going through.  As amazing as Favre was in that game, he had a lot of help.

This past week, Canadian figure skater Joannie Rochette didn't have any teammates out there helping her complete triple axels and toe loops, all the while balancing ever-so precariously on two thin metal blades.  As she took to her playing field it was just her and the crowd and the millions around the world watching her on TV.  And she did it not once, but twice.  Both times, Rochette was on the ice all by herself. 

Well, I take that back.  Perhaps her mother was there with her too. A winning combination for sure.

The Real "Glee"

So I watched Glee for the first time the other night.  Afterwards I was informed by people who'd know that it wasn't the best episode and probably not a good one to start with. I imagine they're right.  But still - and with all apologies to my "Gleek" friends out there - I'm just not feeling it.  That's okay, though, because you thought I was nuts for getting into Battlestar Galactica, didn't you?  So we're even.

I imagine that a big part of my ambivalence has to do with the fact that I was actually in our school's Glee club.  And in the same way that football players couldn't get into Friday Night Lights or I never found much reason to read the At Home in Mitford series (about a small-town pastor), it's hard to get excited about a fictional situation that bears a striking resemblance to your real life.  You're already "living it," you see, so what's the point?

We actually called ours a "show choir," which I think sounds better than "glee club."  Think of it as a solid choral ensemble meeting Dancing With The Stars.  We worked equally hard to perfect our four-part vocal arrangements as we did the dancing/choreography.  Trust me, it's a lot harder than it sounds.  And it was a big deal in our school, with around 200 kids in three or four ensembles.  "Carolina Spirit" was the top group and involved a significant time commitment.  It was also a pretty well-traveled group.  I'm not talking about the annual appearance at the local mall, either.  Every year we participated in a regional event in Harrisonburg, VA.  There was also a trip to Pasadena, CA my junior year (including a performance at Disneyland), and another one to Chicago my senior year - both national competitions, both in which we placed in the top three.  

All of which looked nothing like what folks see Wednesday nights on Fox.  There was weight training involved - important when the guys were lifting girls in the air and swinging them around (they tend to prefer that you not drop them).  I already mentioned the hours and hours of rehearsals - not just with vocals but with choreography, down to standing in front of a huge mirror to make sure that thirty-some people have their movements perfectly synched.  And unlike the current TV show (at least the little I've seen of it), there was actually harmony with the jocks, and we had some members of the gridiron in our fold.  So there were no purple slushies.

Here, see for yourself - a video of Carolina Spirit doing their thing a few years after my time (okay, more than a few :)

(note: if you're subscribing to this blog via email the video may not show up - so check it out here).

I realize open talk about this sort of thing typically invites some level of ridicule, especially toward the guys.  Go ahead if you must - it's nothing I haven't heard before.  Chuckle at the sequins and stage makeup, at the dancing and the white shoes.  To which I say a heartfelt, "Whatever."  The fact is that I wouldn't trade this time in my life for anything.  I made some of the best friends in my life, many of whom I keep in touch with to this day.  Thanks to this experience the stage is a second home to me rather than a source of anxiety - something that comes in handy doing the music thing these days.  I'm quite at ease in front of groups, which means I'm pretty comfortable behind the pulpit on Sunday mornings (but sorry FPCMA folks - no jazz hands).  And the vocal techniques I acquired in all those years of training have proved invaluable in keeping my singing voice going strong.

So watch "Glee" if that's your thing - I may tune in from time to time.  But forgive me if I don't jump on the bandwagon.  The real thing is a whole lot better.

PS - I know there are a lot of show choir folks out there, including some "Carolina Spirit alum," and I'd love for you to share your stories in the blog comments below.  What are some of your memories?  How has your show choir experience translated to things you do in your adult life?  Let's hear 'em!

Introducing tomorrow's guest blogger - a.k.a., "The Man"

Normally I wouldn't do a full blog post to introduce a guest blogger.  But with my good friend Byron Wade, currently Vice Moderator of the Presbyterian Church (USA), I couldn't resist.  So many good memories....

These days Byron is pastoring in Raleigh NC and spending some time traveling our country in the name of all things Presbyterian.  Along with Bruce Reyes-Chow, PC(USA) Moderator, the two represent a remarkable turn in our denomination to younger leadership.  Since our church is inextricably interconnected, there is great truth to the expression, "Being Presbyterian means never really having to say goodbye." I've had the pleasure of knowing, to various extents, most of this new leadership.  We're in good hands.

Bryon and I spent a year together at the Presbyterian School of Christian Education, which was later federated with Union Theological Seminary, which soon will be changing its name to Union Presbyterian Seminary.  Progress, one hopes.  Back then, PSCE was a two-year graduate school that specialized in preparing those wishing to enter Christian Education or Youth ministry.  Byron was there for a year's study in the midst of his M.Div work; I was entering as a first-year student. 

The two years I spent at PSCE were some of the best of my life, and it pains me to know that others will not have that kind of experience.  I made the best circle of friends I've ever had; and even though we keep in touch loosely in the midst of busy church work and family, I still consider them my closest colleagues.   I had the pleasure of studying alongside some of the best professors - like the late Isabel Rogers, whose student affectionately called "Dr. Izzie" (herself a former moderator, pictured to the right).  She and the rest of the faculty impacted a generation of educators in ways they'll never know.

From the moment I met Byron I knew we'd be good friends.  Byron has a fun-loving, friendly personality; and his smile and laugh are infectious.  I can't remember exactly when it started, but at some point one of us said to the other, You da man!  To which the other responded, No, you da man!  This went back and forth for the whole year - in fact, we're still carrying it on today via phone calls, Facebook messages, Tweets, you name it.  I keep on trying to convince him that being the vice-moderator of a denomination has him most deserving of the title; he, in turn, keeps suggesting otherwise.

Byron was also part of what turned out to be my greatest moment of sports glory, but I'll let him tell that story.  Suffice it has something to do with football, graduate school and albino squirrels.  They do exist, you know - white as a sheet.  Here's an actual picture to prove it:

See, told ya.

Anyway, all of this is a very long-winded way of saying that Byron will be a guest blogger on Thoughts & Musings, more than likely tomorrow.  And a heads-up to FPC Mount Airy folks - Byron will be with us in worship on Worldwide Communion Sunday, October 4th, so make sure you're there.

Feel free to subscribe to Byron's Vice-Moderator blog here, even if you're not lucky enough to be Presbyterian.  Byron has a lot of great insight into matters of the church and faith.  He's also a great guy and I'm grateful to count him as a good friend. 

I'm also grateful to say, without reservation that he is indeed THE MAN. That's it, Byron, sorry.  End of discussion. :-)

Apparently I'm "Dad" now

It happened in the car the other day when I was driving the elder home from swim team practice.  It was around 6:47pm EST.  Mark the time.  It is the moment when my son, from the back seat of the car over my right shoulder, asked me what we were having for dinner that night.  But it wasn't what he asked me but how he asked me that caught me unprepared:

Hey Dad, do you know what's for dinner?

I was getting ready to tell him that Mom was fixing her wonderful spaghetti until time as I experienced it came to a screeching halt:

Dad.

Dad??  What was that?  DAD??

I mumbled the answer to his query but my mind was barely on topic.  It was hopelessly stuck in that moment 15 seconds prior and the noticeable change in nomenclature.

Dad.  Not Daddy, but Dad.

There come many moments in parenthood when you realize that your children are growing up.  When they first really smile at you as an infant and you know it's not the gas.  When they take their first step, say their first word (or something close to one).  When they walk through those school doors for the first time.  For the most part, though, you are semi-prepared for these shifts; so you learn to receive them with grace and thankfulness.

But no one told me about the day I wouldn't be "Daddy" anymore.

It's not like I thought I'd be one forever, of course.  Never pictured my high school graduate giving me a big hug and saying "Thanks Daddy."  Never envisioned his mother and I paying a visit to the family in their new house, our grandkids running around, and him saying "Welcome to our home, Daddy."  I knew the switch was inevitable - just not this soon.  Nowhere near this soon.

I mean, I've been "Daddy" ever since this little fella came into our lives six and a half years ago. Even before he could say a real word he was blabbering it's close derivative: Dada.  That's been my primary identity all these years - but apparently no longer.

And don't try to tell me the two are the same, cause they're not.  "Daddy" is the stuff of skinned knees from falling off the swingset, playing pretend rock band with a broom and pots and wooden spoons, and reading "Guess How Much I Love You" at bedtime.  "Dad" is something else entirely.  "Dad" is all about car keys and allowance and grown-up privileges.  Dad is how you're introduced to your child's significant other when they enter the picture.

Ugh.  When exactly did this happen?  What event precipitated this transformation?  I was chewing on this furiously as the car made its way home.  Maybe it came from school and being there with other kids, most of whom are a few years older than he - maybe he picked it up there?  Maybe from some TV show, perhaps?

And then it occurred to me that the truth of it all is that the kid is growing up.  He'll be seven in September - hard to believe.  We'd been to the dentist earlier that afternoon and he's got four loose teeth.  They were telling me not to freak out when the permanent ones come in and they look huge; adult teeth situated inside the head of a small but fast-growing boy.  He's playing t-ball and is signed up for the swim team.  He's talking about having sleepovers with his best buddy.  He's telling me what songs he wants on his ipod when he gets one (which is not anytime soon, I can assure you).  He's talking about Jesus and God being the same person and the difference is that Jesus "is kind of like a Transformer" - pretty astute theological thinking for a kindergartner, I thought.

My boy is growing up.  And I love it; I really do.  I love how our relationship changes and grows with age, and how we talk about different things now, more in-depth.  I love how we can have a real conversation about death and dying after watching Marley and Me; how he actually offers legitimate gift ideas for Mother's Day, how we can go from simply memorizing the names of the four dudes in U2 to which songs are off which albums and what instruments are played.  I'm not one of those parents who mourns every corner turned as their child moves forward on the path of life.  I'm a sentimental guy, but I'm also a realist; and I feel it's better to celebrate the changes rather than get all bent out of shape over them.

Still, there's something about suddenly being "Dad" that's just freaky.  Could he not have given me a heads-up, perhaps?  Hey, just wanted to let you know - from now on you'll be "Dad" and not "Daddy."  Would that have helped?  Probably not.

I guess there are worse things I could be called.  Never been a fan of "Pops," and "Old Man" is even worse.  There will probably be a time or two in the heat of the moment when I get called some unrepeatable name, so I better be thankful it's not that.

But still: Dad. Sheesh. The boy's growing up on me. They weren't kidding when they said not to blink.

A house divided?.....Pt. 2

You may recall this blog post back in the heat of the election season, about a house here in Mayberry on somewhat opposite ends of the political spectrum.  Literally.  Just to refresh your memory:

That's a McCain/Palin sign on the other side of the sidewalk, if you can't tell.

The blog, which you can read at the link above, was about how this husband and wife (he the Obama supporter, she the McCain fan) were able to acknowledge their political differences in a heated election without losing their cool with each other.  Which, incidentally, I thought was a lesson for us all, as we're well aware that politics is one of two topics that tend to divide people most emphatically (the other, of course, is religion - something I did not broach with this couple ;)

Well now we're past the election season, thank goodness, and on to another "season" known as March Madness.  So when I was driving by this same house yesterday on my way home from church, part of me wasn't all that surprised to find this:

 

Hmm.  I don't know if the Easter Bunny and "Ramses" the UNC mascot are necessarily polar opposites.  Instead I'm going to assume that this isn't an "either-or" thing but a "both-and" - husband and wife together supporting their basketball team, who happens to be playing for a national championship tonight; as well as the furry little fella who brings goodies on Easter morning (peanut butter eggs in my house).  Two worthy causes indeed.

And yeah, you heard me right, Carolina fans.  I, a true Demon Deacon, am in fact rooting for the Tarheels in tonight's game against Michigan State.  Call it the influence of being married to a Carolina grad (true love, I tell ya) and having another one for a brother.  Or the fact that my school has never been much of a tournament team, so around this time every year I have to morph into this nebulous creature called an "ACC fan."  I imagine it's something like kissing your sister, although I don't have a sister so it's hard to know what that's like.  But it sounds just as icky.

So I join with my wife, my brother, my house-divided neighbors (who are probably ready for me to stop taking pictures of their yard) and the rest of Tarheel Nation to say (and don't think this is easy for a Wake Forest fan to do) GO HEELS!

(until next year.  And then the Demon Deacons will kick your collective blue tails, along with everyone else in the Big Dance.  Maybe.)