For something a little lighter, My friends Rhett and Link have another hilarious video.
Jethro Tull – Locomotive Breath – Listen free at Last.fm
Link: Jethro Tull – Locomotive Breath – Listen free at Last.fm
I heard this song on the radio on the way home from the hospital today. I’d have loved to be in the room when a producer sold to the concept of this song to a record label. Here’s how I imagine it going:
“We are going to start the song with a great instrumental-classical piano riff. Then, at the apex of the song, we will throw in an aggressive rock flute solo, that will really bring it home. I think has the potential to be the biggest song recorded by Jethro Tull, with the potential of being played for decades to come on the gritty classic rock stations…”
Just how I see it going down. Perhaps I need a nap.
Day with Daddy, or "How I got rice cereal out of an infant’s nose"
There are just some things that didn’t show up in the new daddy brochure. They warned you about diapers, about not sleeping, and about spit-up; but nobody ever mentioned the wonder of modern science known as the baby spoon.
I have watched Jacqueline feed little Benjamin rice cereal (which, by the way, seems to be a wholly inaccurate name for it, on par with calling meatloaf a “rib-eye”), and she is pretty adept at keeping it in his mouth, for the most part. At least the part that doesn’t go in the mouth goes south from there to the chin or bib.
I am more of an adventurer than that, though. I like to see how close I can get cereal to going in his eye, all the way to his sinus cavity, or into his diaper. Like an x-games athlete, I am into the extreme sports. Yesterday he spit cereal at least 10 inches onto his new high chair tray. It’s cereal, daddy style.
The problem is my spoon technique, I think. The “what the heck am I doing” face I make during the process doesn’t help, but instead makes little Benjamin laugh while there is food in his mouth, turning said food into a projectile. At which point I laugh, thus exascerbating the problem.
Then, once I get the next spoonful near his face he decides that it would be an appropriate time to try out the new head-bang maneuver he’s been working on, and plants his conveniently spoon-sized nose into the cereal. The shock of it on his face causes him to inhale violently, and we have a problem. See, his nostrils are far too small for me to get anything out that has gone in. Being the resourceful guy my wife married for wit, charm, and reasoning skills, I decided to utilize a device small enough to dig out the misappropriated mush, little Benjamin’s pinky finger. Seemed like a logical choice at the time.
To make a long story short, don’t try that. Trust me, you’d rather leave the mush in there. He still controls that little finger, and once you get it wedged in there, he closes his hand in a fist, and then gets mad because somebody is squeezing his nose.
All in all, daddy day yesterday was really fun. I thought I’d share one of the more comedic moments with you. Now, to go and update that brochure…
Dad’s Revenge.
Dad, this post is for you.
Around 3 AM this morning, I passed a new milestone of life.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. The story starts 12 years ago. It was a Saturday morning. Being a 16-year-old kid, Saturdays were sacred. Our school board was under the mistaken impression that it was smart for older kids to go to school earlier than younger kids, and so my weekdays started at 6 AM, and I was showered and sitting behind a desk by around 7:40. I longed for Saturdays.
My dad has a great sense of humor, and having purchased top-of-the-line stereo systems for both my older brother Andy and myself, knew just how to put them to use on this particular Saturday morning. Around 7 AM he sauntered into my room, pilfered the remote control to my stereo, tuned the radio to his favorite bluegrass station, and gave the volume knob a good whirl. He had already done the same in Andy’s room, and for good measure he had also turned the stereo in the living room (with the two-foot-tall speakers sporting a rear-ported 12-inch woofer in each one directly through the wall behind my head) to the same loving tones of banjo, dobro and high tenor. There are some things that two pillows can’t muffle.
Yes, on Saturday morning I ended up not-showered and sitting behind the steering wheel of a lawn mower by 9 AM.
But the curious thing is that Dad always called it “just getting payback for all the times you got me out of bed.” And I never really knew what he was talking about. Sure, he had explained that when I was younger I woke him up. But there is a difference between being told the stories and living them.
Last night I lived it. Benjamin is on an antibiotic that we think is the culprit keeping him awake at night. He sat wide-eyed and staring at me from about 1:55 AM until 3:07, when I passed the milestone, and got to see a glimpse into my father’s world. In addition to that time, he probably sat awake for more than 3/4 of the rest of the night.
So here’s to you, Dad. I think we can call it even now. I’m shopping online for stereos for my son’s room.
Just as I am, without one melody.
On Saturday night I had a worship-leading experience that was totally new to me. We were participating in an outreach with Blanket Appalachia, and about 150 of us (approximately half youth, half adult) gathered at the end of it to share what God taught us, etc. There was also a speaker who shared with us from the word. Standard Christian pep rally. Good stuff.
I was sitting literally on the second-to-last row in the rural Baptist church sanctuary, playing solitaire on my phone waiting for the meeting to start when one of the leaders of the shindig leaned over the pew in front of me and asked if, while we waited on someone to show up I could lead folks in a few songs. Not a problem. I’ll get my guitar.
Three hymns later (the words are in the hymnal that way, and I only have to remember chords—which I did a woeful job of, as I am addicted to lead-sheets) I retreated to my spot on the second-to-last row and focused on staying awake (we’d had a really long, really good day, and I didn’t know how much preachin’ I could handle).
When we got to the end to the “every head bowed, every eye closed” portion of the event, I cheated and kept my eyes open so that I didn’t fall asleep and knock my head on the back of the pew in front of me. The preacher got done praying and we all stood (he asked us to). He pointed at me and asked if I could come down and lead the group in a few verses of “Just as I am” while he did an altar call. Actually, more accurately, he just pointed at me and then motioned the “come up here” two finger deal while explaining to the entire group that we were going to sing “Just as I am.”
Let’s pause now and cover the basic information that makes this an awkward situation. I grew up going to a Methodist church, and now I go to a Presbyterian church. This is an entire room full of Southern Baptists, who have sung “Just as I am” (all 295 verses) at every event they’ve ever been to. I’ve sung the song “Just as I Am” roughly three times in my life, and exactly zero of those times involved standing in front of a group. Nothing against the song, I just don’t have it on my iPod.
At this point, walking forward, I am flipping frantically in the hymnal to find the song so that I can at least sight-read a few of the notes. There is suddenly a pang of regret at not having paid enough atention during the sight-reading portion of music classes growing up.
I am literally blanking on the melody of this song.
To my utter joy, I learned that there was going to be a piano player helping me, as I got to the front of the room. I silently prayed that as a prelude he would play all the way through the verse, and not just do the typical “last line of the song” lead-in. I intentionally didn’t look back at him for a cue when to start, silently hoping that some loud singer in the back of the room would bail me out.
God in His grace provided just that. I was bailed out by a handful of people who could probably tell I was in a “worship-leader-as-hostage” situation. I missed about 5 notes in the first verse(singing just barely audibly), but by verse 4 I pretty much had it down well enough to sing at a reasonable volume without fear of serious embarrasment.
It’s funny how I react to situations like that. I am so insecure, under my facade. I’d like all of you to think that I have it all together. And I’m pretty good at it. I’d wager that 70% (or more) of the room was unaware I was even nervous. I’ve got a good mask. And when my mask starts to crumble off I make a joke to distract you from that fact. Clever.
I long for the day, in heaven, where I will be able to truly worship the Lord without pretense. Until then, I’ll just come to the Lord as I am, without one plea.