...in 1 Corinthians 13, love is patient, kind, not jealous, and so on--this coming from the biblical purveyor of practical advice. The list, when read in its entirety, appears fairly comprehensive, but I think Paul intentionally glossed over his lack of experience in certain matters by nebulously hinting that love "endures all things." This is not to say the sentiment is untrue; on the contrary, love does endure all things. But, if Paul had been a parent, I'm sure he would have been more specific. For example, he might have said "love endures full-force projectile vomiting of curdled soy milk."
Yes friends, love does endure such unpleasantries when we speak of parental love, even if it brings about our own demise, because absent a toilet or bucket (Editor's note: you'll just have to imagine that eloquent phrase "better get a bucket. I'm going to throw up, " from Monty Python's Meaning of Life. Linky no worky. But, as I was saying...) ...no loving parent can hold an ill child at arm's length as if their little one was a leaking bag of garbage. No, the parental imperative to comfort requires that we hold them close and tell them it'll be ok, even if it means being coated from head to toe in partially-digested chicken nuggets.
According to our pediatrician, Bry's latest affliction has a viral "gotcha." Unlike most stomach bugs, which seem to pass in a mere 24 hours, this one pops up unexpectedly a day or two later just so you don't get cocky thinking you've beat it. Of course, I'm sharing in this experience, but my gastric training, honed by flying backwards in a windowless cockpit, has allowed me to control my vomitus urges. Fun.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Rock Star
My son is a rock star. No, not a Superstar (Editor's note: think Molly Shannon. The copyright nazis struck)... a rock star.
Dropping him off at preschool is like The Beatles at Heathrow. Ok, I expect a certain adoration on the part of the teachers; he is, after all, a damn cute kid. But, what defies explanation is his classmates' compulsion to swarm the little guy the moment he sets foot in the room. Every day we pause as we get to the classroom door. He peers through the window, gauging the crowd's temperament. "You ready?" I ask. "Let's do it" he responds, as if he's about to step out of a limo into a horde of paparazzi and screaming fans. The door swings open, and with it comes the cry "Bryaaaaaaaaan!!!" On cue, ten 3 year-old boys stop what they're doing, their heads popping up like little prairie dogs out of their burrows, followed by a mad dash to lay hands on King Julian (damn, they struck again!) of Room 502. At what age does the concept of the "personal bubble" take shape?
Dropping him off at preschool is like The Beatles at Heathrow. Ok, I expect a certain adoration on the part of the teachers; he is, after all, a damn cute kid. But, what defies explanation is his classmates' compulsion to swarm the little guy the moment he sets foot in the room. Every day we pause as we get to the classroom door. He peers through the window, gauging the crowd's temperament. "You ready?" I ask. "Let's do it" he responds, as if he's about to step out of a limo into a horde of paparazzi and screaming fans. The door swings open, and with it comes the cry "Bryaaaaaaaaan!!!" On cue, ten 3 year-old boys stop what they're doing, their heads popping up like little prairie dogs out of their burrows, followed by a mad dash to lay hands on King Julian (damn, they struck again!) of Room 502. At what age does the concept of the "personal bubble" take shape?
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