The following post has been going around Facebook over the past couple of days, and it is wrong on so many levels that I hardly know where to begin.

Shame on you America: the only country where we have homeless without shelter, children going to bed without eating, elderly going without medical needs & mentally ill without treatment-yet we have a benefit for the people of Haiti on 12 stations. 99 percent of people wont have the guts to copy & repost this.

Let me rebut this point by point:

1.    America is NOT the only country with people who are homeless, hungry, and uninsured. This is so blatantly false it would be laughable, if it wasn’t so scary that anyone actually believed it. Yes, we have our societal ills, but the United States has one of the highest standards of living in the world. There are many, many, many worse off nations where legions of people have no food, shelter, or medical care, with governments unwilling or unable to provide for these basic needs.
Edit: A family member pointed out that what this may be saying isn’t that America is the only country with these societal problems, just the only such country that held a benefit like this. Even if that interpretation is correct, it’s still a false statement. There is NO country free of such social issues, yet America wasn’t alone in hosting a benefit. The rest of my argument stands.

2.    Homeless shelters and food kitchens abound in this country, and no one who shows up in an emergency room will be denied basic medical treatment just because they can’t pay for it. Yes, there is a tremendous need in our country, and we are doing far from a perfect job of addressing those needs. I heartily applaud those who recognize that. But the fact remains that resources are there for those who truly need them in a way that they simply aren’t in many less developed nations.

3.    Some who are expressing so much concern for the poor in America right now are the very same people who complain bitterly about using tax money to pay for programs to help the underprivileged. They accuse such people of being lazy and living off the hard work of honest people. They want nothing to do with paying for legitimate assistance programs to aid those in need, just because some freeloaders may take advantage of the system. In my very humble opinion, this smacks of hypocrisy.

4.    What’s wrong with having a benefit for the people of Haiti in the midst of a national disaster? Haiti is a country with less than nothing, one of the poorest countries on the planet. They’ll never recover without the generosity pouring in from other nations. Besides, no one can say we haven’t done the same for our own people. There were similar benefit concerts following 9-11 and Hurricane Katrina!

When, oh when, did Americans become such elitists? God didn’t command us to only love other Americans. And He didn’t create the artificial international borders that we now use to insulate and isolate ourselves from the rest of the world. We’ve been blessed with so much. Why shouldn’t we share it with those in the most need, in a time of crisis? Where’s our Christian compassion?

Shame on you, America. Indeed.

The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of
the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’

—Matthew 25:40

She’s an interesting specimen, this creature known as the Papaya Monkey who lives in our home. We’ve been studying her in her native environment for the past 11 years, and our findings are puzzling. What follows are our extensive field notes.

Infancy:

From the moment of her birth this strange new breed of offspring captivated us, starting with her sweet smelling newborn breath. It’s an intoxicating scent this researcher still remembers, even now. No one had ever prepared me for that specific slice of Heaven on Earth. It was just the first of many ways in which the little creature surreptitiously captured our hearts. Despite frequent shrill wailing noises, the subject quickly endeared herself to those around her, as evidenced by cutesy nicknames applied by the researchers such as Maia Papaya and Monkey Maia, later morphed into the more common scientific nomenclature, Papaya Monkey.

Personal Hygiene:

Despite the maternal researcher’s early infatuation with the Papaya Monkey’s breath, over the years it has—how shall I delicately put this—not remained quite so sweet. She’s a pre-teen, and, um, she smells like one. It may be a form of reverse evolution, but we’re hopeful that this aversion to hygiene is only a temporary developmental phase. In a strange contradiction, we have noted in our field observations that when the Papaya Monkey does choose to bathe, she seems to enjoy the experience—at least judging by the extended length of time she is willing to subject herself to the flow of water from above. It is too early to draw a firm conclusion, but this behavior suggests the possibility that the subject believes length of  hygiene efforts can compensate for their infrequency. Her awareness that freedom from dirt and odor is directly correlated with daily cleansing may not yet be fully developed.

Personal Habitat:

The Papaya Monkey’s personal living space suffers considerably from the subject’s lack of attention. All available evidence points to a pervasive disregard for closets, drawers, shelves, and clothing hampers, with her bedroom floor being the location of choice to store all her personal belongings. We therefore regretfully conclude that tidiness may not be one of the Papaya Monkey’s dominant characteristics.

Dietary Habits:

The research subject exhibits low tolerance for foods that hold actual nutritional value. If there is any truth to the saying that you are what you eat, then the Papaya Monkey is unequivocally destined for a future as a chicken nugget.

Family Bonding:

The Papaya Monkey is a loving creature who freely dispenses hugs to her family members. She is particularly well bonded with the paternal researcher, who is nearly always willing to act as the subject’s playmate. The maternal researcher, when not assuming the role of disciplinarian, also enjoys close bonding time with the subject. Though the Papaya Monkey has historically had a close and protective relationship with her younger male sibling, she  currently exists in a state of occasional antagonism toward him, as well. The researchers believe this to be a symptom of adolescence and that she will eventually outgrow this undesirable behavior.

Peer Socialization:

The Papaya Monkey displays curious social habits when among peers. In a recently observed rare overnight gathering with other females similar in age—intended to celebrate the addition of another year to the Papaya Monkey’s life—researchers noted an excessive amount of giggling and generally high volume communication. The creatures also appeared to enjoy grooming each other by applying colored enamel to the nails on each others’ fingers and toes. All of which was extremely foreign to the Papaya Monkey’s younger male sibling, who complained frequently of the noise.

Adult Socialization:

In positive findings, our extensive research shows that so far the Papaya Monkey appears to have been properly domesticated with respect to adult interactions. The researchers frequently get glowing reports about her attitude and behavior from teachers, church staff and volunteers, and other parents. She is nearly always described as respectful, helpful, caring, and easygoing. Close observation reveals that the subject is also extroverted, confident, and a bit on the theatrical side. She is something of a ham, and not at all afraid to hold a conversation with adults.

Intelligence:

As the only specimen of the breed, we are still evaluating the Papaya Monkey’s full intelligence potential, but the data so far is encouraging. Reports from school are overwhelmingly positive, and she is particularly fond of social studies. The Papaya Monkey makes a “dream student” (according to the latest field information from her educational instructors) and appears to be particularly well informed in the history of explorers and conquistadors. She brings home straight A’s on her report cards, which suggests that she is more than adequately prepared for the academic rigors she faces. She has also demonstrated a consistent talent for winning a million dollars on the Nintendo DS version of “Are Your Smarter Than a 5th Grader.” She’s pretty smart, for a monkey. And for a 5th grader.

Conclusion:

All things considered, I think we’ll keep the Papaya Monkey. She’s a highly entertaining specimen to study, and she is evolving into a lovely young monkey, I mean lady. The researchers agree that she shows tremendous potential for a happy and productive (if cluttered) future. What more could a Papaya Monkey breeder ask for?

It’s no secret that I’ve always been the shy girl, so it should shock exactly no one that I like being an anonymous customer. I just want to get what I came for and go, with as little human interaction as possible. I bristle when the checker at the grocery store gets nosy about my purchases. I’m irritated by the restaurant server who wants to engage in friendly chit chat when it’s clearly interrupting the conversation I’m trying to have with my dining companions. I dread the sales associate who hovers when I am shopping for clothes. I want to flee from the mega-emporium employees who interrupt my browsing reverie to ask if I’m finding everything okay (except when I actually need their help, at which time they mysteriously disappear). And I’m embarrassed that the clerk at my local convenience store is on to my Smartfood addiction. If I could shop draped in Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak—so I wouldn’t have to fend off uncomfortable small talk with these well-meaning service providers—I probably would.

But a few nights ago, something happened which taught me that sometimes, being noticed has powerful benefits.

For the past three and a half years, I’ve been meeting regularly with my sister-in-law, Angie, for a biweekly Bible study. The vast majority of those meetings have taken place at a Chipotle restaurant we selected for no other reason than we both love Mexican food, and it happens to be more or less equidistant from our respective homes. For at least half that time, there has been one particular employee who has been there nearly every Sunday night. We chat with him regularly as we pay for our food, and he knows us by name. He notices when we miss a week. He’s been known to comp our sodas. Somehow, despite my best efforts at anonymity, I’ve become a regular. One might even go so far as to say that Angie and I are the Cliff and Norm of this upscale fast food joint. And it’s unfamiliarly reassuring to be on a first name basis with the guy who takes our money week after week.

What we didn’t know until this past Sunday was that he’s been paying attention to the purpose for these weekly visits. Our friendly host isn’t necessarily the kind of person you’d expect a pair of minivan-driving moms immersed in Bible study to have an impact on. With stretched earlobes, multiple facial piercings, and spiked beard, his alternative look might be more likely to inspire one to cross to the other side of the street than to strike up a conversation about God. But it would be a mistake to judge this book by his cover, because tucked into his unique brand of self expression is a sweet, quiet guy with a steady work ethic. I’d be willing to bet that this unlikely face of our Chipotle experience is very loyal to the people in his life.

So we were pleasantly surprised the other night when our Chipotle friend approached first Angie, and then both of us, with a prayer request. He said he hasn’t always been someone who prayed, but he is trying to pray for his girlfriend about a personal difficulty in her life. He asked if we would pray for her too, and also for him as he encourages her. Apparently he has been working up the courage to bring this up with us. For me, that’s a strange role reversal. Usually I’m the one standing in those shoes, wondering how to introduce a potentially awkward topic of conversation. I’d find humor in the irony, except that I recognize it as a universal feeling of self-consciousness. I know exactly how he felt.

Angie guesses it must be the subtle pink streaks she recently added to her hair that finally made us seem approachable. She may be right. I also think it’s no coincidence that this prayer request came on the very night we were studying from the book of Ephesians on the topic of—you guessed it—prayer. But whatever the reason that inspired our favorite cashier to open up, this small step has started a conversation we can now continue.

I learned from the encounter, too. Looking back, I feel shame that when Angie and I first began our meetings, I was bashful about studying the Bible in public. I am so thankful now that we persevered anyway, that I have not been invisible at Chipotle after all, and that our new friend there knows our names. I will honor his prayer request, and I will add to his petition the prayer that through our example, maybe he will come to truly know the most important name of all.

I got a letter today from my alma mater university, and I’m sure it had quite the opposite effect on me from what was intended. The 5-page letter sings the praises of the current freshman class, the class of 2011. There’s a lot to be proud of in this class, and I’m glad to see that my school is attracting brilliant and forward-thinking minds. Makes me feel smart by association. But the descriptions of the accomplishments and collective background of this body of students also left me feeling just the slightest bit unsettled. The class of 2011, at least at my alma mater, is full of brains and diversity and offbeat characters and lofty goals and important causes and confidence bordering on cockiness. But there’s not much at all of just being a nice, honest, humble, hardworking person. The letter left me wondering: What’s wrong with just being ordinary?

Today, I don’t think I’d stand a snowball’s chance of getting accepted into this school. I don’t have a plan to change the world, and I don’t have a plan to spurn it. I’m not the smartest or the funniest or the most politically savvy. I’m not a world or national or state champion in anything. Not field hockey or tennis or female wrestling or spelling or chess or the Irish tin whistle. I’ve never lived in a solar greenhouse in the Rockies or on a sheep ranch in Turkey or at a missionary in Kenya. I don’t speak four languages and I don’t hold any patents and my idols are not female oceanographers. My parents are not Nobel Laureates or famous chefs or CEOs of Fortune 100 companies or foreign ambassadors or in prison. I’ve never turned a piece of classic literature into a rap song or built a catapult to hurl pumpkins 700 feet. I’ve never ridden my bike 22 miles to reduce my carbon footprint. I was never a class president or a valedictorian or a captain of a varsity sports team or an editor-in-chief of my school newspaper. I’ve never been a llama handler or a beekeeper. My favorite book is not the Communist Manifesto. I do not think that the color of my nail polish is a metaphor for the impossibility of perfection. I’m not a left-leaning Buddhist from a conservative Catholic family. I’ve never wanted to be a god in the eyes of my followers. I’m not in search of self-identity. I mostly just want to give an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wage, and to be there for my family and friends. Judging by the class of 2011, this makes me far too ordinary to pass muster with the admissions committee these days.

Don’t get me wrong—I LOVE the eclectic diversity of this class, and some of the stories are truly impressive and inspiring. Some of these students have overcome incredible obstacles to get where they are and they are absolutely worthy of praise. It’s just that, amidst all this standing out and specialness, where are the ordinary people like me? The ones who play the piano and belong to the Spanish club and get voted “Most Shy”? Where are the late bloomers who haven’t known since birth what they wanted to do with their lives? And reading about accomplishment after accomplishment and how everyone is so busy being different and unique, I couldn’t help but notice that what seemed missing was heart and soul. These kids purport to care about the world, but I wonder if they’ll be so engrossed in getting ahead and pursuing global altruism and being “individual” that they’ll forget to care about each other. I just can’t help but wonder.

I don’t really know why this analysis of the class of 2011 struck me the way it did. I suppose it’s partly because I have a hard time recognizing my own 17-year-old self in it. And partly because some of the essay snippets that were shared in the letter seemed so self-aware that it almost defies credibility. And partly because I think accomplishments are sometimes overrated at the expense of happiness and personal contentment as a measure of success.

Some of the happiest people I know might consider themselves ordinary. And that makes them extraordinary. Whether my alma mater agrees or not.

4:31 p.m.: Anonymous subject parks in front of the pediatric dentist’s office, only one minute late for her daughter’s appointment to have two cavities filled. Subject considers this good timing, considering she has already turned around once to retrieve the cell phone left at home. The cell phone is a crucial piece of equipment for this outing as there is an extra kid in tow, and waiting time in the dentist’s office is to be efficiently used to plan a rendezvous with said extra kid’s mother to transport two of the youth to her house for overnight custody immediately following the fillings.

All these carefully planned details become immediately irrelevant at precisely 4:31 p.m. and 30 seconds when, in the tardy hustle and bustle of herding three kids out of the car while checking the weather to determine the need for an umbrella and simultaneously collecting reading material and a can of Diet Coke to settle in for an interminable stay in the dentist’s waiting room, anonymous subject drops the (open) can of Diet Coke directly in her lap.

Anonymous subject’s instantaneous reflexes prove no match for the fizzing Diet Coke, which soaks her shorts in exactly the spots one would expect had the accident been of a rather more humiliating “call of nature” nature.

Being already late for the dentist’s appointment, anonymous subject has no choice but to enter and pray no one will notice. Because surely the more she protests her innocence, the less likely people will believe the slightly yellowish wet spots in all the wrong places are really only Diet Coke.

Let’s be perfectly clear about one thing. Daddy never actually took the Mustang away; rather, he was the one who bought it for me. A brand-spanking new 1986 white Mustang convertible with a sporty red interior. License plate number AXC 76P. (It’s amazing, the trivial things the brain chooses to remember.) I wasn’t quite yet 16. I didn’t know anything about horsepower. But I knew I had a way cool car—arguably one of the most coveted vehicles in the Pirate parking lot. With those wheels, I should have been officially the coolest kid in school.

Yes, I was one of those privileged youth. Raised in a family that enjoyed a relatively high standard of living within the small town we lived in. I think, I hope, that I didn’t let it go to my head. The truth is, although we lived in a nice house, I didn’t have any more than my classmates in terms of flashy clothes or faddish trinkets or spendable cash. At school, the only obvious sign of my socioeconomic status was that car, and a prized possession it was, though I was careful not to show off too much. I didn’t want to be known as the spoiled rich kid. But the car spoke for itself and attracted new friends who were more than happy to hang with me as long as I would drive—in the way cool convertible, of course.

So the Mustang and I spent much quality time together with friends and, later, boyfriends, zooming all around town and beyond, top always down, with wind rippling through our hair. And all was blissful in Mo-land.

But as time wore on, I began to sense that some of my new “friends” cared more about being seen in the convertible than about being seen with me, while others resented my good fortune and really did see me as spoiled. Me, Most Shy, the girl who just wanted to get along. Still, a good-natured joke here, and a snide comment there, and before long it was clear that the cool car didn’t really make me any cooler. Or more popular. Though for the most part the teasing was harmless, and I took it as it was intended—in good fun.

Except it wasn’t always good fun.

I was sometimes teased by peers for not having to work. The implication was clear. I had the easy life, with everything—especially the fancy car—handed to me on a silver platter. The truth was, my parents placed much more emphasis on an education that would lead to a self-sustaining career than on a part-time job that would land me enough cash for the movies or the latest designer jeans. As far as they were concerned, unless I was making straight A’s, my time was better spent studying. Smart parents. Their push for long-term academic excellence in lieu of short-term “gotta have it” gain paid off.

Later, when I finally landed that longed-for first summer job as a waitress, eager to demonstrate a work ethic and establish an employment history, a catty co-worker, who also happened to be a classmate, informed me that my posh car was out of place in the employee parking lot. She then went on to say the thing that humiliated one sensitive and circumspect teen. She bluntly accused me of taking a job away from someone who “really” needed it. Typical, isn’t it, that the coveted dream car fed into an unjust stereotype and resulted in spiteful barbs?

Don’t get me wrong. I loved that car, which holds many fond memories, and I have long since forgiven the cutting remark, having attributed the scene to adolescent inexperience. But I still remember it clearly nearly 20 years later, word for word, because it taught an important life lesson that has stayed with me to this day. It taught me to appreciate the things I am fortunate enough to have, but not to bank my happiness or social acceptance on them. At the end of the day it’s just “stuff,” and only temporary stuff, at that.

Now, these many years later, my family and I find ourselves on the verge of buying a new home. It’s natural to want the best our budget will allow—the most space, the nicest accoutrements, a desirable neighborhood, a swimming pool for the kids. The suburban family version of “stuff.” Yet I find myself remembering the days of the Mustang, and reminding myself that our lifestyle is not about bragging rights or “keeping up.” It’s not about impressing our neighbors and friends or finding fulfillment in our accumulated possessions. It’s about wise choices tempered with modesty and respect, and remembering not to let the things we own define who we are.

And no, my kids will not be getting brand new convertibles when they turn 16. Pity them deeply, because their first cars will be big and ugly and safe. But they will still be the coolest kids in school, because their parents will have taught them it’s who they are on the inside that makes them stand out, not what they have or don’t have.

]]> http://accidentalthinker.com/2007/02/04/fun-fun-fun-til-daddy-takes-the-mustang-away/feed/ 11 http://accidentalthinker.com/2006/10/25/the-mighty-mighty-em-dash/ http://accidentalthinker.com/2006/10/25/the-mighty-mighty-em-dash/#comments Thu, 26 Oct 2006 00:56:57 +0000 Monique http://accidentalthinker.com/2006/10/the-mighty-mighty-em-dash/

Today, boys and girls, we take a brief time out from normal blogging for a little lesson in punctuation. Today, I’m going to educate you about the underutilized mark known as the em dash. Never to be confused with the lowly hyphen.

Folks, way too many people out there are using a hyphen or two (like this – or this –) when they mean an em dash (like this —) or maybe its cousin, the en dash (like this –).

So what is an em dash and why should you care? Humor me for a moment while I explain the difference. Then I’m going to teach you how to create these misunderstood punctuation marks for yourself.

A hyphen (-) is the smallest dash, except that technically, it’s not a dash at all. The hyphen, as it is accurately called, is used for compound words, to hyphenate words at line breaks, and to separate strings of numbers that don’t represent a range, such as your phone number (800-555-1234) or social security number (123-45-6789). Or you might use it when spelling out a word, like h-y-p-h-e-n. That’s pretty much it. Just about any other use of this key on your keyboard is incorrect, typographically speaking.

An en dash (–) is slightly longer than a hyphen. Often the same width as the letter N, to be exact. Hence the name “en” dash. It is generally used to connect ranges of numbers or related text. If you can substitute the word “to” in place of the dash, an en dash is your correct choice. For example, you would use an en dash for:

• pages (pp. 28–35)
• dates (Monday–Friday; November 2–5)
• times (8:00 a.m.–5:00 p.m.)
• Bible verses (Matthew 28:18–20)
• a relationship between two locations (New York–Los Angeles flight)
• sports scores, vote counts, and other number relationships (we won 27–2)

Sometimes the en dash can even be used instead of a hyphen, but consult your handy dandy reference manual for the precise rules around this. This blog post is not titled “The mighty mighty en dash,” after all—though there is a correctly used example of en dash as hyphen within this post, if you can spot it. In any case, only the punctuation nazis (that might be me) are going to notice if you sneak in a hyphen where an en dash is required. I’ve been known to do it myself, out of sheer laziness.

An em dash (—) is the longest dash, the width of the letter—say it with me—M. My beloved em dash is a super comma of sorts. It sets off a thought or phrase within your sentence in a way that is stronger than a comma, less severe than a colon or semi-colon, and less interruptive to your flow than parentheses. It’s not right for every parenthetical or explanatory thought—or even most such thoughts—but it has its place in the annals of punctuation. And it’s been overlooked by far too many people.

But that’s okay, you deprived non–em dash users. You have a good excuse. Do you even know how to create an em dash on your keyboard? I didn’t think so. Not many people do, unless they are power em dash users like me. You really have to love the em dash to go to all the trouble of adding one to your document. Lucky for you, I’m going to show you how. It turns out that our good friend Bill Gates has given us a few cumbersome, but not too difficult to remember, ways to do this.

By now, the observant ones among you are asking, “But what happens when I’m not using Word?” I feel your pain, fellow bloggers. I feel your pain. Like right now, for instance, as I write this blog in an application not dreamed up by the fine minds of Microsoft. Friends, now you know. For every em dash you have ever viewed on this website, I have painstakingly typed out the arcane combination of Alt+0151 (Alt+0150 for the en dashes). It was not easy, but for you, I have committed these cryptic numbers to memory.

Why do I bother, you might ask? True, it’s hard to be pro em dash in a blogging world, but I’m sticking to my guns. I care because I’m a perfectionist. Case in point: I have a friend who told me recently that she’s never seen a typo in my blog. Ever. While that’s giving me more credit than I deserve (but go ahead and try to find a typo that hasn’t already been found and corrected by me, I double dog dare you—a prize might be involved for whomever finds one first), I AM a stickler for the rules. Allowing for creative license, of course.

And also because I happen to like the beauty of the em dash. Two hyphens? Well, that’s just ugly. It’s fractured punctuation in need of repair.

A final thought on the em dash before I depart the subject. The use of spaces surrounding the em dash is often considered a matter of stylistic preference. My reference of choice, The Chicago Manual of Style, 15th edition, says no to a space between the em dash and the surrounding words. Others say differently. It’s up to you—just be consistent with whatever you choose. Your readers will thank you.

The velvet door rope might have been the first indication that this was no ordinary birthday party. The bouncer checking names against the VIP list before granting entry was likely the second clue. This celebration, after all, was an important affair, held in honor of the fact that Maia has reached the ripe old age of eight.

Really, who DOESN’T turn their living room into an invitation-only dance club for their daughter’s eighth birthday?

Those lucky enough to pass muster with the bouncer (dad) and bearing the appropriate cover charge (a birthday gift in fanciful wrapping) gained exclusive admittance into the newly monikered “Club Maia.” These privileged entrants were so acknowledged with a “Girls Rule” hand stamp, to distinguish them from any uninvited riffraff—like three-year-old brothers—who might have the audacity to sneak in. They then made their way to the first stop, the beauty station, to be decked out with stick-on body jewelry and glitter hairspray. The second stop on the dance party circuit was the photo station, for a photo op with the dimpled birthday girl herself. Each girl had her picture professionally snapped with Maia against a tasseled purple backdrop, rimmed with rope lighting. At least it looked like professional photography, with the camera mounted on a tripod and all.

The bouncer, ever alert, checked his headset throughout the afternoon for news of possible disturbances to quell. To his great disappointment, there were none. The guests respectfully honored the “staff only” signs designating backstage areas deemed off limits to them, and no celebrity catfights erupted between girls soused on strawberry-kiwi flavored Capri Sun. But there was no time to lament the limited need for ejecting troublemakers from rowdy scenes of commotion, because the bouncer had a second job. He doubled as the DJ, spinning tunes from a playlist populated exclusively by Disney Channel and American Idol artists, while the guest of honor demonstrated that her years of dance training have been fruitful as she led the choreography on the dance floor.

Meanwhile, the club manager/photographer (mom) rushed to develop the prints of the arrival fan photo shoots, because this party was about more than just Hip Hop and Hilary Duff and Clay Aiken. The guests needed to have a souvenir of the experience, so they adjourned to the neighboring art studio (the back porch) for instruction in making their own personalized magnet picture frames. But what good is a frame without a picture to put in it? As luck would have it, in addition to an art studio, this amazing multi-functional dance club also boasts an in-house darkroom. Otherwise known as the inkjet photo printer.

Following the dancing and crafts and the requisite cake and presents, the guests chose to chill in the private VIP Lounge (a.k.a. Maia’s bedroom) while awaiting their chauffeurs to transport them home. Access to the lounge was via a new beaded curtain veiling the doorway. Probably to keep out paparazzi like me.

I think the party was a hit. How will we ever top this next year?

My husband has never, to the best of my recollection, proposed a blog topic. Yet this morning, he suggested I write about Ducky, a most important member of our household. Who am I to refuse such a request? And so without further ado, I give you the true tales of Ducky Quack Quack.

Ducky is a stuffed animal—a Mallard duck, to be precise—that took up residence with us just over a year ago. I think he followed us home after some sort of vacation transaction wherein we foolishly agreed to exchange hard earned cash for a small stuffed bird. We knew nothing about this duck, his character, or his background, but we were roped into taking him home anyway by the persuasive charm of a then two-year-old. I never saw or even thought about the duck again, until recently. Somehow, Noah rediscovered and has now become quite attached to this faux fowl, going so far as to bestow on it (with the assistance of his sister) a full legal name. Ducky Quack Quack. Which just so happens to work very well with our last name. Ducky Quack Quack is the first stuffed creature in our home be so honored with a first, middle, and last name, but we still just call him Ducky for short.

Don’t be fooled by the cleverly simple name, however. Ducky is no ordinary stuffed animal. He has surpassed even Barney for top honors as the companion of choice for all outings and events. Ducky faithfully accompanies Noah back and forth to daycare every day, to bed every night, and to many other locations in between. If I awarded frequent traveler miles in my car, Ducky would be an elite passenger.

The biggest downside I can see is that I think Ducky has become a little possessive of Noah. He doesn’t seem to want to share him with the other stuffed animals anymore. And to tell you the truth, I think Ducky might even be a bit jealous of the attention Noah receives from the human element in our home. I’ve noticed of late that Noah is never allowed to kiss me anymore when Ducky is around, unless Ducky kisses me first. Fortunately for us, Ducky is quite the affectionate duck. I get hugs and kisses galore from Ducky, which paves the way to get the same from my son.

But that’s not all. Our very own Ducky Quack Quack is also a devilish little prankster who takes great glee in bouncing on people’s heads and sliding down their arms. Ducky isn’t necessarily so adroit at these bouncing and sliding games since he often topples straight to the ground, to squeals of delight from his puppeteer.  But there’s one thing you have to say about Ducky… the unexpected tumbles never stop him. He always gets back up! In fact, I now believe that Ducky is truly invincible. Need more proof? Just look at his diet. This duck eats ALLIGATORS! And SHARKS! I know, because Noah told me so. Just last night, I witnessed it for myself. Ducky scarfed those imaginary ‘gators and sharks down in a single chomp! Not too shabby for a creature that lacks teeth. Sadly, though, Ducky’s table manners leave something to be desired. Because after that daring feast, Ducky belched a big one. And he did NOT say excuse me.

Questionable table manners aside, there’s one thing I really love about Ducky Quack Quack. It’s seeing how he unlocks Noah’s creativity and imagination. To me, that’s priceless. Burps and all.

Dear Maia and Noah,

This blog is for you. Not just this post, but the whole accidentally thought out thing, warts and treasures and all. Some parents create elaborate scrapbooks for their children to capture precious growing up memories. I’ve seen some of these albums, and they are splendiferous works of artistic perfection.

I am deeply sorry to report that you have not been so blessed.

Your mom is simply not creative enough or patient enough for such crafty pursuits. But she’s using the technological talents she does have to make sure that someday, you’ll look back on your childhood and know just how much you were loved. For starters, in place of cleverly designed scrapbooks, your technophile mother keeps up a personal website for showing off photos to far-flung family and friends. Your unprecedented adorableness has been admired around the globe, and every iteration of that website from Maia’s infancy on has been archived for your own future viewing pleasure.

And your mom’s inner writer also keeps up this online blog of ramblings and reflections, for many reasons, not the least of which is for you.

When I started this blogging experiment, I had no idea what I would write about. It was just supposed to be a temporary outlet to rejuvenate my dormant writing ambitions and get me in the habit of writing regularly, on my own time. Then a funny thing happened. I got readers. Some whom I invited, and others who found me on their own. People started encouraging me with positive feedback (some might say they fed my aspiring author’s ego), and your grandfather began asking if I was saving these stories for you to read someday. And before I knew it, you became the purpose behind much of what I write here. So often, you provide the content, and I am merely the scribe, picking and choosing the right words to relate your escapades. The rest I write knowing that you will read it one day. When you do, you’ll find an eclectic mix. Some of my stories are about you, some chronicle those silly little events of daily life that would otherwise be lost to the ages, some are about my own memories and life experiences, and some will probably teach you a little more about your befuddled, bemused, absent-minded mom—her interests, her sense of humor, and the person she tries to be.

Someday, when I’ve written enough, I’ll be weeding out the duds from this endeavor and self-publishing the rest in book format. It will be a tangible legacy to you of the things I found important enough, or funny enough, or endearing enough to write about. It will be something that, eventually, you’ll be able to remember me by. It’s not why I started this blog, but by golly, it’s why I’m sticking with it.

Of course, this blog legacy must remain hidden from you until you are much, much older. After all, I can’t have your innocent young eyes reading about things like the time I snuck out of my house, or the trickery by which I ensnared my first real boyfriend, or the post which spills the beans about Santa, or the one about your mother as a “hot babe,” or any of the myriad deceptions we have pulled off on you (tuna fish as butter, anyone?) during your tender formative years.

But there is so much more to what we want for you than what you will find in this blog. Your dad and I hope for so many things for your lives. We want to equip you with the knowledge and self-esteem to make wise choices in life and to be happy with those choices, but we also want you to know that while we will hold you accountable for your decisions, we’ll still love you even through the mistakes. We want you to appreciate the value of an education, and practice lifelong learning. We want you to always be willing to lend a helping hand. We want you to see first-hand what a committed, loving marriage looks like. We want you to look back on a happy home life filled with traditions and fond childhood memories. We want you to see the positive around you, rather than the negative. We want you to share our system of values, attitudes, and beliefs. We want you to love God. And we are trying to set an example for you on all of these things—an example of responsibility, love, loyalty, and kindness.

Our legacy to you doesn’t begin or end with your father and me, however. We also want you to know something of your heritage and culture—both your paternal Irish side (a few generations back) and the Spanish side from my own father. And we want to pass down to you the same things our parents gave to us. I attribute a lot of who I am to my own parents’ teachings and guiding example. They have instilled in me a strong work ethic and an insatiable desire to learn. They made me believe I could do anything I wanted, if I set my mind to it. Because of their influence, I know how to make the most of the opportunities available to me. I’m a doer, not a victim of circumstance. You will be, too. And your daddy’s family legacy, passed down from his parents, is an environment filled with sports, music, laughter, and fun.

So far, I think we’ve been mostly successful in providing the foundation for your future. One need only look back on the stories I’ve already written about you here to make that case. You are both beautiful spirits—loving, affectionate, kind, caring, smart, and respectful of authority. Everyone you come in contact with sings your praises. We can’t take all the credit, since often it’s in spite of our influence, rather than because of it, and I sometimes suspect that you are really angels in disguise, sent by God, but we’ll accept the compliments and keep bragging about you all the same.

However, I would be remiss in not mentioning that along with the good, there is the bad. Not all legacy is desirable, I’m afraid. Your mother? She’s not such a good housekeeper. And judging by the current state of your rooms, neither are the two of you. Here’s a fair warning… I might have to pull this trick on you one day. You can blame your Ama for THAT legacy. And your father? He might be a little OCD about checking that the stove is off, things are unplugged, and the doors are locked. When you find yourselves reciting the daily mantra, “turn things off, lock things up” to your respective spouses as you kiss them goodbye each morning, well, you know who to thank for that harmless obsession.

We’ve made some mistakes with you along the way, too. There have been examples too numerous to count where I have unintentionally hurt your young psyches. Times where I have been impatient or angry, when instead, I should have turned the source of frustration into a teaching opportunity. Times when I have made other things more important than spending quality time with you. Times when I have said “not now” or “in a minute” or “maybe later.” Times when I have adopted an attitude or used a tone of voice that I later regretted.

But despite the parenting faux pas, it’s our hope, as your role models, that the good we do for you outweighs the bad. That the memories trump the mistakes. That the legacy we leave behind for you is something worth passing down to your own future generations. And above all, we want you to know that we always have and always will love you enough to rave about you to the world.

Maia and Noah, this blog, and all our love, is for you.

Love always,
Mommy