Questions and Answers

Yesterday as I was driving in my truck at work, I realised something.  It was something very profound and relevant to life.  As I pondered this stunning revelation I thought of writing it down, but decided not to. Of course, by the end of the day I had forgotten it.  If that were the end of the story, this would be the end of this blog entry, and be one of the most pointless entries I have ever made.  However, today I remembered it, and decided to write it down on my blog.

My thought was this: We don't find an answer, we accept an answer.

Which doesn't seem so profound now I just write it down like that.  However, let me take a few words to explain what I mean.  Everybody has questions.  Everyone is looking for answers to their questions.  While there are many answers to each question, we end up settling on one particular answer to accept as our own.

OK, so simple example, what is one plus one?  This is a simple question.  Let me give you a few options to answer it with.

1. 1+1=2
2. 1+1=11
3. 1+1=1
4. 1+1=4

So, which of the three did you accept?  I expect you got the first, but all are valid answers, all have an element of truth.  Lets justify each of the answers

1. It's what teachers tell us in school
2. It's what pupils joke about in school
3. Scriptural marriage: Mark 10:9 They two shall be one flesh
4. My Marriage, Man plus woman equals Man, Woman and 2 kids.

The answer that you accept depends on how you are approaching the question.  While all the answers are applicable in their own way, for the most part the last three are useless for day to day purposes.  So generally we accept the first answer that one and one is two.

There are many other more complex questions that appear in our lives.  How to deal with relationship, how to make the best choice between bad options.  We should be able to find many answers, but the important thing is accepting the right answer.  Or at least accepting the best answer for our situation.

Good Excuses

I hated homework.  I rarely did it, which is why I am in a job cleaning carpet, rather than designing space stations for NASA.  Or discovering the cure for cancer.  Or writing my nobel prize acceptance speech - you get the idea.  The part about homework I hated most was the excuses I had to offer.  I usually never got further than "I forget it".  Unlike the comic strip characters, I never had a dog trained to eat homework.

This line of thought was prompted by an interesting occurrence at the carpet cleaning company at which I currently work.  Names have been changed to protect the guilty.  Photos have been scribbled out to safeguard the identity of parties concerned.  But how is this for a really good excuse for making someone fill in a form again?

Good news for some in Minnesota

Thanks to global warming scientists have confirmed this will be the shortest winter on record in Minnesota. Snow is already melting before the end of November and we are looking forward to the return of the geese and the budding flowers peeking up from the ground.
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Several large retailers have issued profit warnings as a result of this. Gander Mountain and Cabellas are especially concerned about their stock of ice fishing gear.  One manager said "we many have to resort to a giant yard sale to shift this stuff". One inventor sent us a picture of a freezer on a boat with a hole in the bottom. "It's for all those guys who want to freeze their butt off while fishing this spring".

More updates to follow

Paul Thompson: the wacky genius uncle

The other day Paul Thompson showed me his latest Invention.  It's a toddler recorder. Even if you don't have a toddler, you can appreciate the noble heartedness of this great uncle, concerned for the safe musical development of his extended family. 

The reason behind...

Today we had visitors come over for lunch after church.  It was very pleasant.  Ron and Pam came over along with Michelle.  With this being my wife's parents and sister, she was telling me how relaxed she was about the whole thing.  This was wonderful news, as there is usually a slightly stressful atmosphere surrounding the visit of my friends to the house.  We had a wonderful time, sharing chicken, salad and a marvelous rhubarb pie made by my mother in law.

However, that conversation in the car opened up a whole new level of understanding regarding what a visit is actually for.  For all these years I had thought that having friends over was an opportunity to eat together, talk together, and maybe even play some music together.  Not so, according to this new information I was able to pick up on between the lines of my wife's relaxed approach to having her own family over.  Normally she would be stressed out for days or even weeks over the arrival of our visitors.  And what would be the cause of this stress?  It was, of course, the real reason behind having visitors over.  Because the real reason is to show them how clean your bathroom is - even the downstairs one that no one ever uses anyway.

A Bathroom - Is it clean enough?

Mowing the grass

Today, we mowed the grass. Elisha helped. He had a good time and did about half the garden. 

Two Can Problems.

These two cans may look like ordinary cans of tomatoes.  And in a manner of speaking they are.  But in addition to being a source of antioxidants and countless other nutritional benefits, they were the source of both a conflict and, more importantly, an idea.

What was the problem?  Well, I had been sent on a special shopping mission by my wife.  We had just upgraded her phone to a smart phone, and I had shown her how to write a list on OneNote which she could then share with me.  So she wrote out a shopping list for Aldi which included both diced tomatoes and crushed tomatoes.  I downloaded it onto my smart phone and off I went, secure in the knowledge that with no old fashion paper shopping list to lose, I could be the man on the spot for her.

I went through the store ticking off all those thing that I had to buy.  Eggs, checked.  Baked Beans, Check.  Traditional spaghetti sauce, Check, and so on and so on.  I even got both types of tomatoes (or so I thought).  But the observant among you will notice the exact same thing that my wife noticed when I got home.  Diced tomatoes with Basil, Garlic and Oregano are not the same as crushed tomatoes.  Even if they were sitting right beside them on the shelf.

My fellow brothers of marriage-hood, I am sure you will know what I mean when I say "I heard about it" when I got home.  I didn't know quite how cruel and heartless I had been until I got home and Rachel noticed those two cans.  I didn't quite know how much of a failure I was, or how much disappointment I had caused, until I got home.  I hadn't understood how the years of frustration concerning my attention to shopping lists had built up, to be released by those two cans of diced tomatoes, until I got home.  But 5 minutes into my sweet wife's explanation of the difference between Diced Tomatoes with Basil, Garlic and Oregano and Crushed tomatoes, I had realised.  Oh yes.  I had definitely realised.

I begged for forgiveness, on my knees, much to the amusement of the kids.

So much for the conflict.  But what was your idea, I hear you cry?  Or rather, I hope you cry, cause I don't know if anyone pays much attention to this blog anyhow.  (If you like it you could always click on the follow button, or leaving a comment wouldn't hurt either)  Anyhow, in answer to my imagination of your pleas for my idea, here it is.  I think we should set up a shopping service for husbands.

We could call it "the lazy shopper" or "save your marriage shopping" or something similar.  I am open to suggestions.  The premise is very simple.  When a married man gets a shopping list from his wife, he would upload the list to the service, where a designated shopper would take that list to Aldi, or Target or Tescos, and shop in his usual manner.  By the way, this would be a male only service.  You'll see why in a few moments.

The male shopper would go through the list with the same care and attention to detail he would give to his own wife's shopping list.  I am estimating, on average, that 85 to 95% of the items will be correct, with a 5 to 15% margin of error.  The shopping service would then drop the bags of groceries off at the doorstep of the household involved, where the wife would unpack it.  And when the wrong can of tomatoes comes out of the bag, the man of the house has someone else to blame!

Can you not see the wonderful simplicity of this idea?  Instead of staring for hours on end at the unending variety of rolls of kitchen towels, knowing that whatever you choose will be wrong because the producer just redesigned their packaging, you can have someone else just throw something in the cart for you and you don't have to take the endless blame for getting MacVitties Full and Fluffy Super Absorbent Kitchen Wonder-Mops (TM) instead of MacVitties Full and Extra Fluffy Super Absorbent Kitchen Wonder-Mops (TM)!  How could you know that they were the ones with the Mauve accents around the top of the box instead of the purple accents?  You didn't choose it - It was the guy from the shopping service!

I anticipate that once this shopping service is set up, men everywhere will not longer fear the sight of a shopping list, be in on paper or on OneNote.  Hours of shopping time for the wife will be compacted into one quick phone call, and more time will be wasted on video games or cleaning the garage.

Let me know what you think!

Bicycle security Minnesota style.

As I was strolling down the street I saw a pratically unbeatable winter bike lock. 

One lifetime ago...

One week ago I started the saddest day of my life.  It seems such a short time, yet it is a whole lifetime ago.  One week ago we received the news that our baby son had died in the womb.  The exact date of his death isn't known; most likely he died sometime on Wednesday, as this was the last time that Rachel is sure she felt him move.  We know he was alive on Tuesday; we heard and saw his heart beating at both the midwife appointment and the ultrasound scan we were sent to.  He hadn't been moving much and his growth rate had slowed enough for the midwife to be concerned.  But we were re-assured by the doctors diagnosis following the scan - baby was growing within normal parameters.  That arrived on Wednesday, the same day he died.  How much life can change in so little a space of time.

So on Friday morning last week we went back to the midwife.  Rachel couldn't feel him moving.  The duty midwife tried to find his heart rate but could not.  We went straight to the hospital and were admitted to a room for another ultrasound scan.  The doctor who scanned told us that sadly, there was no heart beat and we had lost our baby.  He was 39 weeks and 4 days gestational age when we were given the news.

We were told that the safest way to proceed was for Rachel to be induced to give birth naturally.  A cesarian operation would lengthen the time needed for physical healing and the size of the baby complicated matters as well.  We were transferred to the labour and delivery ward and Rachel was hooked up to various drips for the procedure.  After about 10 hours of labour she gave birth.  The time was 1:36am on Saturday morning, the 15th of February.

I was awake at the time, standing by Rachel at the head of her bed.  The little form lay on the sheets at the bottom, perfectly tucked up in a baby curl we know so well.  But silent and still.  No joy of life for us at that time, no reward for the labour, no fulfilment for the 9 months of pregnancy.  The sadness of that quiet moment reaches out to me even now - the perfect stillness of a tiny form with all the potential of life, but none of the true vitality of breath.

The nurse took him and placed him in the baby bed, and covered him with a sheet.  He didn't need any medical attention.  As the doctor and nurse looked over Rachel, taking care of her following the birth, I crossed the room and uncovered the body.  He was as warm and soft as a baby should be.  But his body was still, heavy, lifeless.  The skin on his eyelids had torn off during his birth, giving his face an angry red stare.  I lifted his eyelids to see his eyes - they were perfect, but he was gone.

It was the saddest day of my life, one week ago, one lifetime ago.

My kids are Smarter than Me!

The other day I came to the conclusion that my kids are smarter than me.  I suppose that this is the semi-sweet desire of every father; to know that the children you are raising are not dumb; to rest assured that your methods of parenting are increasing rather than decreasing the potential of those little people in your care, but! but at the same time to be left behind, discarded, blown off the road by the passing winds of vigorous youth.

How did I come to this conclusion?  How did I realize that I was reaching the borders of my dotage, preparing for the rocking chair and slippers?  It came to me the other day when Rachel was talking about a job she gave to the kids.  She had shown them how to load the dishwasher.  This may seem like an innocent chore, simple enough to complete.  Apparently not. 

Each time I have tried to help out in the kitchen by loading the dishwasher my best efforts are met with a disapproving eye, and a quick re-arrangement.  It's been so bad that I have totally given up even trying to help workout the exact jigsaw puzzle of cups, glasses, plates and bowls that will allow me to close the door and turn the machine on with her seal of approval.

So the day after Rachel showed the kids for the very first time , I came home to the happy announcement that Emma and Elisha had loaded the dishwasher.  By themselves.  And they had met the rigorous standards of organization which have baffled me time after time.  When I mentioned this to Rachel she tried to comfort me. "It's not that they are smarter, they just listen to me better".

So I was right first time.  My kids are smarter than me.

A tale of two Pizzas

This evening, my lovely wife was feeling a little down.  We had a busy evening, going to a birthing center and our minds were occupied by thoughts of the coming baby, health insurance and many other kinds of troubles and woes.  And Rachel's mind was occupied by pizza.

"I want to have some pizza" she told me.  Of course I would!  I'm always ready to play the hero for her, especially when she's slightly grumpy and in need of cheering up.  Our local superstore is Target.  The car was still warm from driving the kids home so in I hopped and off I went.

Now, I should say this.  Picking groceries for Rachel is an interesting task at the best of times.  I clearly remember one occasion when I stood in front of a whole fridge full of different kinds of hot dogs.  5 or 10 different brands stacked in ranks before me, each with 5 or 10 different kinds of sausage.  Franks, Brats, pork and turkey all stared dumbly at me.

Although I am not a man who easily panics, I will admit that a feeling of despondency fell over me.  I knew three things.  First, I knew that I would pick a package of hot dogs.  Secondly, I knew it would be the wrong choice.  Finally, I knew, I just knew that Rachel would tell me I picked the wrong one.  And each one of those predictions came true.

However, this evening I was feeling more hopeful.  Rachel had mentioned one of her favorite frozen pizzas was Bellatoria Supreme.  Not only that, I was fortified by her instruction to "get what is on sale!"  An easy task, even for me.  Driving to the store I felt quite confident that this would be a "home run" as we Americans say.

On arrival at Target I marched right to the frozen pizza section and searched for the Supreme.  I couldn't see it.  "Never mind, old chap", I said to myself (as Englishmen do).   I searched for the weirdest sounding pizza that seemed normal enough to eat.  This has been a good rule of thumb I have employed when buying food I am going to share with Rachel.  If I am buying for her alone, I just get the "Chicken Freshetta Paravolia on Nam bread with jigo berry sauce.  So I chose sweet Italian Sausage.

I took it home.  We cooked it.  Rachel took two bites and sadly said "This isn't hitting the spot".   Our  "Sweet Italian Sausage" Pizza had been cooked with Alfredo Sauce!  The horror!  Back into the car I dove, back to the store I drove, and back home I came with a meaty, cheese stuffed crust, Digioirno frozen pizza.  This is the kind of pizza made for those times when mother steps out of the house for a tea-party and dad is left with 2 or 3 kids between the ages of 5 and 12.  It's the kind of pizza you cook for watching movies when mommy does not want to watch because it's too stupid or violent or dumb.  Its a guy pizza, but it does have a red sauce!

Rachel loved it.  I guess that my little boy growing on the inside may have had something to do with that.  But I ended up being my sweethearts hero once again.  Yay Pizza!