November 4, 2011

The Micro Chronicles of the Three Giggling, Goofs Turns Two!

I just discovered by happenstance The Goodwillie's blog just turned two years old!  At the beginning, I really was not sure if I was a blogger and just wrote "Snowy Pumpkins" to tell relatives about the goings on with the boys.  It turns out I really love and enjoy spending time with my three rascally boys, Kelly (5), Rhys (3) and Beckett (2) and every month or so they do something so ridiculous, worthy, or disastrous I feel the urge to write.

Turns out, over the two spins of the earth, I've written exactly 50 blog posts.  Most posts are cute tales of our tiny threesome and one was an ode to their priceless gem of a mother, "Mama, Mama, Mama!".  The last three blogs have served as therapy for my recent accident (#1, 2, & 3) - a brain injury, the result of crashing, noggin first, while racing my mountain bike.  I hope, like other aspects of my life, that the blog returns to it's roots, chronicling the bright, humorous stories of our Irish triplets.

Here's what I said the blog turned into after a year on the net,
"My initial intent in writing the blog was to tap out a record of life, an ebaby book, of sorts, for Kelly, Rhys, and Beckett.  My bride and I are not skilled archivist, competent filers, or can even claim to be “organized” with a straight face.  I figured the upside of a blog: I couldn’t lose the contents in a pile of junk mail.  The blog turned out to be 16% baby book and 22% personal therapeutic exercise, a copping mechanism to deal with our family’s frenetic life; the daily grind of providing care, cover, and love for three dependent tiny humans; the challenges our trio of toddlers lob in our face each and every day, all slathered in a salve of humor. What’s the remaining 62%, you ask? It’s a chronicle of the undetectable triumphs we celebrate together, simply, with a smile, a hug or encouraging word. It’s a journal of our joy. I wrote it for me. I wrote it for them."




October 29, 2009
Snowy Pumpkins

A fall blizzard trapped us in the house, but help soon arrived. Rhys the St. Bernard warmed our hearts with his cute doggie Halloween getup and stopped crying long enough for me to take this picture. He loves doggies and saying doggie and reading about doggies, and tries to lick Bella, now and again, but being dressed like a dog seemed to fray the vestments of his soul. He seemed fussy.

We had snow drifts as tall as Rhys on the upper deck.

I made Kelly put on his snow boots and go outside in the cold. He made footprints in front of the house while I dug the cars out. No photo.

Beckett seems heavy, finally, and is sleeping for longer stretches at night. He's growing cuter, daily.
He smiles at me and even other family members.

Thanks for reading.





Other Fun Stuff from the two years blogging:

September 26, 2011

An Introduction Worth Remembing

My first official job duty, other than sitting through a Trips for Kids (TFK) board meeting teaming with friendlies a few weeks back, was to attend an event, a fundraising deal last weekend neatly served by a true friend of the program in Boulder. Before arriving, while brushing the stink from my breath with a toothbrush wielded in my right hand, I though about my early teary emotional spats and, in particular, a passed emotional incident crying from my wheelchair in front of friends and their trio of young boys during a hospital visit. Crap! The kids and their mom and dad were being just lovely to me. Then, the middle boy, maybe 8 or 9, after his mom saying "he wants to give you something," pulls a biking metal from his pocket and, with my head bowed and lip quivering, slips the blue and red ribbon around my neck. As father to three boys who's time I was missing dearly, I lost it.  So, as I stowed the toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, I though about how the reviving health of my brain over the last month or so seemed to have ended these weepy episodes. I though with a smirk and a shudder about my lost emotional footing weeks ago and laughed to myself, "Jesus, I'll never do that shit again."

We arrived at the fundraising event saying hellos and hugging the TFK greeters and donation collection team, good folk, a bubbly board member and her mountain biker husband. We admired the turn out, the party was clearly well attended. Then, as we entered, we found the party's main host to tell him, honestly, that we truly value his support and, shit, despite the fact I'm going by doctors orders and remaining "beerless" for this "ProAm Craft Beer Fest," the timing of his shindig could not be better. Thank you. We met his girl and he shifts off, yelling to some friends, into the party.

We grab food from the taco cart guy and spend awhile just enjoying the festivities. We've been there  close to an hour, so I'm thinking about doing one more thank you spin to the party planning committee and hitting the road when my board member reappears shepherding two young women my way. She says this is some name and some name my mind just will not remember today - this is the brain injury working against me - and they want to meet you. We shake hands and say hellos. The small red head then says, "I wanted to meet you because I was actually one of the first...."
And I'm thinking, "One of the first Trips for Kids volunteers? Could be, that was eight years ago but she doesn't look familiar. First what, I wonder.

"I was actually one of the first rescue patrolers on the scene of your crash."

Oh, holy shit. Not what I was expecting my first night out on the town.
She said clearly, "Great to meet you and wow it's great to see you are doing ok.  I wasn't sure that was you. We were all impressed by how you were fighting and trying to stay with us."

With a welling of tears in her eyes she continued, "You were....."  And she launched into my specific actions, basically, of me trying to stay alive and their team's efforts to keep me alive. I tried to stick with her as long as possible, but, at first stopped up in my throat, almost a cough, I started crying. As she finished her brief account of that afternoon, I turned away, overcome by what she told me, sobbing. 

I wanted to know more about this time that has vanished from my life.  I knew little to nothing about this faithful time a few hours after my crash. I wanted to find out more about the 45 minutes of my life when I was scraped off the trail and packed out on a headboard by her team of Winter Park patrollers. I wanted to know more about their decision to transport me to Denver via Flight for Life but I could only cry, moved by her story of my fucked up day racing my mountain bike and how I struggled hard for life.  I didn't expect her story to paint my end so perilous , so uncertain.

After I regained my composure, her friend engaged me in lighter conversation about her involvement in a urban biking program in another city and her willingness to serve as a volunteer or, as a follow nonprofiteer, help TFK shine in other ways. It was a conversation I could handle - right up my ally, really. Then she said, "Your injury will get better with time. I know I was a pro biker once and had a bad crash, a car.  I found it difficult to speak clearly for about four months." Still stuggling with my speech, just a touch now compared to five or six weeks ago when I would end conversations routinely by admitting, "I don't remember what I was trying to say," I cried again for her, for me.

Before the girls found a less intense person to hang with at the Craft Beer Fest, I gathered myself and first admitted my name difficulties with the head injury - nice to speak with you Emma and Rachel, the patroller. I generously thanked Rachel for her work rescuing me and promised to stay in touch with each. I have learned much about life in my journey though this mishap and I will keep my promise to Emma and Rachel, for certain.

They undoutably taught me people face all stripes of adversity and survive.  They taught me there are folks like Rachel and my team at Craig who do everything they can to help people fight back from these situations and live meaningful lives.  I'm working on writing down other purposeful lessons I've learned from my accident, eight weeks of dedicated work on my recovery, and now, three weeks post my vital time in the hospital which has made other lessons become starkly apparent. Like my writing about our life with three young sons, I'm writing this to recall and record the certain challenges of my recent life.  I choose to post it on this blog not necessarly for others to read (tho I dont mind if you do) but to help myself figure out, maybe correctly, how to wage this new battle against my wayward limbs and solve this crazy puzzle of nerve damage testing my right flank. 
One important note, we celebrated Kelly's 5th birthday yesterday with a crowd of kids and a jumpy castle, with slide per Kelly's firm wishes.  During the three hour long party, I spotted Kelly twice.  The kid got an epic jump on yesterday.  Happy birthday son.

If you like to start at the beginning of my difficult days, go here and then here.

September 11, 2011

I'm Lucky

I slept last night.  I felt, almost, normal the next day.  When I sleep, unlike the nonsensical nights sleep I endured most nights at Craig, I feel normal, almost.  When I sleep I don't feel like I'm the slow kid not keeping up with pleasant conversation or even a completely broken man.  I still have a hitch in my gitty-up caused by a right leg that still isn't wired correctly.   Maybe it's because I still hang with some very broken folks during my Craig sessions, but I'm starting to believe my hitch is hardly perceptual, if your not getting paid to study my gait like my PT.  And my right arm, (I'm a natural left hander which has made my situation a leap and bound easier to manage.) especially my right hand, is still a weak sissy that can't do fine motor skills with any amount of speed but my right wing is now serving for light duty tasks. I can now manage, right handed, to zip and button my pants, hold open a newspaper, remove the stopper from a gallon of milk, among other right handed jobs. I have, as a fun form of physical therapy, been playing right handed catch with my boys.  We exchange bouncing underhanded tosses with a heavy gel filled ball, it's weight perfect for adding strength to my hand.   Kelly (4) and even Rhys (3) can catch my awkward looking but fairly accurate servings about 80% of the time. I, using my weakened right hand and with their poor tossing technique, only mange to grab half of their balls but its fun weather I snatch one or whiff.

I slept last night, I feel almost normal, and just plain lucky.   Even though I'm not physically right, yet, I feel lucky every day.  As I mentioned before, my most quantifiable reason I feel lucky is the array of broken people I encounter and I am friends with at Craig.  The friends I know who departed around the same time as I or are on track to depart in the next weeks are, frankly, going to need the aid of other people for quite sometime, if not for a lifetime. My injuries, beyond my healing brain, are simply superficial. I sustained road rash on my knees, right shoulder, and chin - not even a broken collar bone for me.  Because the intensity of injury to their body's (think how you might end up crashing your drag racer at 200 mph, crashing your motorcycle into a u-turning car and getting dragged for a block trapped under the engine block, or suffering a land mind attack in Iraqi - a horror) some of my fellow Craig residents are there three months before the start even considering a move home after four or five months hard time.

I'm lucky, I only did two weeks at Denver Health and three weeks at Craig and was sent home one week ago, Friday.  It's been six weeks since my troubling head first crash and I still visit Craig for out patient therapy several times a week, visiting friends and the therapeutic staff, to further the healing of my body and mind but I receive the gift of time with my boys during off hours now. Playing a card game with Kelly, listening to Rhys' rascally laugh, or cuddling and singing a lullaby with Beck before bed are my joyous cues while not doing structured therapy. Now, even in the midst of a three year old fit or a two year old tantrum, truly, the boys make me smile every second I spend with them.

I'm lucky that I didn't die, leaving a harsh wake of death for my dear family to grapple.   I can't imagine Cathrine telling the boys their daddy is dead.  I had a dear friend die of a head injury four years ago - it's painful and sickening process.  I'm lucky Catherine wasn't picked to call deaths end for a father of three impossibly small.  I'm lucky she was stubbornly fit and tenderly able to direct my care, first at Denver Health and then at Craig's.  Each facility has wonderful, dedicated staff but ultimately Cath faced, especially at the beginning, hard decisions regarding my care or would hardily fight for me when I was faced by dunces who where occasionally assigned to managed my care.  I am lucky to have a wife so caring, so relentless to make the last six weeks what every doctor I've met claims to be, with a level of measured caution, a somewhat miraculous recovery.  I am lucky to have Catherine on my team and I want everyone, everyone to know she has helped me during this difficult time using every fiber in her body.  I am lucky to have Catherine as my wife.
I was still in Craig but made it to the final stage of the pro race.


Gram Mary has been amazing!


We went for a hike in the mts last weekend.

Rhys celebrating his first day of school with dad. 

I'm riding again (stationary) these days.

August 29, 2011

Catastrophe on Race Day

Catastrophe on Race Day - 8/26/11

30 days ago while competing in an amateur mountain bike race, (I was racing and feeling strong, holding a top five position) I crashed in a heap and knocked myself out.  I was in such bad shape after a crew of patrollers in Winter Park removed me from the forest etched race course strapped to a backboard,  I was evacuated to Denver via a Flight for Life aircraft.  I ended up surviving the crash, but endured a serious brain injury that left me loopy, finding it challenging to muster the right words to manage a conversation and, startlingly, leaving my right leg and lower right arm essentially paralyzed.

For the last 25 days a wheelchair has been my main mode of movement.  So I don't lay myself up with another head wound, the hospital requires that most of my travel is confined to rolling in a wheel chair.  I wheel it to every meal, and to all my therapy appointments.  I'm in the chair for the most part of the day.  I can walk but it's a halting gait with my weak right leg slowing me down and robbing of the steadiness that I once claimed.  When I have visited with my three young sons they saw me afflicted by the chair.  They always treated and greeted me with trendiness, glee, and respect but the chair must have changed their view of their dear old dad.

For the past five days or so, my PT has been working on the strength and coordination of my tangled legs. She has used part of the hour allotted to me on increasingly longer walks around campus and, encoring the doctors orders governing my campus movement,  let me walk in more situations around the hospital.

Yesterday, during frenetic rush hour traffic,  I went home for the first time in a month! I walked inside, catching the monkey crew by surprise.  Beckett instantly squealed "daddy" and ran froward for a full speed hug job of my knees. Rhys, a sep farther away, completed his "daddy" knee hug second with his delight of a belly laugh punctuating his hug.

I noticed Kelly eye me head to toe, rooted to the ground where he saw me walk through the front door.  Grinning, clearly noting my up right stance and at 6' 3" towering above my seated position he last saw me in the wheelchair,  he said "Daddy, are you ok now? Are you home from the hospital now?"

"I'm feeling better, lamb chop, but this is just a visit today - a long visit."

Catherine set the mode right by saying, "He's feeling good enough the doctors are letting him come home in a week.  Let's have some fun!"    

We played Frisbee in the front yard, alternating close rang soft tosses to the big guys while Beckett entrained himself running around the yard, twirling himself.  Then, Cath, concerned by my efforts playing with the crew, herded us in side to watch the Colorado based international  bike race happening in our vicinity this week.   At the beginning of the race, Kelly curled in my arms giving me a firm hug and said, "I love you dad."  Later, before fast forwarding to watch the race finally, Rhys, a notorious xl cuddle bug, sat snug in my lap watching the race.

I had the best day in 30, or more, spending sacred time with my family that day. The only problem: after dinner Cath had to take me back to Craig Hospital - a process that is now torturous, painful.  Leaving home is so hard but I only have to preform this cruel trick for one more week.  I'm going home to complete outpatient therapy on September 2!  I vow to remain affixed to a daily program to revive my body and mind like I have during my term at Craig but I am looking forward to preforming these exhaustions surrounded by my three wee beaming cheerleaders and my loving, supportive coach.

July 14, 2011

Kelly is Reading and Writing

Kelly (turning 5, 9/25) is showing early interest and aptitude reading and writing.

I just found this example of his writing on the scanner from last month.  After breakfast he asked me if he could write some words.  I said, "Sure what word would you like to write?"  Kelly thought for a second and said, "Bat."

"What letter makes the beginning sound of bat?"

Making the B sound, Kelly replied, "B, b, b, bee!"

And then the kid wrote the letter B, unassisted by me. I told him the next letters were, A and then T.  I coached him a bit with the A but he made the T without my help. "What word do you want to write next?"

Kelly, a rhyming fool, said, "Cat."

He then wrote, as you can see:
CAT
SAT
MAT
ON
MO(M)

He switch back to rhyming with PAT.  Kelly was getting frustrated writing the A in Pat, so I made the A for him - not my best work.  Either way, this was all very surprising to me that Kelly was able to produce this quantity of words.  We read stacks and stacks of books together (we recently finished James and the Giant Peach and are currently working on The Mouse and the Motorcycle), but we've done very little writing work with Kelly.  Whatever writing instruction they are providing at his pre-school, Kelly is picking it up.

For Father's Day, dear Gram Mary sent an early reader type book (we are fortunate that she sends books for almost every holiday) about a boy "helping" his dad.  Kelly, responsible for reading all the "Dad"s, "The"s and a few other common words, made me read the book with him ten times a day for several days. 

After I discovered the site with a random web search, Kelly has enthusiastically been working to complete every phonics drill and prodding me to read every terrible web book on Starfall.com.   The other night when I was putting the finishing touches on a dinner, Kelly asked if I could do the "reading game" with him.  I said I would love to do the reading game but, I'm sorry, we are about the sit down for dinner.  We'll do it first thing after, that will be fun, buddy.  With this disappointing news, Kelly flew into a hysterical tantrum, the likes of which we have not seen from him for sometime now.  What can I say, the kid really loves to read.

The boys love reading, writing, and decorating all sorts of things with stickers.


 

July 11, 2011

Three Boys = Two Miles of Fun


Last week, Beck, Kelly, Rhys and I had a blissful “boys night.”  While Catherine was hosting another worthy charity function, KRB and I struck out on adventures in the neighborhood.  My plan was to have K and R roll down the hill on their push bikes with B tagging behind on his scooter, I'd hoof it (it's only a five minute walk, at most), and we'd all chow some quality 'zza at the Bonnie Brae Tavern.  As I outfitted Rhys with his helmet, using standard 3 year-old grammatical conventions, he inquired, "You riding you bike daddy?"
Hmmm, I hadn't thought of that, Big Boy. 
I usually patrol our neighborhood bike rides on foot, so I can easily position myself for traffic control on street crossings, give Beckett an encouraging word, a push up a hill, or clean off a dirty wheel (Beckett has become irritatingly particular about the cleanliness of his machine and will often stop, yelling while pointing at some minuscule speck, "Dirty, dirty, dirty, daddy!").  On foot, I'm also better able to peel bleeding, howling monkeys off the sidewalk after a minor tumble.  And it is true of late, I have a hard time keeping up with Kelly and Rhys, even at a jog.  I gave Rhys a shinning red Specialized Hot Walk push bike for his birthday and finally convinced him not to brawl with Beckett for control of the scooter.  After only about three weeks of practice on the pushbike, Rhys can handle himself well enough to keep up with Kelly, if Kelly's not in a racing mood.
So, yes! Rhys, I will ride my bike (with the two-boy trailer attached, in case someone melts) with you and your brothers, two, tonight. 
As I mounted up the boys, ready to roll, played a game of bike tag, chasing each other in tight circles in the ally – a sight that would make their grand mothers gasp. After Beckett "helped" me pump up my tires, I ordered full speed ahead and in an instant Kelly, leading the charge, and Rhys, snapping at his heels, where almost instantly around the first corner and out of my line of sight. We practice stopping at alleys and street crossings almost every evening and Kelly and Rhys, my well drilled cadets, did a perfect job stopping and waiting for me to catch up with Beckett at every intersection.  
We rolled down the hill to the Bonnie Brae shopping area in record time and were having so much fun we sped right past the Bonnie Brae Tavern, our planned pizza stop.  After crossing University Blvd. at a safe crosswalk with a light, miraculously, Kelly and Rhys pushed right past Bonnie Brae Ice cream, bustling, as always, with a summer afternoon crowd forking over $3 a scoop for their house made creamy goodness, without whining or even asking with please and sugar on top, if we could stop for so much as a taster spoon.  When we reached the strip of old shops on South Gaylord Street, a few blocks later, Kelly and Rhys made a mad dash down the street dodging window shoppers and zigzagging around clods of restaurant goers.  In a snap they put a half-block gap on Beckett and I, at a stroll. 
Watching Beckett parade down the South Gaylord like a triumphant quarterback in a post-Superbowl celebration, smiling and squeaking, “HI!” at almost everyone reminded me of his mama - best friend to all.  Delighted by the friendly little toddler easing, expertly, on down the road – smooth as oil - on his scooter, I grinded and nodded hello to the strangers Beckett set alight with chuckles and smiles.  
B and I caught up to K and R at the corner at the far end of the block where they dutifully waited, then we all ducked into a little diner called The Local.  The Local offers the most extensive kids menu I have ever seen and breakfast fare is served all day - breakfast for dinner boys!  This was a huge ride for my little trio of tiny urban adventures.  I was interested to know how far we traveled to The Local.  After a few clicks and keystrokes, Google maps plotted and measured our circuitous route: 1.0 miles! 2.0 miles round trip!  Both Kelly and Rhys did the entire distance, unaided, on their bikes.  In order to cross Bonnie Brae Blvd. at rush hour, I snatched up Beckett and forced him to ride in the trailer, but my little man pushed his scooter all the way home, the up hill leg of our amusing two miles of fun. 
Sorry the formatting and paragraphing problems.  The page editor blew a gasket when I added the photos and I can't seem to fix it. 
Please stay tuned for "Our Summer Vacation, Part II: Halitosis and sleep deprivation in Purgatory".  I'm working on it.  Read Part I: Upholstered Roadkill by clicking here!  
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July 4, 2011

Our Summer Vacation, Part I: Upholstered Roadkill


6/3/11

Over the winter Catherine and I were talking about the upcoming year, making decisions about travel and schedule.  We decided to keep things simple (unusual for us) this summer and not fly back to Michigan.  So, of course, a few weeks later, Catherine booked us at a great place in Montana in June.

I got all huffy and lathered up and gave a speech about Colorado, the amazing place we are fortunate to call home and my diver deep desire to share her beauty with my boys.  I may have also crossly muttered something about not understanding why we should drop two grand on airfare to Montana when we have the bounty of the Colorado Rocky Mountains less than a day’s journey away.  So, my lovely wife, took a deep breath, gave me a look of death (she was rightly annoyed after I had given a half-hearted green light to the initial Montana idea) and graciously agreed researched other vacation options in the Centennial State.  She called the timeshare exchange operator and located an available week at a condominium at the Purgatory Mountain Resort, near Durango, the first week of June.  Thanks honey! A road trip to Durango was just the ticket.  I’m excited. She was excited, too.  

Months later, vacation day loomed.  Almost unexpectedly, our vacation started tomorrow and we were clamoring to put a bow on work tasks, pack up the troops, and hit the tarmac for our seven-hour ramble to Durango.  We, in this instance, is Catherine (an ageless beauty), Kelly (4), Rhys (weeks from his 3rd birthday), Beckett (22 months), Anna, our Colombian au pair, little old me, and my big new mountain bike (3 mos.).  Our gang and compliment of gear for a week long vacation in the mountains would not fit in one vehicle, not even our cavernous Honda Odyssey.  Plus, we were meeting Catherine’s father, Joe, and his girl friend, Taylor, Catherine's brother, Jeff and his girl friend, Rachel, in Durango - two cars then.  Kelly, his "Pillow Pet", named Crash, my bike, and I drove point, while Catherine followed with boys number two and three, and Anna.

Catherine and I were both stressed about the prospects of confining Kelly, Beckett and Rhys in a car for the better part of a day.  Our trio are all great little guys but they are all still very young and can behave like unbridled, green, swap land imps when they get tried, hungry, and bored - a certainly in triplicate on this road trip.  We imagined endless harmonic waves of screaming, a meltdown in high def, 3-D. While the Odyssey was armed with a cache of new DVD’s from the library for entertaining Beck and Rhys during the long highway run, I gambled and chose to run a video free environment for Kelly.

We thought the drive from Denver to Durango would, at best, be wasted time the kids and adults could endure together and then we’d carry on with our mountain vacation.  The road trip, it turned out, was an unexpected pleasure, giving me the rare, no, unprecedented opportunity to spend seven uninterrupted hours with Kelly, my startlingly bright, perpetually inquisitive four year-old son.  With the bustle of day-to-day life, work, and the demands of his two little brothers (and his mother), the drive from Denver to Durango was the longest time Kelly and I had ever spent together, just the two of us, father and son - an unforeseen gift of quality time.

At first, Kelly wasn’t talking much, so I a started a game of count the cars, a game, which, turns out, at 10 a.m. on a major Denver highway, is supremely difficult.  I suggested we pick a color.  Kelly picked white – still too hard.  We needed a color that Kelly could count at a reasonable measure and I could count without the fear of driving off the road, so I offered up blue - manageable but we still were hitting double digits in just a few miles.  Next, we tried yellow - rare but not as rare as you’d think if, like we were, you’re counting delivery trucks and boxes-on-wheels, the Ryder trucks.  Anyway, count the cars petered out by the time we hit Genesee and I could still see Denver’s skyline in the rear view. Oh super-pooper crap, this is going to be a long trip, if Kelly was already bored.

Genesee just happened to be a place I’d taken the boys on numerous “Daddy Adventure Days” to sled, create snow people, stomp in the woods, and observe the local heard of bison.  As we neared the bison viewing area, I quizzed Kelly, “Do you remember what animals live near here?”

“Ohhh, the buffalo.”

“Yes, right, the buffalo, the bison heard lives just at the top of this hill.  Remember when we’ve stopped to look at them this winter? Do you think they’ll be there today?”

“Yes, I remember them and the poop.”

“Oh, well.  It looks like the bison are somewhere else today.”

Kelly replied, “Where did the buffalo go?” 

And his questions did not stop for the next seven hours.  Questions - astonishing questions - continuously formed the meaty depths of his developing brain and, as mile after mile ticked off the odometer, like the swollen river on our 9 o’clock for much of the trip, the questions flowed mightily out of his articulate mouth.

We talked about everything. For the first half of the trip, everything included the vast swath of Colorado’s high country Kelly could see, perched on his monkey-faced booster seat, from the passenger-side window.

“Look, a waterfall!  Where does the water come from?”

“Look the tunnel.  I’ve been in this tunnel.  Why did they make this tunnel?  Couldn’t we just drive over the mountain? How do you make a tunnel?”

"Look birds. What kind of birds are those? How do birds fly so high?"

From mile one to 385, Kelly, like Catherine’s favorite Sunday evening call from the Lupis Foundation telemarketer, regularly pinged me with the question, “Are we in 1st place?”  Our first-born son, has a serious case of ECS (eldest child syndrome) and, as a symptom, is constantly concerned about his comparative position in the pecking order.   On rare occasion, when I had to inform him we were “a close 2nd””, I felt, for one of the first times in his young life, like I was seriously failing him as a father.  No, not really. Well, maybe, this statement has a shade of truth, but, damn, that Honda Odessy has geddy up on the highway and Catherine’s not shy about putting her foot down, on the gas pedal or otherwise.  Sorry, son.

Either way, Kelly, Crash, my luscious big cherry red and white mountain bike (she’s so delicious I sometimes urn to link her dirty bottom bracket) reached the Eagle exit in first place.  This time I had a question, “Kelly, do you remember who lives, here, in Eagle?”

“Yes, Aidan, Alex and Antie Steph!  Can we wave to them?”  And Kelly started waving, sweetly, to his life long buddy, Aidan, and his little sister, who he might have a thing for. 
I waved along, too, smiling at my little boy and his generous heart.

Fifteen minutes and twelve questions later, I was telling him about Glenwood Canyon and how the river use to be way up at the top, up there, and over a very, very long time the flowing water eroded the rock away the river, cut into the rock and made the canyon.

“What’s eroded mean?“

“Good question.” And I took a stab at explaining this complex, eon-long process as simply as I could.  Kelly seemed to understand exactly what I was explaining and, as I concluded, he even synthesized a brief summary of my lesson on erosion. 

“Do people climb these mountains?" Kelly’s questioned.  “How does a mountain climber get a rope up there to climb it?”  We talked a little bit (because I only know a little bit) about top-roping and lead climbing a mountain.

After we cleared the 8-mile long 40 M.P.H. construction zone clogging Glenwood Canyon, I revved her back up to speed.  Conferencing with mama behind us, it was too early for lunch in Glenwood, but Rifle, another 25 miles down stream, would be an ideal place to grab a quick meal before pressing on to Purgatory. 

It was noon, we were loosing elevation and the temperature was climbing on Colorado's Western Slope.  I, being a cheep ass, in a long line of cheep-asses, ignored the A.C. and rolled down some windows and deployed the sunroof to ventilate the truck.  Kelly loved this maneuver.  The rush of wind in his face made him smile.  Then, he stuck his hand out the window.  A grin then a giggle bubbled through him as the turbulence from our 76 mph dash to Rifle pushed against his hand, moving it up down and all around.  Kelly’s usual position in the minivan is in the way back next to an inoperable window, so, maybe, he’s never really had a chance to do some proper hand flying.  Sorry, son, I have failed you, yet again.  He, of course, asked why the wind moved his hand.  We discussed aerodynamics, as Kelly’s hand knifed the wind.

Kelly’s laughs and giggles flipped without benefit of a warning shot to a bowel-flipping sheik (unfortunately, a common occurrence in many tales of thy three sons), “Pillow pet!!!!!! Pillow, pill, pill, pillow peeeeet!”

The hard road had just given Kelly another unexpected and cruel lesson in aerodynamics.  He, apparently, wanted to let his dogie Pillow Pet, Crash, have a turn sticking his head out the window.  It did not go well for Crash.  The wind grabbed Crash and, before Kelly knew what hit him, his beloved pillow pet was tumbling down I-70 at 76 mph. It took me a few seconds to decipher Kelly’s hysterical wailing and deduce what had happened to good old Crash - upholstered road kill, lost forever.

“Oh, Kelly.  I’m so sorry. You can’t stick things out the window.  It’s just a pillow.  We can get another one.”

“Get pillow pet. Get pillow pet. Get pillow pet. Get pillow pet!!!!!! Cra, cra, cra, Craaaaassh!!!!”

“Oh, honey we can’t turn around or stop on the highway. It’s too dangerous. We’ll get you another one,” replied with as much calmness and sympathy as I possessed.          

My phone started buzzing four seconds after Crash was rudely sucked out the window.  Catherine had seen a flash of something fly out of our window and was concerned.  I answered the call with Kelly still full-on freaking out behind my right ear.

“What was that?”

“Pillow pet is gone.”

“That was the pillow pet?” 

“Yes.”

“Tell him we’ll get him another one.”

 “I did, of course.  I’m gona let you go – gotta situation here.  See you in Rifle.”

Our Summer Vacation, Part II: Sleep deprivation and halitosis in Purgatory, coming soon!





May 15, 2011

Battle of the Buttwipe

Catherine and I celebrated Mother's Day far from our brood of boys, traveling to my cousin's just-right, great-to-see-the family wedding in Naples, Florida.  The timing of the nuptials gave my brother and I a rare opportunity, of late, to personally celebrate Mother's Day (a day early) with our saintly and lovely mother, treating her to high tea at the Naples Ritz.  While we enjoyed tea service with my mom, indulged on extravagant buffets (at the reception, I certainly needed two hands to lift my mammoth mound of food back to table #3), golfed (if one can call the 18-hole horror show I afflicted upon the Gold course at Tiburon, golf), and lazed pool side in the shade reading (OMG, it was the Sunday NY Times!) or stared at puffy little clouds in the sky (speaking of horror shows, likely one reason I was staring skyward, and under the category of "It seemed like a smashing good idea at the time!", there are a frightening number of older ladies sporting fake cans in the Sunshine State and, for that matter, at Houston International Airport) Pebe, beloved mother, grandmother and certainly the best mother-in-law a guy can hope to land, (a saint in her own right) held the line back at base.  On Mother's Day, the mama, mama, mama of my eye (click here to read an Ode to the Mother of my children) slept in astoundingly late, dozing in our dim den, sung in bed until 8:30.  Yes, 8:30 is as late as we've slept for, well, four spins of the sun, or so.

On Monday morning, we woke in our own bed with the boys laughing, hugging and whispering our did-you-miss-me's and our I-love-you's.  Five, together, again, we joyfully fell back into the familiar routines of breakfast preparations: strong coffee brewed for the Tall's (always step #1!); oj or milk poured for the Smalls; oatmeal simmered, cooled and topped with a kiss of honey; fruit cut, plated and consumed by tiny, hungry mouths.  Then, as the boys finished (mostly) breakfast and prepared for adventures at the park, I slipped off dolefully to the office.  I didn't want to, but I needed to get back at it.

To make up, in some small way, for a weekend of precious time lost with Kelly, Beckett, and Rhys, I kicked off work at 4:15.  Kelly was much, much too busy planting flowers and herbs in the galvanized steel containers on the back porch with Pebe (he is a Pebe's boy when she is in town) to look at me, much less to bother verbally declining my invitation to go for a bike ride, so I outfitted Rhys and Beckett with their little helmets and hit the bike path, hauling the double Burley bike trailer, heading for Cook Park - not anywhere near our house.

Hey, I needed a little, leg-strecher workout and a workout I did receive.  The weather dude, during the morning news, predicted a windy afternoon with "Red Flag Warning" for the Front Range.  The dumb a-hole was right, for a change (just kidding, kind of). I was fighting an enormous head-cross wind the entire 15 minute ride to the park.  During one mighty gust, while riding beside a thick hedge along the Cherry Creek trail, I looked back to see if some crazy river creature had jumped out of the bushes and grabbed the Burley in an attempt to gobble up the chitlings.  No creature of the creek - it was just the wind's invisible hand almost forcing me to a complete stop.

Back in first-class, a click further down the trail, the boys, enjoying the effortless ride and themselves, decided to start a blood-curdling game of "Scream".  The rules of "Scream" are as follows:
1) Player one screams as loud as humanly possible.
2) Player two, then, attempts to scream much louder.
3) All players simultaneously cackle and/or laugh their heads off for two seconds.
4) Repeat steps 1 to 3 until you think of something better to do or lose your voice.
Note: This game is often played at Case de Goodwillie with three or four players (sometimes I play along, too).

During round eight of one-on-one "Scream", as I huffed by an thin old lady walking toward me decked out in a red track suit and a giant sun visor that, along with her wrinkled, sagging jowl meat, made her look like a plucked pelican suffering from sun stoke, she looked at me, smiling meekly, and said, "Cute?".  At this point, I had been grinning broadly for a 1/2 mile listening to the cacophony at my six o-clock and just shrugged as a reply to her query and pushed on.

With the wind in our hair and sun shining on our faces, the boys and I had a sublime romp at the playground.  Beckett, trying to his last breath to keep up with his big bro and with his helmet still strapped on his impossibly large head, endlessly chased Rhys up ladders and down the big tunnel slide.  After ten minutes or so, Rhys ended up lapping the tiring Beck a few times on their circuit de fun.  After Rhys exploded out of the mouth of the slide, landing with a chuckle on his butt in the sand, he spun around, calling up to his trailing little brother, "You can do it Beckett!" Then he took off, head down, watching his own feet as he scampered off for another go-round.

Rhys is a month shy of his third birthday and a handful.  He gets yelled at, rightly, 50 times a day for some misdeed or another.  I always look for opportunities to positively reinforce him when he's flying right and true.  As we walk back toward the Burley, hand-in-hand, I genuinely complimented him for playing so well with Beckett and encouraging him to follow him down the slide.  Rhys was at his best that afternoon. What a great kid he is.

Well, we had a had a mondo tailwind and were sailing and bumping back to base at a mad pace.  As I hit the gas on a gentle downhill, the Burley pitched back and forth like I was towing a roiling gunny sack of rabid, rival raccoons - sounded that way, too.  It was rush hour on the bike path and I had numerous bikers approaching in the opposite direction, so I just had time to peek under my arm to figure out what the hell was going on.  It was clear Beckett and Rhys were engaged in close, shoulder-to-shoulder combat in an attempt to gain control of some prize possession I could not identify in that split second.  Screaming like a wild animal, Rhys was flailing his arm in a, mostly, failing attempt (he just didn't have a good angle of attack sitting side-by-side) to hit his brother in the face.  After giving apologetic smiles to gawking passerby, the traffic cleared and I turned for another look-see.  Beckett, screaming like a wild animal, as well, was fighting back, swaying laterally back in forth, in an attempt to land a butt with his dangerous dome.  I glanced back up to road, so as not to wreck, and heard a solid "thwack" of helmet to helmet contact.  Then, Rhys' screams of "No! No! No!" flipped to an ear shattering shriek.  Clearly, Beck had landed a billy goat quality butt upside Rhys' head, stopping Rhys' flurry of blows but the hotly contested tug-o-war raged on.

I looked back one more time, finally spotting the object of such prodigious worth my youngest were trying mightily to maim each other to secure it.  Annoyed,  I stopped and scolded, "You know you're fighting over a half-empty package of buttwipes, don't you?"  I set my bike down, reached under the Burley's cover and snatched the package of wipes that I had stowed earlier at their feet in case of a poopy situation.  Defeated, they both cried for another few minutes and, as they simmered on down, we all sung a few verses of "Old Mac Donald" and sped home, laughing together, again.

April 29, 2011

A Meeting to Remember

Kelly and Beckett have their ears on and they're watching our every move, too.
Just as Pebe was serving up homemade mini-pigs-in-a-blanket for her trio of beloved grandsons, I dismounted and clomped in the door in my tap shoes. I washed my filthy hands (I had been fixing grimy bikes at the Trips for Kids shop) and joyfully grabbed a seat at the table with my three sons.  I delighted in observing Kelly carefully eat his meal, dissecting each savory morsel, first, picking the doughy “blanket” off with his teeth before chomping the juicy “piggy.”  Beckett and Rhys enthusiastically joined in and beamed as I, for reasons unknown, halfway through dinner, belted out a few verses of Annie’s “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow.” (Dinner is always better with show tunes, don’t you think?) With our chins up, arms raised and hands shimmying like a true Broadway chorus, we all shrieked, screamed, and sung, as best we could muster, the crescendoing finale, “It’s on-ly a day aaaa-waaaaaaay!” and gave ourselves a rousing round of giggling applause. 

It had been a busy week.  It was already Wednesday and the boys hadn’t sniffed a bar of soap since their pre-Easter dunk and delousing on Saturday.  At some juncture, while chowing on mass quantities of piggies and their tasty blankies, Rhys crapped himself.  As she frenetically cleaned the kitchen, Pebe could smell Mr. Rhys’ ripe britches from the kitchen sink.  Collectively, we stunk like an old man farting in a mud puddle.  After cleaning their plates, the boys enjoyed one small piece of Easter candy each.  With a fresh layer of chocolate film smeared on their chins, the boys where served orders to march and "get soapy."

Rhys and his hot load of something special, a bit shower-phobic these days, was assigned to take a bath with Pebe. I led Kelly and Beckett into the master bath for a shower.  Beckett was a bundle of energy after sucking down a bite-size chocolate Easter egg for dessert.  He was crowing about subjects unknown and was wiggling his naked little ham hocks and doing dangerous silly-spins, I call them, on the slick glass tile floor.  In an effort to save him from additional head trauma, (see the blog entry Beckett: Small, Human, Crash Test Dummy) I snatched him mid-twirl and plunked him down in a seated position next to his mostly naked big brother.  After Kelly pulled off his last sock, ready to shower, he turned to Beckett and said, “Let’s have a meeting. Here’s your wine. Here’s mine.  Drink up.” Kelly tipped his head back and drank from an imaginary wine glass.

For the record, I enjoy a beer or two every so often, but I don’t really drink wine.  Catherine has, actually, been on a health kick and for the last 6.2 weeks has not sipped a single glass of wine or consumed anything containing alcohol.  We both, on a regular basis, host “meetings” for our various charitable causes where wine and beer keep the agenda flowing and attendance higher than without. While this tale of Kelly’s micro meeting, like a punchline devilishly delivered by an edgy comedian, is humorous it also uncomfortably conveys a jolting shock factor.

I try to teach the boys something new everyday – helping them discover new worlds in a book, introducing them to unknown neighborhood flora and fauna, or simply coaching them to, triumphantly, remove their own muddy shoes.  Kelly’s comments to his little bro certainly taught me, for better or worse, we teach them unintended lessons with every word, gesture, and action we make in view of their observant eyes and attentive ears.  I hope I can teach them, both with my actions and words, directly and obliquely, the right lessons they need to grow, thieve and be happy young men.   With consolation, I conclude, I haven’t ruined them, yet.
Rhys, before....

And after.

April 18, 2011

Beckett: Small, Human, Crash Test Dummy

Our camera recently disappeared, I fear, with a few megabytes of yet to be downloaded video footage and priceless pics of the boys.  I was home for a visit to GR over the weekend - just me - and had a spare two hours before flying home to Denver that I  luxuriously spent shopping with my mom.  I picked up a sharp new suit for a song, an ample stack of books for the boys and, most importantly, a new handy pocket Canon to capture amusing moments while on monkey safari.  I returned and filmed the Goodwillie monkeys back in their natural habitat performing stunts on bikes and scooters, and, in Rhys' case, barking like a loony tune.

My original cut of this video included Beckett face planting, hard (his signature maneuver) on the scooter with a track of the Pixies "Broken Face" layered over the primary audio of giggles - ass-over-apple cart, thunk on the sidewalk - and then Beck's delayed cry, but that seemed a bit over the top, even for me.  All the video below is after Beckett's face plant, so he was, actually, just fine.  We all had a blast horsing around this afternoon, albeit with a few boo-boos.  Lucky for me Catherine fell asleep with Kelly at bedtime, so I had an hour to edit the footage and write up a proper introduction. 

Enjoy the show and let me know if you'd like to see the director's "Broken Face" cut.







April 8, 2011

TFK Challenge Ride: Pedaling 140-miles for pennies, dimes and dollars.

Trips for Kids connects underserved youth to cycling and the outdoors.
I'm leading a group of adult Trips for Kids supporters on an epic, three-day, 140 mile, mountain bike adventure on the famed Kokopelli Trail May 20-22. The three huge days of riding will challenge our crew of supporters, much like our youth mountain biking program rides do with the young people we serve, to push themselves to do something they thought they couldn't do.

The other element of the "Challenge" is to make a similar deep effort to the ride, fundraising on behalf of Trips for Kids Denver/Boulder.  My goal is to raise $10 for every mile I pedal, totaling $1,400.

Please consider making a contribution of $140 or $70 ($.50/mi), or $35 ($.25/mi), (or more or less!) in support of my Kokopelli Challenge Ride and help me connect over 1,000 underserved youth to the health and confidence building sport of mountain biking this year.

Click this link to make a contribution via Giving First secure, processing fee free site: http://www.givingfirst.org/kokopelli_agood



Or contribute via traditional means by sending your contribution to:
Trips for Kids Denver/Boulder
2840 S. Elati St, Unit #4
Englewood, CO  80110

Thank you for your consideration!  Anything you can give will help sooth my sore bones (and butt) after this giant-size ride.


Cheers,

Andrew

March 30, 2011

The Scouting Report


So, with three boys one of the lame, tired jokes others quip and I sometimes regurgitate because I am lame and tired is, “We have ourselves the front line of a hockey team.”  This joke is so lame it must be punctuated with a news anchor foe laugh or, at least, a forced smirk.  Lame but true. Here’s the scouting report for my future mighty mites hockey team.

Kelly (4): The slight, skilled, crafty, veteran center man. Kelly works the angles and his relative speed and agility advantage to improve his position and gain the limelight.  He tallies penalty minutes for boarding, slyly throwing elbows when he thinks the refs aren't looking, line jumping, and spitefully grabbing toys before his little bros can reach them.

Rhys (2 1/2): Defensmen. The team enforcer with a decided mean streak.  He’s not afraid to hit, kick or head-butt the opposition – big bro Kelly or little Beckett, it makes no difference to number 33, he’ll take on all comers.  Due to poor vision, the big bruiser occasionally takes himself out, careening head long into cabinets, chairs or, the other day, the tailgate of a stationary SUV in the Safeway parking lot. 

Beckett (1 1/2): Old school, helmet less goalie.  Beckett can fearlessly take a puck or punch to his big-ol’, melon head and stand his ground.  80% of the time, the poor kid has a black eye or other major hematoma somewhere on his body from absorbing ruff housing abuse from his upper weigh class siblings or from his signature move of late: injuring himself while trying to keep up with K and R.  He always wants to do exactly what Kelly and Rhys are doing.  Examples: Running as fast as he can to keep up and falling face first on to a hard, coarse surface, screaming.  Trying to hoist himself up on to a big boy swing next to Kelly, gaining the desired altitude for a singular, triumphant moment, and then falling face first into the wood chips, screaming.  Refusing to use the booster seat with a handy safety belt, like his bros did at his age, and dropping from the dinner table at random intervals, you guessed it, on his big old head, screaming.
Beckett is a small, courageous, man-child, that Catherine and I fear may whittle us to gray, bent nubs, before our time is up.  

Kelly Update:

“Are you cussing with me? Don’t cuss me.” Kelly quoting the tile character from the Fantastic Mr. Fox movie (a movie that is played over and over around these parts), as Ana our brand new Colombian au pair helps him into his snow boots.  Ana had no idea what he was talking about (I’m not sure Kelly did either) and the reference surly escaped her, but I quickly quashed Kelly’s inappropriate quip. (Jan. 2011)

Kelly is identifying words: Chapter, On, Boston, zoo. While reading The Trumpet of the Swan, he stopped me while he found all insists of a particular word repeated on the two open pages.  He found Boston in five places and then I tricked him with Boatman.  He thought it was hilarious, when I told him the word was Boatman not Boston and then found all the Boatmans in about ten seconds.  

Art by Rhys from the fall. 
Random Rhys Tidbits:

The other morning Rhys was sitting on the counter stool at our kitchen island, amusing himself as I cooked breakfast.  He was singing under his breath,  “Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me.”  Then he muttered something about mixing and ovens and candles.  It seemed to me that he was baking an imaginary birthday cake for his little one man 2 1/2 year-old birthday party. 

Rhys is starting to memorize books like his big bro Kelly.

A funny little tale from boys night last night. 

Me: “Hey, everybody! Guess what? I decided we’re going to a pizza place for dinner tonight.” 

Kelly: “That’s awesome! Guess what, Rhysee? We’re going to a pizzeria for dinner!” (Kelly has picked up the phrases "That's awesome!" and "Oh my God!", lately.)

Me: “Hey, Kelly what’s a pizzeria?”

Kelly, not answering me directly but imparting his vast knowledge on the subject to his little bro, “Rhys, a pizzeria is a place that makes pizza.”

Me: "Yes, Kelly a pizzeria is a place that makes pizza. Kind of like a bakery is a place that bakes bread or, remember the word from the new Fredrick book Rhys?  The granary is a place where grain is stored.  
Moustache Madness 2011 - Final Photo

Rhys: “No, a pizzeria is a big, giant rhinoceros.  Rrrroarrr! Rrrrooarrr!” 

Alrighty, then.  We had a blast eating pizza at the big, giant rhinoceros place.

I need to come up with some great moustache photos for the boys in the morning.  Here's my final photo.  I'm going for the "Creepiest Moustache" category.  Check out our website in early April to see the boys' final photos and the overall contest winners.