Saturday, April 24, 2010
Trains, Planes, and Automobiles
So today, despite the downpour of rain, high winds, and the threat of tornados, we went to see Thomas the Train. My 4 year old son is a rather large fan of this English immigrant, although I am not sure where Sodor Island is (this relatively obscure reference confuse you? Take 10 minutes to watch the beginning of any Thomas the Tank Engine episode for clarity.) and not sure what country this little island would claim association. But we went beyond just seeing Thomas, we bought tickets to RIDE Thomas (this is the "Trains" in the title of this blog). This is an experience that a train lover like my son could not forget. We went last year when Thomas came to Chattanooga and we had a similar experience and my son never stopped talking about it. However, driving to and from this event was not an exercise in entertainment as we traversed the 26.2 miles (according to the precise measurements of Mapquest.com) of slightly flooded roads and blinding, horizontal rain (this experience represents the "Automobiles" in the title of this blog). But the best part of it all was the fact that I was there with my family. Not just my wife and kids (one train addicted boy), but my mother-in-law, father-in-law, brother-in-law (the famous rock star for those of you who know my family. If you don't know the name of his famous band, visit Genesis 4:2 NIV and add the word "Saving" after the word "brother" and you'll see the name of his band - cheap way to get you to open your Bible), sister-in-law, and their child. It was a spectacular day and unbelievable weekend. As far as the "Planes" in the title of this blog . . . boy, it would be tough to fly a plane in this weather (sorry, it was the best I could do.)
Monday, April 19, 2010
The crack of the bat, the smell of the grass, it's opening day!
Spring brings new life, warm weather, and baseball. I remember as a child, sleeping with a baseball and my mit at night. I can remember faithfully praying through the threat of rain in hopes of avoiding a raining-out of my games. I loved baseball. However, I didn’t want to be one of those dad’s who pushes his longing for his own glory days onto his son. But one day recently, my son said, “Daddy, I want to play baseball.” So we signed him up.
Last week was opening day. I was excited, especially since my son ended up being drafted by the Braves, my favorite team. When I say “drafted”, what I mean is he was placed on the team named the Braves, nonetheless, I felt it was fortuitous.
Well, the Braves batted first and my son was placed third in the batting order. The third spot in the order is normally reserved for the best hitter on the team. Considering this was tee-ball, and the attention span of a bunch of 4 year olds was 5 minutes ago, my guess is he was the third closest child to the coach when she made out the order. His turn at bat quickly came about, and even though I was recruited to serve as the third base coach, there was only one thing on my mind, my son’s first at bat. To his credit, he hit the ball on the very first swing and he hit it hard, it actually crept into the outfield. As I watched the ball and cheered with our family and friends, my son was doing the same, watching the ball and still standing at home plate.
As you might guess, in the world of 4 year old baseball, this scene is not uncommon, in fact, it is the norm. Nearly every at bat featured the same scene. The child (after knocking over the tee several times) would hit a slow dribbler onto the field only to send the defensive team into a mad scramble with every child launching at the ball resulting into a pile of 4 year olds nearly 3 feet deep. You have dads spread throughout the infield attempting to coach the children, but more realistically acting as a babysitter. Kids playing in the dirt, picking grass, picking noses, putting mits on their heads, and generally becoming distracted.
About halfway through the first inning we started seeing players peeling off. A little girl refused to swing because she was deep in tears (maybe she felt she would hurt the ball), another boy on our team refused to run, so mom picked him up and rounded the bases with him. Our son actually made it through one full inning (for those of you who are keeping score, one inning took 50 minutes), before I heard, “Daddy, I want to go home.” We convinced him to bat again and although the tee took a beating this time, he had another big hit (2 for 2, batting 1.000 for the season), but that was it. We couldn’t make it another inning. He was tired, hungry and just done with baseball.
Maybe baseball isn’t the best game for a 4 year old with a short attention span, but it is America’s past time (and if he never plays again, his career batting average is perfect).
Last week was opening day. I was excited, especially since my son ended up being drafted by the Braves, my favorite team. When I say “drafted”, what I mean is he was placed on the team named the Braves, nonetheless, I felt it was fortuitous.
Well, the Braves batted first and my son was placed third in the batting order. The third spot in the order is normally reserved for the best hitter on the team. Considering this was tee-ball, and the attention span of a bunch of 4 year olds was 5 minutes ago, my guess is he was the third closest child to the coach when she made out the order. His turn at bat quickly came about, and even though I was recruited to serve as the third base coach, there was only one thing on my mind, my son’s first at bat. To his credit, he hit the ball on the very first swing and he hit it hard, it actually crept into the outfield. As I watched the ball and cheered with our family and friends, my son was doing the same, watching the ball and still standing at home plate.
As you might guess, in the world of 4 year old baseball, this scene is not uncommon, in fact, it is the norm. Nearly every at bat featured the same scene. The child (after knocking over the tee several times) would hit a slow dribbler onto the field only to send the defensive team into a mad scramble with every child launching at the ball resulting into a pile of 4 year olds nearly 3 feet deep. You have dads spread throughout the infield attempting to coach the children, but more realistically acting as a babysitter. Kids playing in the dirt, picking grass, picking noses, putting mits on their heads, and generally becoming distracted.
About halfway through the first inning we started seeing players peeling off. A little girl refused to swing because she was deep in tears (maybe she felt she would hurt the ball), another boy on our team refused to run, so mom picked him up and rounded the bases with him. Our son actually made it through one full inning (for those of you who are keeping score, one inning took 50 minutes), before I heard, “Daddy, I want to go home.” We convinced him to bat again and although the tee took a beating this time, he had another big hit (2 for 2, batting 1.000 for the season), but that was it. We couldn’t make it another inning. He was tired, hungry and just done with baseball.
Maybe baseball isn’t the best game for a 4 year old with a short attention span, but it is America’s past time (and if he never plays again, his career batting average is perfect).
Who has been feeding the dog?
I love food. In fact, simply saying I love food, is probably an understatement. Just ask my wife, ask anyone who I’ve gone to lunch with, or ask any all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant I have visited in the past (you should see the look on the managers face when I walk in the door – I get my money’s worth). For exercise, I ride my bike a few times a week. But the real reason I exercise is to allow myself the ability to eat whatever I want (which I am well aware is not a good wellness strategy).
However, this love of food did not always exist. When I was young I was actually a very picky eater. I was also very stubborn. This, as many of you parents know, was not a fun combination for my mom and dad once dinner time arrived. Nearly everything my mom put on my plate, I refused to eat. In fact, the battles that were waged at the dinner table are legendary. My mom often regretted the phrase, “You will not leave the dinner table until you cleaned your plate!” This only led her to find me still sitting at the table, not one bite eaten, as bedtime arrived.
There were many foods I would refuse to eat, all the usual suspects – spinach, beets (I would often would sacrifice a few tasty macaroni by building a wall to prevent the beet juice from spreading to the foods I actually liked), broccoli, and most anything any color other than white (why I was so color specific is beyond me). In fact, it became a running joke in my family at Thanksgiving that my plate would be full of almost all white foods (white turkey, white mashed potatoes, and white rolls). But there was one food that I was particularly offended by – roast. Why roast? I think it was the texture more than the flavor, but nonetheless, I would gag every time my mother would force me put a bite of it in my mouth.
As I grew older, I began to understand that I was losing the dinner table battles. Not that I ultimately ate the food (because I didn’t), but I would waste all my play time sitting at the dinner table being stubborn. This led to a different strategy, a more devious strategy. I would start the meal refusing to eat the offending food, sitting stoically as if I was settling in for the night as I had many times in the past. Eventually, the family would clear the table, leaving me alone at the table with my plate of cold roast and beets. We did not have a family dog at the time, so I had to search the room for another opportunity to dispose of the evidence. This is when I realized my mom had decoratively placed a fern next to my seat at the dinner table. Why she didn’t see my next move coming is beyond me, but my guess is that when I called her back to the kitchen 20 minutes later she was simply overjoyed to see a cleaned plate. When the fern died a month later and she found a pile of rotting food in the pot, it was simply too late to punish me. It was shortly after this incident that we got a family dog; I guess she preferred me to feed the dog than kill the plants.
Have any of you ever wished upon your children that they, as parents experience the same difficult challenges you experienced as a parent? Well, I am happy to report to my mom, that my son has inherited that same “picky eater” gene. We’ve moved all the plants away from the dinner table, but come to think of it, the dog has gained a few pounds.
However, this love of food did not always exist. When I was young I was actually a very picky eater. I was also very stubborn. This, as many of you parents know, was not a fun combination for my mom and dad once dinner time arrived. Nearly everything my mom put on my plate, I refused to eat. In fact, the battles that were waged at the dinner table are legendary. My mom often regretted the phrase, “You will not leave the dinner table until you cleaned your plate!” This only led her to find me still sitting at the table, not one bite eaten, as bedtime arrived.
There were many foods I would refuse to eat, all the usual suspects – spinach, beets (I would often would sacrifice a few tasty macaroni by building a wall to prevent the beet juice from spreading to the foods I actually liked), broccoli, and most anything any color other than white (why I was so color specific is beyond me). In fact, it became a running joke in my family at Thanksgiving that my plate would be full of almost all white foods (white turkey, white mashed potatoes, and white rolls). But there was one food that I was particularly offended by – roast. Why roast? I think it was the texture more than the flavor, but nonetheless, I would gag every time my mother would force me put a bite of it in my mouth.
As I grew older, I began to understand that I was losing the dinner table battles. Not that I ultimately ate the food (because I didn’t), but I would waste all my play time sitting at the dinner table being stubborn. This led to a different strategy, a more devious strategy. I would start the meal refusing to eat the offending food, sitting stoically as if I was settling in for the night as I had many times in the past. Eventually, the family would clear the table, leaving me alone at the table with my plate of cold roast and beets. We did not have a family dog at the time, so I had to search the room for another opportunity to dispose of the evidence. This is when I realized my mom had decoratively placed a fern next to my seat at the dinner table. Why she didn’t see my next move coming is beyond me, but my guess is that when I called her back to the kitchen 20 minutes later she was simply overjoyed to see a cleaned plate. When the fern died a month later and she found a pile of rotting food in the pot, it was simply too late to punish me. It was shortly after this incident that we got a family dog; I guess she preferred me to feed the dog than kill the plants.
Have any of you ever wished upon your children that they, as parents experience the same difficult challenges you experienced as a parent? Well, I am happy to report to my mom, that my son has inherited that same “picky eater” gene. We’ve moved all the plants away from the dinner table, but come to think of it, the dog has gained a few pounds.
Where have you been?
When I was a kid, the rule in our house was that you always got home before the street lights came on. In my neighborhood, the street lights clicked on at dusk and took about 5-10 minutes to warm up, so you had a good opportunity to make it home (it seemed that the city and my mother collaborated on that plan). Occassionally, I would not make it in time, it would be fully dark and I would be walking in the door. My mother would yell, "Where have you been?" The funny thing is that the answer did not matter. I mean, really, what could I tell my mom that would get me out of trouble for coming home an hour after dark? "Mom, there was some bandits that were attempting to rob a stagecoach and I rode my Schwinn Stingray to the rescue!" Not likely going to get me out of trouble. So, when I had a few people email me saying they read my column regularly, but noticed that I had not updated my blog lately, all I have to say is . . . there were some bandit that were attempting to rob a stagecoach . . . not working? Well, I guess all I can say is sorry. I'd love to say I had better things to do, but that would be silly as well, my life just isn't that important. But I will say, I've had a GREAT few months spending time with my family. Since this is a blog mainly about families, that should be a good enough - thanks for reading and get ready for several new blogs!
Friday, February 19, 2010
A column . . . written by the family dog.
Hello. My name is Tucker and I am the Ryerson family dog. Now I am fully aware that I have been picked on and the butt of many jokes in this column (I mean, they cut my hair into a Mohawk – come on!), so I thought I’d get in my two cents worth. The truth is, my human, Matt, is not near as smart as he thinks he is. In fact, watching him struggle to write a 500 word column one time a week is simply embarrassing. That is why I decided to step in and give him a break this week. Besides, working this computer really isn’t all that difficult; except for the lack of fingers (paws aren’t ideal for typing).
I don’t recall my life as a young pup. My first memory is sitting in the palm of the hand of my owner in a parking lot south of Atlanta. My owners were not married at the time, only engaged (oh the silly rituals you humans go through), so I went to live with the male, Matt is what other humans call him. He seemed to believe he was the alpha in that relationship (I think he still believes that), but that was clearly not true. Later that same year, they went on to become man and wife (we call that relationship ‘mate’, but whatever).
At that point in time, I was the king of the homestead, lord of the manor, and I had run of the house. I was the centerpiece of the family and I would get shown off to all sorts of visitors. I went on every trip to the store and was taken to the park on a regular basis. Suddenly, my humans came home one day and were acting differently. I immediately noticed I wasn’t getting as much attention and taking fewer trips than I traditionally received. Even my best efforts to gain their attention only resulted in scorn (apparently you humans don’t appreciate the way I mark my territory).
Shortly after that change, they brought home another little human. This guy began his time in our home as quite the pest and certainly hogged much of the attention that used to be mine. Fortunately, I am comfortable in my own fur and don’t need constant praise and attention to feel good about myself (unlike some other little human I knew). Shortly after we settled into a routine, they showed up at the house with another one of these needy little humans (although she is cute) to disrupt our family utopia. Nonetheless, after a short adjustment period, we all became accustomed to one another and I found out that the addition of these two little humans only resulted in MORE attention and love.
So why am I writing you this story (other than my human Matt was flat out of decent ideas for this column and I wanted to save you the pain of reading another boring story of his childhood)? It is only to tell you that if you are so fortunate to be allowed to live with one of my relatives (you call us ‘the family pet’), recognize that we are a part of the family. We contribute to the level of happiness (I might argue that we are the REASON for the happiness) and role model unconditional love (except for those crazy cats, I am not so sure about them). By the way, when it comes time for the family photo – don’t forget about us! We enjoy showing off our humans to our friends just like anyone else.
I don’t recall my life as a young pup. My first memory is sitting in the palm of the hand of my owner in a parking lot south of Atlanta. My owners were not married at the time, only engaged (oh the silly rituals you humans go through), so I went to live with the male, Matt is what other humans call him. He seemed to believe he was the alpha in that relationship (I think he still believes that), but that was clearly not true. Later that same year, they went on to become man and wife (we call that relationship ‘mate’, but whatever).
At that point in time, I was the king of the homestead, lord of the manor, and I had run of the house. I was the centerpiece of the family and I would get shown off to all sorts of visitors. I went on every trip to the store and was taken to the park on a regular basis. Suddenly, my humans came home one day and were acting differently. I immediately noticed I wasn’t getting as much attention and taking fewer trips than I traditionally received. Even my best efforts to gain their attention only resulted in scorn (apparently you humans don’t appreciate the way I mark my territory).
Shortly after that change, they brought home another little human. This guy began his time in our home as quite the pest and certainly hogged much of the attention that used to be mine. Fortunately, I am comfortable in my own fur and don’t need constant praise and attention to feel good about myself (unlike some other little human I knew). Shortly after we settled into a routine, they showed up at the house with another one of these needy little humans (although she is cute) to disrupt our family utopia. Nonetheless, after a short adjustment period, we all became accustomed to one another and I found out that the addition of these two little humans only resulted in MORE attention and love.
So why am I writing you this story (other than my human Matt was flat out of decent ideas for this column and I wanted to save you the pain of reading another boring story of his childhood)? It is only to tell you that if you are so fortunate to be allowed to live with one of my relatives (you call us ‘the family pet’), recognize that we are a part of the family. We contribute to the level of happiness (I might argue that we are the REASON for the happiness) and role model unconditional love (except for those crazy cats, I am not so sure about them). By the way, when it comes time for the family photo – don’t forget about us! We enjoy showing off our humans to our friends just like anyone else.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Thanks for your patience . . . whatever your name is.
I have a mental deficiency. Now many of you who know me may be saying to yourself, “only one?” (imagine my sarcastic laugh inserted here). Well, I am specifically talking about my incredible lack of ability to remember names. I have tried pneumonics, memory tricks, and repetition among other efforts and I still struggle finding a way to effectively remember names. Ultimately, I just decided that I must not have inherited the gene that helps us commit names to memory (deflect blame to parents here). Unfortunately, this mental defect, can lead to embarrassing and awkward situations.
Recognizing this short-coming pushed me to develop several creative “tricks” that helped me re-introduce myself without revealing my utter lack of name recognition (none of which I plan on revealing here in case I need to use one of them on you). Unfortunately, these “tricks” have not always been effective and when they fail, I have faced embarrassing and awkward situations.
I remember one such occasion that occurred when I was the director of a summer camp at a YMCA. In preparation for the summer, I had to hire a staff which was approximately 30 staff people. As all of these staff members returned for training I had the duty of signing them in at a registration desk. One girl walked up to the desk and I could recall that I had hired her as one of my program managers, a leadership position on our team. I also remembered her first name was Melissa (which was actually a great accomplishment for me), but her last name was escaping me. I decided to employ one of my sure-fire “tricks” for getting her last name without being exposed.
“Melissa, great to see you joining the team. I’m going to get you registered, but can you spell your last name for me again?” I said with a sense of confidence.
She stared at me blankly for a moment and then she slowly spelled, “S-M-I-T-H”. To add insult to injury she followed that with, “Yeah, it’s a tough one to spell, I get that all the time,” and she walked off with a sarcastic smile on her face.
In hindsight, I should have had her sign herself in, but my over confidence in my “trick” was my downfall. As a result, I spent the better part of that summer as the butt of many spelling jokes.The danger in me writing this column is obvious; I’ve introduced you to one of my most embarrassing weaknesses and a very large character deficiency in the area of name recollection (so much for a career in politics). This makes me very vulnerable. However, I am making a commitment to do better, work harder, and ultimately be more effective at remembering names. But if you approach me at church, at a community event, or at a dinner party and ask if I recall your name – don’t be offended when I say, “Sure I do, but can you tell me how to spell it?”
Recognizing this short-coming pushed me to develop several creative “tricks” that helped me re-introduce myself without revealing my utter lack of name recognition (none of which I plan on revealing here in case I need to use one of them on you). Unfortunately, these “tricks” have not always been effective and when they fail, I have faced embarrassing and awkward situations.
I remember one such occasion that occurred when I was the director of a summer camp at a YMCA. In preparation for the summer, I had to hire a staff which was approximately 30 staff people. As all of these staff members returned for training I had the duty of signing them in at a registration desk. One girl walked up to the desk and I could recall that I had hired her as one of my program managers, a leadership position on our team. I also remembered her first name was Melissa (which was actually a great accomplishment for me), but her last name was escaping me. I decided to employ one of my sure-fire “tricks” for getting her last name without being exposed.
“Melissa, great to see you joining the team. I’m going to get you registered, but can you spell your last name for me again?” I said with a sense of confidence.
She stared at me blankly for a moment and then she slowly spelled, “S-M-I-T-H”. To add insult to injury she followed that with, “Yeah, it’s a tough one to spell, I get that all the time,” and she walked off with a sarcastic smile on her face.
In hindsight, I should have had her sign herself in, but my over confidence in my “trick” was my downfall. As a result, I spent the better part of that summer as the butt of many spelling jokes.The danger in me writing this column is obvious; I’ve introduced you to one of my most embarrassing weaknesses and a very large character deficiency in the area of name recollection (so much for a career in politics). This makes me very vulnerable. However, I am making a commitment to do better, work harder, and ultimately be more effective at remembering names. But if you approach me at church, at a community event, or at a dinner party and ask if I recall your name – don’t be offended when I say, “Sure I do, but can you tell me how to spell it?”
Saturday, February 6, 2010
I was a great baseball player, until I played with great baseball players
Is there a difference between who we believe ourselves to be and who we envision ourselves as? Have you ever listened to a recording of your own voice? It never sounds the same as you think it sounds. Have you ever seen a picture of yourself and thought, who is that? Most of the time, how we see ourselves in our mind is different (sometimes much different) than who we really are.
I believe this probably begins in our childhood. I remember as a child believing I had superpowers. I felt like if I focused on a superhero state of mind that I could apply superhero talents to my life. On one such occasion I convinced myself that I could leap our local creek in a single bound. The creek was about 30 feet wide and therefore slightly wider than the long jump world record, nonetheless, I believed I had super powers and this was not going to be a problem. I probably don’t need to tell you how this story turns out, but it was wet.
Another time, when I was entering college as a freshmen, I decided to try and become a “walk on” for my university baseball team. Now I had been a decent player in high school, maybe better than average (interpret this as All Star in my eyes at that time). I had been thinking about the try outs for several months, had done some private training and felt very confident in my chances. Additionally, my friends and family had invested a lot of time and energy in telling me how good of a ballplayer I was.
I’ll never forget the first day of tryouts. I volunteered to be the first batter in a brief scrimmage with some of the guys playing varsity, I felt ready. I swaggered up to the batter’s box, dug in and prepared for the first pitch. The pitcher wound up and fired what I think was a straight fastball. The truth is, I hardly saw it and have no idea what type of pitch it was. He was the fastest pitcher I had ever faced and every pitch was a blur. To give you a tangible example, have you ever watched American Idol and a contestant is singing for the judges and they are just awful, but when asked, they say that everyone they know has told them they were a great singer? Let’s just say, I know that feeling.
So, how do we bridge the gap between who we are and who we want to be? The best way is to recognize ourselves for who we really are and work diligently to build our strengths and overcome our weaknesses. Or maybe we don’t, maybe the next time you look at yourself in the mirror - take a long, hard look at who you really are and embrace the fact that people love you as is, accepting who you are, limitations and all. OR, lastly and probably the most popular choice is to continue your delusional beliefs about your greater self – it’s usually a nicer vision anyway.
I believe this probably begins in our childhood. I remember as a child believing I had superpowers. I felt like if I focused on a superhero state of mind that I could apply superhero talents to my life. On one such occasion I convinced myself that I could leap our local creek in a single bound. The creek was about 30 feet wide and therefore slightly wider than the long jump world record, nonetheless, I believed I had super powers and this was not going to be a problem. I probably don’t need to tell you how this story turns out, but it was wet.
Another time, when I was entering college as a freshmen, I decided to try and become a “walk on” for my university baseball team. Now I had been a decent player in high school, maybe better than average (interpret this as All Star in my eyes at that time). I had been thinking about the try outs for several months, had done some private training and felt very confident in my chances. Additionally, my friends and family had invested a lot of time and energy in telling me how good of a ballplayer I was.
I’ll never forget the first day of tryouts. I volunteered to be the first batter in a brief scrimmage with some of the guys playing varsity, I felt ready. I swaggered up to the batter’s box, dug in and prepared for the first pitch. The pitcher wound up and fired what I think was a straight fastball. The truth is, I hardly saw it and have no idea what type of pitch it was. He was the fastest pitcher I had ever faced and every pitch was a blur. To give you a tangible example, have you ever watched American Idol and a contestant is singing for the judges and they are just awful, but when asked, they say that everyone they know has told them they were a great singer? Let’s just say, I know that feeling.
So, how do we bridge the gap between who we are and who we want to be? The best way is to recognize ourselves for who we really are and work diligently to build our strengths and overcome our weaknesses. Or maybe we don’t, maybe the next time you look at yourself in the mirror - take a long, hard look at who you really are and embrace the fact that people love you as is, accepting who you are, limitations and all. OR, lastly and probably the most popular choice is to continue your delusional beliefs about your greater self – it’s usually a nicer vision anyway.
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