Christmas in Iowa

Merry Christmas, everyone, from Iowa. We're in the Hawkeye State yet again for this special time, celebrating a very important birth with Michelle's family, Midwesterners through and through. Like many other parts of the northern United States, this Christmas seemed to sneak up on us, fooled by a stretch of unseasonably warm weather in December. Even here in Cedar Rapids, there is no snow on the ground on Christmas in as long as many can recall, which has underscored the oddity of it all. Despite the relative warmth, it's always great to know there's a time when family travel home to reconnect and enjoy each other's company.

This Christmas has been especially gratifying, because our boys are having a ball with their cousin, Kenley, who comes courtesy of one of Michelle's brothers and our sister-in-law. Kenley is about a year and a half, between Nathaniel (3) and Isaiah (14 mos.). She and Nathaniel have just reached the ages where they recognize each other and play together, albeit intermittently and with regular bouts over each other's toys. Still, it's a start to a beautiful friendship, and by next year, Isaiah also will be in the thick of it. Watching the cousins is clearly a highlight of visiting.

So, while it may not feel necessarily like Christmas, I would suggest that the warmth of family and the joy of cousins frolicking to and fro are largely what Christmas is all about. And we have that in spades.

Two Birthdays

Well, that was quite a break. Not really sure what happened there. There was Thanksgiving, then my birthday (on a Wednesday ... ugh) and who knows what else. Life intervenes, like a sodden guest who staggers into your home each night. Oh yeah, and the whole family is sick. What fun!

Yes, the sickness bug has the Lewises in its clutches. These times are trials, really: The children unable to understand why they feel so crappy. The parents gnash their teeth as the little ones spin out of control, trying to keep themselves composed amidst grand, theatrical and emotional unraveling. It's a tightrope.

I think we've negotiated that thin line pretty well in previous episodes. Or, perhaps my memory is blocking out the unpleasantness of it all. Anyway, this wave has seemed particularly intense. As evidence, I offer my wife.

For the past two days, when I have arrived home from work, Michelle has bolted from the house. The first time, she took off to the grocery store. The second time, she took off early to her job, which normally she would wait until the last possible moment to go in. The reason? The children, sick and cranky, are driving her mad.

It's uncharacteristic behavior from Michelle, who is as stalwart and stoic as they come. So, Nathaniel and Isaiah really must be doing a number on her. The thing is, it just seems as if they have colds, no fever for either at any point. But they've been miserable, and for the days that Michelle has been home alone with them, they've made things miserable for her, too. Isaiah has been clutchy, wailing if he is not being held at all times. Nathaniel is wrapped in this death spiral in which the worse he feels, the more he resists sleeping. Remember my point about not being able to understand that you're sick? Natty doesn't get it that the best thing he can do for himself is rest. So, you have little mister cling-on and little mister hyper-erratic. Take your pick. Better, take 'em both.

Compounding all this, we're desperately trying to get them better (and ourselves, too) before we make our annual, Christmastime road trip to Iowa. That's 22 hours in the vehicle, folks. We don't want crying children.

Well, that was a lot of pissing and moaning. Let's end this post on a happier note, shall we? With that, here are some oh-so-fun pictures from Nathaniel's oh-so-fun outdoor birthday party with a bounce house that we bought at discount. Isaiah also had a fine birthday, feted with cake and ice cream and family. His bounce house birthdays are to come.

Natty bouncing

Bouncing with neighborhood friends

Let him eat cake

Isaiah at one

Concert with Daddy

Nathaniel celebrated turning 3 on Saturday. More on his party, and the absolute joy I felt in helping to throw it, in a later post, when we get pictures and video.

The following day, Sunday, I took Nathaniel to a concert. It was a bit of a gamble. About a week before, I spied an ad in a local monthly about "power drumming" groups on a tour from south Asia. The pictures showed individuals and groups smacking what looked like bongos and congas. Since Nathaniel sees me do this with the musical ensemble at church and loves drums (and music, in general), I thought it would be nice for him to see how professionals do it. But I wasn't sure whether this would be the proper setting.

So I called the group that was organizing the concert in Providence. The nice lady on the other end of the line didn't have much information, but she did direct me to a web site called caravanserai, which showed me some of these performers in action. I still didn't know exactly who was coming, but the ticket prices were reasonable and there was an intermission after about 45 minutes, which gave me the option to cart Natty home if he was bored by then. So, I went for it.

On Sunday evening, Daddy took Nathaniel on his special night out. We got to the amphitheater just in time, found some seats and settled in. The first performer was a gentleman from Pakistan, I believe, who sat squat legged on a slightly elevated platform covered in carpets and two small bongo-like drums. He used his fingers almost exclusively to pound out beats and sounds, a rhythmic thrumming like you might do on your desk, but much, much more sophisticated. To my surprise, Nathaniel enjoyed the performance, standing the whole time and dutifully clapping energetically after each piece. I say surprised because while the drumming was indeed exceptional, I figured a 3-year-old would not be terribly impressed by a sitting man playing with his fingers. I was wrong.

After a brief pause, two long-haired gentleman from India came on to the stage. They were dressed in light robes and one of them was barefoot. The drums they held were enormous, fat tubes hanging around their waists, positioned parallel to the ground. Each struck the drum from both sides; in one hand, each held an instrument that looked like a sickle and in the other what appeared to be a drumstick. They began playing, and, well, they had Nathaniel from the first beat. He stood there, transfixed, as the drumming intensified, and one of the men began spinning, faster and faster, until the oversized drum was swinging tautly suspended from his waist, gripped by centrifugal force. Then, as he was spinning, the other drummer inserted the strap of his drum into the spinning drummer's mouth, and now the guy was spinning and pounding on one drum, while the other was flying behind him.

Let me tell you, it all made for great theater, a spectacle so intense that I thought Nathaniel's head was going to pop off. He was swaying to the beat, rhythmically clapping his hands to the drumming. Watching him, I couldn't help but smile widely. My boy was having so much fun!

What did you think? Pretty cool, huh? It was even better live. Nathaniel was pretty jazzed after that, so I decided we'd stick it out through intermission and see the next act. That was quite good, too, featuring a group of singers, percussion and an instrument that sounded somewhat like an accordion. Enough to keep Natty's attention, for the most part.

Afterward, I asked him if he liked it. "Yeah," he replied softly, still caught up in the moment.

So, I'm here to report that concert night with Daddy went swimmingly. You know, Nathaniel likely won't remember going, but I will, and it was a fine, fine night with my oldest son.

Days later as Michelle was driving the boys from the children's museum, she asked Nathaniel what "fun thing" he'd like to do after quiet time. "Go to a concert with Daddy," he said.

Guess he remembers it after all. And fondly, at that.

All Home

Last Saturday at 6 a.m. a group of wanderers all but fell into the house, wrung out from the road.

My family was home.

Indeed, Michelle, ably supported by her sister, had driven with the children non-stop from Iowa back to New England. Their trip, thankfully, was uneventful. But it may not have been.

That's because, as those in the northeast U.S. surely know, that a rare October snowstorm was bearing down just as the gang was journeying eastward. I didn't even know about this Nor'easter until I was watching the national nightly news. Concerned, I went on the web and checked out the forecast at various points along Michelle's route. It did not look pretty, at least if you're driving. The midsection of Pennsylvania, for example, was expected to get up to 10 inches of snow. This, it goes without saying, would make for some tough sledding, especially for a sleep-deprived crew.

I checked the forecast for upstate New York. To my surprise, it called for clouds, with only a 20-30 percent chance of mostly rain. Heartened, I called Michelle. She, her sister and the boys had just passed Cleveland. In just several miles, they could veer north and hop on to Interstate 90.

It turned out to be a good move. Pennsylvania got dumped by snow. Meanwhile, upstate New York stayed nice and dry, and our gang motored on through, unimpeded, although bone-tired, to our little bayside town.

I was so, so happy to see everyone. It is hard to describe how much I missed them. I felt this odd sensation the full 10 days they were gone, truly as if a piece of me had been physically ripped from my being and taken away. I only got that piece of me back when they returned.

Despite the joy, everyone came back in varied states of illness. Which means that not only were the boys antsy and out of sorts from their long trip, but they were a little strung out from coughs and colds. The honeymoon doesn't last long, now does it? And, yes, by Monday, I had succumbed to the germs, coming down with a nasty cold myself that I think I'm just coming out of.

Whatever. I'll take the cold and the cough – so long as my family remains after delivering them. I am that glad they are home.

Dazed in a maze

I'm officially a week alone in this 'ol house. Michelle and the boys are, by all accounts, having a grand time with grandmother, great-grandmother and aunt, as well as a visit from another aunt, an uncle and a cute button of a cousin. So far, they've been to visit great-grandmother's house, a century farmhouse with a big barn full of larger-than-life farm equipment like tractors and combines that fairly blew Nathaniel's mind. Tonight, he informed the tractor was so big that he had to climb stairs to get into the driver's seat.

How cool is that for a 3-year-old?

I can't describe how happy I am that he, his brother Isaiah, and of course mommy Michelle are enjoying themselves so thoroughly, and that all those family folks are enjoying them being there. I also can't describe how utterly lonely it is to patter around an empty house. So far, caveman Richard has foraged well for grub; I've cooked hamburgers, tacos with a chicken, bean, green chilies and onion mixture that I cooked in a skillet, eggs and bacon, salads and cereal. And fruit – apples, grapes and bananas. I have yet to go out for a nighttime meal. Not bad, huh? (Cue the applause – and the back patting). So, while I've survived just fine, thank you very much, it's been little more than that. Damn, I'm bored. It doesn't help that college basketball hasn't started.

Michelle did leave with me some tasks (I think she called them fun things to do), and so far I'm on schedule to get them all done. I refinished a dresser for Isaiah, mowed the lawn, stored the window A/C units and other chores. I've even kept the house fairly clean. In fact, the dishwasher is running as we speak. (pat, pat on my back) And to top it all off, I didn't watch a single play of professional football on Sunday. I actually had too much to do. I'm not kidding.

I also have not frequented any watering holes. Even on Saturday night, which would have been the time to do it, I failed to journey to a bar and soak in some local color (and college football). I might have, except I was stuck in a corn maze, of all things.

I went to the corn maze with a church youth group that I help lead. We arrived just as the sun was setting and hopped on a hay ride, which ferried us to the maze. Two boys chose me as their chaperone and into the maze we went. I was ill-prepared for the adventure. I brought no flashlight and was wearing a light jacket, even though fall had definitely arrived in New England. All went well at first; I let the boys pick the paths, each alternately saying, "I like this one" and away we went. After a while, I took note of the setting sun and smugly set my internal compass based on a tree line to the north, a cell phone tower to the west and a clearing to the east. "No problem," I thought to myself. "I know from what direction we entered the maze, and I know what direction we need to get out, and I know what direction we'll be heading at all times. Piece of cake."

Satisfied, I continued to let the boys lead the way, choosing paths on a whim. We stopped and read the signs, full of all sorts of corn facts. We stopped at the hole punch stations and dutifully punched our cards, the goal being to get all four punches and be entered in a raffle. It was a lovely, crisp fall evening, the boys were joyously gallivanting around, and I was happy. A nice way to spend a Saturday night, after all.

We snaked our way northward in the maze and then headed west, which I had surmised we needed to go before turning south and then south by southwest to exit. And then things got more complicated. We saw a sign and headed down a path. Within a few minutes, we arrived back at the same sign. "Aw, we went in a circle," one of the boys said. So, we tried another path. After some twists and turns, there we were again, at the sign. I scratched my head. "OK," I said, "Let's go this way," and off we went. Some more twists and turns, and again, that sign. We tried another path, and, again, the same result. Another path. Same sign. Another path. Sign. No matter what direction we took, we could not escape that sign. Dumbfounded, I just stared at the sign, looking at the paths and trying to figure out if there was any path we hadn't took. The joy had been erased from the boys' faces, replaced by exasperation. "Where should we go, Mr. Lewis?" they asked, expecting me to magically extricate ourselves. But I had no clue. I was stumped, annoyed and mildly pissed. "How hard can this be?" I thought.

I took stock of our place in the maze, the direction we ultimately needed to go to exit and set off on a southwest path. After much meandering, I'll be darned if we didn't end up again at that bloody sign. The boys started whimpering a little. I was flushed with embarrassment and more than a little pissed. Then, I saw an older man loitering nearby, and I asked him how we get out. An employee, he looked at me and said, "You're in the cow's mouth." I just looked at him, mouth agape. "What'd he just say? I'm in the cow's mouth?" He looked at me and said matter of factly, "You need to circle around the mouth to get out."

It was then that I realized that I had a map in my pocket. The map, if you can call it that, is a sketch of the maze. On it is written, "Do not rely on this map. It does not accurately represent the maze." I took the instructions at face value. Now, I realized that I should have been consulting it all along, at least to get a clue where we might be. I found the mouth, guessed at where we were relative to said mouth, and off we went.

Back to the sign. Again.

We ran into that sign at least twice more before, miraculously, the cow spit us out like a sour cud. Consulting the map, we needed to get into the steer's left eyeball, find the eyelash that leads us out of the cow's head and then negotiate through some flowery-type arrangements to get out. Somewhere after we extracted ourselves from the eyeball, we got lost again. The night hung heavy in the air. The boys were trudging along at this point, no longer bothering to take the lead in picking the paths and complaining that their legs hurt. I wasn't feeling much better. I also began feeling twinges of dread that I may not be able to get us out at all. It was during this phase that I started hearing faint shouts of "Mr. Lewis!" Mr. Lewis, hold up your light!" My dread deepened; not only were we lost, but we were so lost, lagging so long behind the other groups, that they were worried, too. My heart began to race. Worse, we were now running into clots of people who were hopelessly lost as well. They wore an awful look of resignation. One guy seriously studied his map and declared he knew exactly where we were, and where we needed to go. Needless to say, we followed this leader. After a few false turns, his shoulder slumped a little. A false prophet. We left him as he raised himself back up and declared he now had figured it out.

We took some more false turns. We returned to a bench after several mini expeditions. We sat down on the bench, defeated. Finally, we got up and soldiered onward. Somehow, we stumbled on a path that looked new. It was deserted. Could this be it? We heard the desperate voices of those other groups, zombies searching for the exit. We moved forward; after maybe 20 yards, we came to a sign.

"Congratulations!" it said. We didn't bother to read on. We sprinted the hell out of there.

Isaiah turns 1

It's official, folks. Isaiah, our darling little red-headed boy, is one year old today. Happy birthday, little guy!

In some ways, it's hard to imagine he's one year old. It seems like he's been in our lives for so much longer than that, and thus should be older. Same way with Nathaniel, actually, now on the cusp of three. It seems like he's been around far longer, so much so that it's hard to imagine how life was before he arrived. Still, I can't believe he's almost three already. Where has the time gone?

Back to Isaiah. Our little man is progressing nicely, thank you very much. He is getting quite comfortable with standing upright, and even has been able to balance himself without support for a couple of beats. He's quite close to becoming truly bipedal! His fascination with balls remains strong; in fact, Isaiah is quite adept at bouncing a ball to you, and when you bounce it back, he will invariably corral it. Hate to say it, but he is far more coordinated than Nathaniel was at that age, and I dare say he'd give his older brother a run for his money now. He's got a great tuft of light red hair now. Most of it is centered on the top of his head, so that it looks like he's wearing a red pelt, or has gotten a toupee. The sides and especially the back are still pretty wispy. Unlike Nathaniel, I think he will keep the reddish hair for a while, much like his mommy has.

Things are a little weird, because I had to wish Isaiah happy birthday from afar. Michelle and the boys are in Iowa, visiting an aunt, a grandmother, a great-grandmother, another aunt and an uncle. Awesome. I'm staying at home, and, boy, is it weird to come back to an empty house. I'm so used to being greeted with shrieks, smells (of dinner) and sass (in a good way, mostly) when I walk in the door that the silence that accompanies my return is that much more pronounced. Downright eerie.

And boring. I swear I never thought I'd use that word when greeted with the prospect of time at home alone. Liberation, yes. But boredom? Are you kidding me? Yet, like so many things, expectations can vastly outstrip reality. You might have thought I'd go bar-hopping or something. But really that doesn't hold much appeal anymore. If anything, it'd make me feel even more lonely, miss my family even more.

Don't get me wrong: There is one upside: I will sleep in on Saturday morning. I can't wait for that.

Booty-shakin' music

Two quick stories here.

The first has to do with the odd, impromptu performances we give for our children. You know, those times when you just ham it up for no reason, much to your children's delight – or horror.

One such time occurred a couple of evenings ago. We were just finishing dinner, and the boys were a little anxious, stuck in that void between the excitement of the beginning of dinner and the joy of post-dinner playing. For some reason, the KC & the Sunshine band song, "Shake your Booty" popped into my head, and I just went with it. I popped up and began waggling my skinny can.

Nathaniel watched me with a bemused look on his face. Then he said, "Daddy, that's so disgusting!"

I didn't know he knew that word. And I sure didn't know he knew how to put it in the proper context.

The second story also revolves around music. Michelle has practically begged me not to share this story, but I can't help it, even if it is to my embarrassment.

Every day, the bus I ride goes down the main street of a quaint little town lined with Mom n' Pop stores, like an apothecary, a pancake joint, a shoe store and a coffee shop. Also on this main street is a dusty store selling used music. It's called In Your Ear, which is appropriate enough, as it pertains to music and also to some crusty New England-style greetings. I've ling been intrigued by this place, but never had the energy, or perhaps the gumption, to interrupt my ride and check it out.

Well, one day I did. It was as dusty on the inside as on the outside. And it was cluttered. On one wall was a collection of CDs, some new, most used, in admirable order. I browsed through these. At the back of the store, stuffed in no apparent order, was a batch of cassette tapes. Let me repeat that: cassette tapes. Remember them? That thin, brown ribbon that if you played a tape long enough, would twist or break? Or squeak because it had become so frayed? Yes, this shop had a whole mess of 'em.

Seeing boxes of cassette tapes made me very, very happy. That's because this old throwback still drives a car with nothing more than a cassette player. So, I browsed, gleefully, through those boxes. And what treasures I found: AC/DC Live, Led Zeppelin, Van Halen and some John Lee Hooker. OK, I got some CDs as well; I mean, I'm not that behind the times. Until I (gleefully) tell you my purchases: Rush "Moving Pictures," Jimi Hendrix "Axis, Bold as Love" and Nirvana "Live in NY."

Total for all that classic music: $50.

Now, that's priceless.