Private Eyes are Watching Me

So this post is about being an example and how it is hard to take the pressure of it all.  It is so different being a role model to 3 children.  I find myself constantly checking myself.  The fact that the kids say crap has me very worried.  It sounds, well, wrong from a child's mouth.  Even when it is an innocent repeat like Morgan said to me yesterday.  

"That's crap," I said.

"What's cwwwaap, Da-ee Shane?"

"Um, nothing Morgan."

And Livy will zero in on all kinds of my bad behavior.  I tend to clap my hands to announce to the children that all actions should be suspended.  It is quite effective.  They stare awestruck when I strike them together (that is, my hands, not the children).  And I'm obviously doing a scary face, because several times Owen has slapped his hands together and made these ridiculous angry eyes.  I almost told him how ridiculous he looked, until I then realized he was mimicking me.  

So anyway, I've told Livy if I clap my hands, that she is allowed to call me on it.  That was stupid.  She is religiously observant and deadly obedient, and she lets me know that I've made a mistake.  I was in another room and clapped my hands last week.  

"Owen!" I shouted.  

Livy came in and looked at me as a teacher might to a pupil.  

"Daddy Shane, you told me to tell you that you can't do that."  

"Yes, Livy.  Thank you.  You're absolutely right."  Owen is able to respond appropriately too by wrinkling his brow, to which I respond.  "I'm sorry, Owen."  Owen smiles and continues the behavior for which I was infuriated.  He is the BEST at forgiving quickly.

Luckily, it isn't ALL bad to have kids be observant, and in fact, it led me to capture a picture of Morgan that I have posted below.  

You see, since I have a bad knee, I'm not much of a two-knees-on-the-ground kneeler when I pray.  So I generally stick my good knee out for balance and then fold my arms.  It was to my surprise to see all of the kids try to attempt it.  There have been some unsteady children during prayers as a result, but I have been patient enough not to clap my hands and give them my angry eyes.

Bummers

I'm at home with a sick family and so I'm reflecting on all the crappy stuff that has happened to me this year. Here's a small list for your viewing enjoyment:

Wrath of the Pink Eye:
Associated with this 3-week bummer I catalog the following humiliating events:
1. I wore an eyepatch.
2. After 3 hours of waiting in lines (with the pink eye) I was asked to disassemble the frame on my motorcycle so they could read a serial number. It was 110 degrees outside and I had to do it with tools that someone from the DMV gave me. I cut my hand. Then they told me to go to a different DMV. And then, I was kicked out of that DMV because of my pink eye. And the DMV still wouldn't register my vehicle.
3. My wife wouldn't look at me.
4. My father-in-law saw me, stepped away in horror, and said something that I can only translate as "uungh."
5. I wore an eyepatch.
6. I interviewed for several positions while with pink eye (I am proud to report that I was hired twice even looking as I did)
7. My insurance, for some crazy reason, wouldn't cover pink eye. A doctor's office demanded 175 dollars and, when I refused, they said they'd do it for 80. I left untreated.

The Rear-ender
While driving to a doctor's office (to sell a copier) a series of misfortunes befell upon me. Forsooth!
1. I had a stomach virus I was recovering from.
2. I was rear ended on Interstate 17.
3. The lady who rear ended me had no license.
4. The lady had no documentation.
5. The lady had no English.
6. But the lady DID have an insurance card--from a company I had never heard from before.
7. I translated her end of the story for the policeman. He cited her for, well, dumb driving, and then wrote out a police report. I was now late for my meeting to sign papers with the doctor, and the squirts had remanifested itself. Not proud of it.
8. And the silver lining: I got the sale. As a result, back at work I became the stuff of legends. "That Shane crapped his pants and STILL made a sale."

Take that, world. Take that, indeed.

An Inadequate Tribute

Last week I had a chance to remember Clement Joe Slowey, my grandfather. Here is a picture that shows a couple things I loved about him.





Notice his smile and his wave. Classic Grampa Joe. When my family would come to visit, he always had that smile and that same closed-finger wave. Looking at this picture I can almost imagine I am approaching him and hearing him say his patented, “ho hoooOOO!” I felt warm all over when I heard it—his wordless expression was a sign that he was excited for our arrival.

Grampa Joe always seemed to move young to me. He was almost, oh, I don’t know, spritely for an older man, perhaps a function of his height (he was about five foot seven), or more likely, a result of his energy. He was an avid reader, inventor of a board game, a birdwatcher, a storyteller, a banana bread baker, and the most sincere giver of prayers I ever heard. He always began his prayers by talking to God as if He himself were in the room. “God,” he’d say in a colloquial tone, “it sure is nice for us to be together…”

Time softened Grampa Joe. Toward the end of his life he would take me aside and speak to me one on one, grabbing me in a one-armed bear hug, bringing me close to his eyes, and telling me how proud he was of me and my brothers. And then he’d get misty-eyed and tell me again.

And so this last week my brother Craig, whose special relationship with Gramps deserves more time than I can offer here, got into the warm water of the San Diego Temple baptismal font. My father joined him to serve as proxy for my grandfather. And so, as Mormons do, my brother baptized my father in behalf of my grandfather. It is our tradition, a Mormon belief, that all need baptism and that all can accept baptism, even after they have died. And so it was this belief that brought my oldest brother and my father to that place, dressed in white, my father rising out of the water after being fully immersed. I couldn’t attend, but that evening I imagined how it must have felt for Craig to lift my Dad out of the water, my grandmother looking on. She explained to me in a phone call later that week that she felt my grandfather's presence throughout the week. I don’t doubt it.

Grampa Joe: banana bread baker, birdwatcher, world traveler, husband, cancer fighter.

Grandfather.

HohoooOOO to you Grampa Joe. I’ll see you soon.

Until then: DDAD.

identities gained, identity lost

Married life kinda gave me a left hook.

Six months ago, I decided to take the plunge, not realizing it would submerge me into so many identities that I would feel as if I didn't have any. From one day to the next I went from Provo's patron saint of single life (they were building a statue, I swear) to a father of three and a husband of well, you know, her.

Her.

That girl that everyone talks about. That girl that laughs and you hope it is because of something you said. That girl that has her choice of guys. The one that knows how to play with you, knows how to talk with you, and knows how to live. That girl. Yeah. Go ahead and think it. I'm lucky.

So about that plunge and left hook. It isn't that I expected things to be perfect. I expected that things would change and change drastically. I just didn't expect me to seem less me.

So here's the scenario. I'm sitting with Dixie's family who(m) I finally (FINALLY!) feel comfortable with. I can laugh with them, I can listen--I've even performed a song or two. We're family. So I find it the strangest feeling when, that night, I don't have anything to say. I just sit there like a big doofus watching other people be funny and share and laugh. When I open my mouth, I hesitate. I'm like the guy that arrives late at a dinner party and doesn't know if the joke he opens his mouth to share was already told. I'm the guy who tries to break in with an "um," "well," "uh," but is just a step late, a step behind the flow of traffic. I'm the guy that thinks of something to say about one topic when the conversation is already two topics further down the line. It is then I realize that I don't recognize myself. I've never been that guy.

You see, as a single guy, I had all these conversations--ALL these stories. I was, and I hate how superficial this is going to make me sound, I was smooth.

(James Bond here pretty much represents my relative smoothness level at the time)


Oh yes, I could tell a story. Oh yes, I could be funny. Oh yes, I knew just how to relate to that group. I had read all the books they read and knew all the theories that they were learning in school. For Pete's sake, I was teaching at BYU and gave assignments in the stuff they wanted to talk about. So, as a result, I could command a crowd and lead a discussion. And all of this because I was so intimately acquainted with Provo single life. Wanna know something sad about me? While most Provo residents experience single college life for 2-4 years, I experienced it for twelve (I hang my head in shame).

But at least, at LEAST, I knew what the heck I was doing.

And now I'm here.

From one day to the next, I don't know what the heck I'm doing--although I will give myself some credit--I'm doing it all with gusto. I'm a repairman, a painter, a fort-maker, a grilled cheese flipper, a cockroach killer, a ward clerk (thanks a lot, Tony), a bedtime storyteller, and , of all things, a copier salesman. I mean, really, a copier salesman? Who wants to talk to me about copiers over dinner? "The Xerox 5225 comes with a 100-sheet duplexing automatic document feeder." Ugh. I bore myself.

And I'm constantly doing instead of thinking now. I'm picking up toys, running errands, taking Livy to school, packing lunches, making 50 phone calls a day to businessmen who don't want to speak with me. I haven't had a coherent thought in 6 months.

And why endure the shame of my uncoolness--my unsmoothness? Why in the world would I let myself get so punch drunk with left hooks?

Have I mentioned her?