Turk Hates Tuesdays

You said it, Turk. You said it.

Donald Faison hates Tuesdays. I assume if you're here you know that a) Donald Faison played Christopher Turk on Scrubs, b) I love Scrubs, and c) I hate Tuesdays. Okay, I don't exactly assume you know all those things or I wouldn't have mentioned them. I wouldn't even be typing anything in this space. I'd just post the picture and be done with it. I suppose a and b don't need explaining, so I'll bring you up to speed on the suckiness of Tuesdays.

Mondays are rough because everyone in the world is extra tired on Mondays—but that's also what makes the day survivable. Monday is a groggy day. The average person doesn't achieve full consciousness on a Monday until 4:30 in the afternoon. You're left with some vague recollection of rolling out of bed, eating something, doing something, complaining about something . . . and then it's over. When Tuesday hits, you're still tired, but you're awake for it. The haze is replaced by a headache. The to-do list you ignored Monday has grown longer, and the week doesn't appear any shorter.

Hence, Tuesdays suck twice as bad as Mondays.

The fact that Donald Faison feels the same way makes me feel like J.D. Don't make me explain why that's a big deal.

Super Dooper Uper Shmooper Great

Best compliment ever? (Also, I like this picture because it's not black & white, it just looks that way.)

Last Friday I had the chance to read to Addison's class. I read a few poems from Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends and one from Runny Babbit (the flime really tew). It's a ridiculous amount of fun to go into his classroom and to have kids remember who I am (and to see Addison readily admit that I'm his father). They hang on every word, their eyes light up like bulbs, and they laugh at every funny voice and poetic punch line. They are wonderful children. I could totally be a teacher for 15 minutes every day.

But maybe the best part about it is the thank-you notes they send home with Addison after the day is through. In the past, all the kids have signed a couple of cards, but this time they each wrote individual notes and drew pictures. It did my heart good to read them. One in particular made me smile a little extra wide. I'm sure by now you've seen what it said.

The girl who wrote it (I'll call her C to protect her anonymity) is a twin. The C could easily stand for Cute. Super dooper uper shmooper cute. She always makes a point to thank me for coming and say something adorable. One time it was, "You're a very nice person." This time she added, "I really enjoyed it. Please come again!" But the note was the best. I don't know how kids can form such a glowing perception of someone in such a short amount of time, but it makes me want to live up to it.

I doubt it's possible, but I'll try.

Friday Playlist

I'll tell you one thing this playlist says about me today: Colin helped a little. So it's all over the place.

Passive Observation

He cuts paper now. If you had any idea how many times he's asked for
and been denied the use of scissors, you'd know it's a pretty big deal.

There are milestones of development only a parent notices. Or cares about. Sleeping through the night, first words, learning to walk, potty training—these are things a parent's friends and family members express genuine joy about when the kid finally achieves success (or frustration when the process isn't going so well). I get more excited about less obvious stuff.

Like syntax and grammar.

Yesterday, Colin pretty stubbornly demanded that he watch a Veggie Tales movie in the van. On the way to church. As we left church. Maybe during church. The answer was always No. But he persisted in his pleas for  Lord of the Beans. Even the prospect of getting Dunkin' Donuts didn't help.

He said, "I don't want donuts to be eaten. I want movies to be watcheded."

The dude likes to add an extra -ed to the ends of words, but I was actually pretty impressed with his unorthodox use of the passive voice. I've never heard him use that phrasing before, and it gave a completely different feel to his demands. He wasn't asking just for himself. It was as though, for the sake of the state of the universe, he wanted things to be a certain way. He wanted to live in a world where movies get watched and donuts go undisturbed.

Maybe I'm embellishing his verbal intentions just a bit, but he's the one who said it. There had to be a reason. That's my best guess.

But this isn't the kind of thing anybody else cares about. I mean, it's not going in his baby book. It's going on this blog, but I hardly think it will cause anyone to say, "When did our kids start using the passive voice?" I doubt with all my spirit this will make anyone feel jealous (and any milestone worth two bits will stoke the green flames of envy in other parents).

It's just something I noticed because I'm Colin's dad. And because I'm a dork.

Friday Playlist

I'm one of those people. You know, the people who think that the music you listen to on a particular day is sometimes the only real way to answer the question, "How are you doing?" I know that's what you were thinking.

So I figured I'd make it a habit to tell you what I was thinking each Friday by telling you my playlist for the day. Because, again, I know the question that has your heart searing a hole through your chest: How are you doing, Adam? Well, this is how I'm doing:

Look, Your Worshipfulness . . .

This girl knew how to wear her some shoes.

There was a princess party at our house on Saturday. Rapunzel's a princess, right? Our niece Rosalie turned 5. Hooray for 5. Hooray for Rosalie. Hooray for princesses.

Hooray for dancing.

She whips her hair back and forth.

The dancing was probably the most fun part. That and reclaiming my testosterone-infused lair from the Land of Pink.

Colin: Big fan of dancing.

Addison, too. Dancing, swords, and major air, make a surprisingly good combination.

i want to write of nothing

I want to write of nothing I believe.
My mind erased, my heart no longer chained
To promise, all conclusions unconceived.
Let truth unbidden come through glass unstained.
I pray my tongue could unacquire the taste
Of love, of fury, deadness, pain, and joy.
Refresh my ignorance. Teach me to waste.
Sing gentle songs of grey to silent noise.
Inspire my words with nothing and I'll say
Exactly what I mean to you, sweet void.
My empty praise of emptiness will play
The part of meaning after I've destroyed
My memory. I'll write of this, the No.
No wrong. No doubt. . . . Then back to faith I go.

Word To Your Mother

I'm excited for several reasons at the moment. Baseball is back. Spring is in the . . . well, it's not in the air so much as it is in the plans for the near future. But it's coming. There are 1,000 things that have me smiling these days, but one in particular had me all jittery.

My friend Steph the Super-Talented (yes, that's now her legal name) is directing/producing/em-ceeing/rocking the Valparaiso production of Listen To Your Mother Show at the Memorial Opera House. Yesterday, she announced the cast list, and I was all "What?!?" because my name was on it. (I checked again this morning. My name's still there. Craziness.) To say I was excited would be an understatement. Huge fan of understatement that I am, I'll say it: I was excited with the force of everlasting thunder.

So I get to read something I wrote about my mom in front of a big crowd of awesome people that will include, of course, my mom. And I'll get a chance to work with some amazing people, including, of course, Stephanie. I'm grateful for the opportunity to work with her, and I'm so proud of her. We've been friends for a long time, and if you told me back in high school that Steph would go on to produce a show like this, I would have said, "Duh."

Anyway, I'm excited.