SHE'S THREE YEARS OLD...

The birthday party is behind us. Nothing like having a house full of sugar fueled, rambunctious 2-5 year olds pillaging the old abode. Some kid named Colton brandishing a Barbie doll like a noonchuk and belting anyone who came within reach was probably the most memorable highlight for me. The hired face painter set up her emcampment around the patio table. This seemed to be the most popular venue at the party. That and the mini-trampoline in the den, languishing right behind my favorite chair. So much for the Ryder Cup. Interesting how the boys declined to have their faces splashed with multi-colored hues in the pattern of rainbows, and puppy dogs, and some other sort of weird Masai Warrior renditions, that for your basic looking white lady, actually appeared pretty authentic. I half heartedly expected a groundswell of muffled chants saying, ZULU, ZULU, ZULU, ZULU... Actually their was one boy that did get into the face painitng. Well, not exactly a boy, seeing how it was my 23 yearold son Josh. His was a solid depiction of a butterfly, all star spangled bannered out  in red, white, and blue. He posted a picture of himself on Facebook with his face painted at a Lupus charity run recently. Is this something I should be concerned about?
Shiloh, the party girl, had a great time. She alternated between the basketball court outside, where her guest entertained themselves with tricycles and scooters and...not much else. We didn't want to do the musical chairs deal with kids this young and aggressive. Potential lawsuits can be expensive. The pin the pony tail on the princess game required a little more neuro-muscular discipline than these youngsters possessed. Except for Bruce Lee Colton, of course. We did have the requisite Pinada (Sorry, can't do the curly Q over the N thing). Our handyman, Raynor, used every ounce of his creativity in making sure the Princess Pinanda was perfectly centered on the court. While observing rope lines running from rooftops to palm trees to telephone poles, to being draped over the top of the basket backboard, I wondered if he had ever served time with the Mexican Special Ops. Had to cajole the liitle crumbsnatchers to let their animalistic natures manifest themselves. They would coyly take the decorative broomhandle like stick and gently tap the thing, like they were afraid to hurt the Princess. It wasn't until my nephew got his turn that things got interesting, Princess be damned. Though we had to ditch the bandana we used to blindfold him. Something about that nasty eye infection of his that caused Josh to alertly and discreetly yell to me, "look at his eye, throw that thing away". The honor method was invoked, sans blindfold. Now, what that usually means if you are like  me, is that you at  find a way to take a little peak. My other nephew, Gene Gene, would have made Abe Lincoln proud. Not only did he not take a sneak peek, but he nearly knocked himself out in the process. Got to love his ethics though. Once the Pinada was thoroughly breached, all hell broke loose. I had to put a moratorium on the older kids and their total disregard for the toddlers' safety. My 9 year old daughter Jasmine was particularly upset, questioning the fairness of it all, while trying to hold on to the 15 pieces of candy in her hands. While 9 year old (yes, this is how we do it) granddaughter Khalilah anxiously panted a few yards away waiting to display another Panther pounce on her Gummy Bear prey. The young ones meticulously gathered their treats with happy smiles plastered on their colorfully painted faces. Just what this party needed, more sugar...

Moriah's Reflections

A Snickers and a lemon soda
after every chemotherapy.
The pain my brother attained
never seemed to be fair to me.
Josh has cancer.
Blood cells from hell
rebel like black panthers.
Prancing on hollow surface with
souls colder than tap dancers.
Mom just wants answers,
Josh wants to get older.
All I want is my snickers and a cold lemon soda..
50 dollars a shot.
I’m not talking drinking Jack,
but about needles invading,
penetrating, into my brother’s back.
I learned to be grateful
for what I have that others lack,
because here my brother’s dying
and my life is still in tact.
Claustrophobia sets in
as my parents are surrounded by the facts.
All I cared about was leaving
so I could go and get my snacks.
I asked mom for a haircut
so that Josh and I could match.
He was still big brother,
so we were attached like a patch
cut from the same mold.
It started getting cold
and Josh was bald by now
so he’d adapt to wearing hats.
I was young but followed rules.
It wasn’t cool to miss school,
so my mother lied and said there was none that day
so I wouldn’t have the blues.
But when we drove passed,
my friend was walking to class
and my tears grew as glossy
as freshly polished glass.
He was at a crucial age,
as I was missing only days,
he missed the whole second grade.
But as a way to aid against this plague
his classmates made plays
that he could play throughout his stay.
As he cherished everyday,
he perished in his weight.
My parents perished from the wait,
Josh would share with me his toys.
They were praying they wouldn’t have to
hold a wake for their boy.
Each day he would awake
they would gain an ounce of joy,
that God’s angel of death
had not yet been deployed.
After 5 years he was healed.
It couldn’t have happened quicker.
It was all in God’s timing,
He showed He is a listener.
Josh is 23 now.
Got the weight back and getting bigger.
And I’m still addicted to my lemon soda
and my Snickers.

WE'RE BACK...

It's been a while since I last made a blog entry. Life being life , I guess. The hustle and bustle nature, the cares of this world, trying to keep ends meetings, are all legtimate reasons for my prolonged absence. It was initially amusing charting the periodic progress I was attempting to make as an older man with a young child. But as could be expected, the novelty soon diminished and the business of responsible parenting became paramount. That is not say that the experience doesn't continue to produce those special moments. The latest of which is a phase Shiloh is in now where she constantly prepares my meals. Sometime invisible ones she'll make in the miniature pots and pans she received as a recent gift. She thrust it in my face and request that I eat it. How can I say no to that? The spaghetti the other night was especially delish, though she made no mention of what sauce accompanied it. If I can locate my long ago invisible friend, Fred, maybe he could shed some light on the culinary makeup of  these meals.  Closer to reality, Shiloh made me an actual peanut butter sandwich on a tiny hamburger bun, at least the top half of it. I must say she did an exceptioonal job, though she ate most of it. It is such a profound privilege to be the father of such a considerate and sweet young lady. Especially when it comes to feeding her daddy, a trend  that hopefully, will last for quite some time.