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Forgive me if I ramble more than usual this week, but my mind is a torrent of uncapped, swirling whirling, sometimes doubling back on each other thoughts and ideas.
For instance. I was bemused by a radio ad for a local hospital. And when I refer it as ‘local hospital’ it is not for fear of a lawsuit or an attempt at professional courtesy on my part, it is because I just can’t remember the damn name.
The selling point of aforementioned hospital is that they guarantee you will be seen within 30 minutes when visiting the emergency room.
30 minutes.
I don’t know about you, but that hardly qualifies as emergency care in my book. Or on dictionary.com for that matter:
Emergency: Noun. A sudden, urgent, usually unexpected occurrence or occasion requiring immediate action
30 minutes to me is not immediate action. Unless you work for BP.
Cheap shot, but how could I resist?
I write this while Deep Purple’s immortal Highway Star is blasting from my iTunes. Nobody writes about cars (or cars as sexual metaphors) anymore and that makes me a titch sad. The relationship of a boy and his car just isn’t what it used to be. In my youth I would race down Highway 99 in my ’67 Firebird blasting Deep Purple, or the Doors, or the Archies from my state-of-the art 8-track with a babe in the front seat. This was back when calling attractive girls ‘babes’ was taken as a compliment. Why yes, I was a bit of a cliché, thank you for noticing. Once with babe Loretta Steele we drove from Fresno to Madera in about 12 minutes (distance: 25 miles). You do the math, officer. Our heads were out the windows, singing at the top of our lungs. Loretta, being a girl and all, was an infinitely better singer than I but that’s not really the point is it? It was the reckless embracing of the moment where thought was irrelevant and it just felt good to be alive.
But I digress.
It occurs to me (apropos of nothing) that I take way too much for granted. Like my health (which is good) and having two amazing boys (which is better).
Having two small humans tooling around one’s house is really quite extraordinary. So occupied with making dinner, preparing baths, assisting with homework, picking up random Bendaroos and light sabers, I too often don’t take time to enjoy the fact that this is pure unconditional love.
My oldest, Spencer, has finally discovered the joys of baseball, even though he has mysteriously eschewed his dad’s Giants to become an A’s fan.
Oy.
But after his second year in rookie ball he has decided to become a major league player, a pitcher for the A’s to be specific. Never mind that he hasn’t thrown a pitch in his life. Or that the odds of becoming a professional baseball player are about equal to Scarlett Johansson dumping her hubby to run away with me. Stop snickering. He runs out to grab the morning paper so he can dutifully report the standings and how badly the Giants got hammered the night before.
He owns a scorebook now and we talk about baseball daily. He even knows what he is talking about! I am taking every opportunity to reinforce the plain evilness of the Dodgers and Yankees, and I think it’s working. That’s dad nirvana my friends. Almost as sweetly rich as when, out of nowhere, Spencer will say,” I love you Daddy; you're the best daddy in the universe.” Heck, I would have settled for northern Sonoma County.
Shane, if nearby, will echo the sentiment, although in his still developing almost four-year old speech, it comes out more like:
“I wuv oo dadde, best dde in oonvers.”
But it sends a ribbon of warmth all the way up from my toes, through my heart and into my soul just the same.
I don’t remember where I started with this week’s rambings (I rarely reread, which explains so much, don’t you think?); but I know where I ends. With a lucky man who has his health, great friends and a pretty good future ahead.
I think.
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