Anatomy Lesson

Bath time is Daddy/Simeon time. Bath Time (BT) is preceded by Naked Baby Time (NBT) and is kicked off with a little BT dance. I don't have any footage of the dance, but I do have a little glimpse of Bath Time itself. Hope you enjoy.

His Father's Listening Skills

I was showering last night, my back to the shower head when I heard behind me, plah-dunk. In the time it took me to think, "hey, that's a women's shoe in the bathtub with me" — plah-dunk — a matching shoe sat beside the first collecting the water the drain didn't.

"Sarah!," I called, "You might want to get in here..." Not in the shower, in the bathroom. Although I wouldn't put up a fight if she misunderstood me.*

Incredulously, Sarah said, "Simeon, I told you to put them in the closet." Counterproductive, I thought, to remind her that he's one year old. I think I did the right thing.

Sarah retrieved the soaked shoes and left the bathroom to put them in the closet, I presume. Ten seconds later pha-lopsh – a brassiere.

*Too Much Information, but too late. I can't take it back now.

Holding on | Letting go

This entry was supposed to be different. Producing web log entries has become more labored in recent months, and I had resisted all urges to blog about writer's blogkage. It would only sound like whining, I thought. Besides, I had my annual trip to Lewis Lake with my best friends and that would surely provide the impetus for new observations and stories. My time in Kentucky did not disappoint; I spent much of the car ride home mapping my next entry.

What I was going to write about was when I came home from the woods my son, Simeon, hugged me like he had no intention of letting go — and he didn't. I was going to write about how that gesture placed a fog over all the fun I had at Lewis Lake, and how I only cared about that moment. That's what I was going to write about.

Then MuShu, our family dog, died.

Shortly after we arrived home, MuShu slipped out the back door and through the open gate amidst the flurry of unpacking and related activities without us noticing. It wasn't the first time she had escaped. She would always take the same route we had walked her many times before -- leashed. I suppose she thought, I've done this a million times before, I don't need to bother my family with it, I'll just go by myself. But, she didn't have the benefit of us holding her leash taut in the face of traffic at the busy intersection of Talbott and 29th street, one block from our house. She didn't have us to look after her.

Some nice ladies found MuShu in the street and called the number on her little heart-shaped collar tag. I didn't drive fast; I was afraid of what I would find. When I arrived, I saw that these two women had moved MuShu to the sidewalk and laid her on a royal blue blanket. My heart plummeted. The strangers offered me their blanket, but I thought it important to hold her one last time. I thanked them for their kindness and made the difficult phone call to my wife, Sarah.

When I got home, Sarah and Simeon were visibly upset. Sarah wept over MuShu, and Simeon wept for us. I scooped Simeon into my arms and, well, he held me. Then he held Sarah — with no intention of letting go.

--

We'll miss you, MuShu. We'll make sure Simeon knows how much he loved you.

The Big One

On this day one year ago my son was born. Today I find myself nearly as speechless about the moment as I was then, which is why I think I'll just re-post the events as I documented them last year. I do think it's worth mentioning that the indescribable, uncontainable love I felt for Simeon the moment he was born has grown 365 fold.

Words Fail

4:56 a.m.
"Ryan! Wake up!" I sit straight up and look around the room for an intruder. "I think my water broke!," Sarah exclaimed. She wasn't lying. There was a pool of evidence right there on her side of the bed.

--

The car ride – 6:00 a.m.
Sarah's contractions have started in earnest. I don't know what I was thinking. Every time she began a contraction, I wanted to chat. That is when Sarah made the first of two rules – so far.

1. Do not ask me questions.
2. Do not tell jokes – I guess laughing makes contractions hurt extra bad
3. I'm still waiting for the third rule.

--

Hospital arrival – 6:30

I dropped Sarah off at the door with the bags, and a nice lady asks, "Are you okay, miss?"

"Oh, I'm just having a baby," Sarah replied calmly.

I swear, she's Wonder Woman.

--

We're in our room now.

It's so strange to me that you ask a woman in labor to do a bunch of admission and insurance paperwork. I suppose it has to be done.

We're playing some music from the birthing playlist. Among those on the list, "Between My Legs" by Rufus Wainwright and "Here Comes The Sun" by George Harrison.

--

A friend of mine texts me, "Go Horny (The Noel Boy's in utero name), it's your birthday." I show complete lack of judgement by reciting this to Sarah mid-contraction. Dammit, I already forgot rule number 2.

--

Sarah quickly squashed the music with lyrics. There goes my dream of the head coming out to the sounds of "Here Comes The Sun (Son)".

--

Sarah is a superstar! She's endured most of her contractions while sitting on a birthing ball and digging finger nail marks into a wooden chair arm.

--

She's moved to the bed, laying on her side and focused intently on a photo of Charley Young Beach in Maui, where we were married. I've never seen her so focused.

By the way, our doula, Brielle has been a total Godsend. I'm good at the motivational speeches, not so good with the breathing part. I lack focus!

--

11:15 a.m.
Doctor Hurry is in the house. Sarah's getting ready to push!

--

I've never seen Sarah like this. I'm turning white and tearing up, not because of witnessing birth, but seeing Sarah in so much pain (no epidural).

--

Dr. Hurry is doing an amazing job. She said to Sarah, "You were made to birth babies, it just took us a while to get you pregnant." I think Sarah tried to laugh, but this is serious business.

--

Dr. Hurry apologizes to Sarah for blocking her view of the mirror that shows the birth site, Sarah amidst furious pushing says sweetly, "oh, that's okay."

--
11:52 a.m.
40 minutes of pushing, and less than seven hours after Sarah's water broke, baby Simeon David Noel arrived. He wailed as soon as he came out, as did Sarah and I.

--
Words fail.

Catching up with the Joneses

Sarah, Simeon, and I spent the Thursday evening prior to July 4th driving south east to Sarah's hometown, Morehead, Kentucky. I like our visits; the weekend moves along at a pace a little slower than what we're accustomed to at home. I'm pretty sure I've turned more book pages, fit more puzzle pieces, and taken more accidental naps in the Lewis living room than just about anywhere else I've been. One of my other favorite time-passers in Morehead is listening to stories.

Sarah's family members are prolific storytellers. Dinner and after-dinner times are chock-full with stories. Almost as amusing as the stories themselves is the pre-story ritual of establishing who the primary character is and to whom they may or may not be related. The pre-story ritual goes something like this:

"You know the Jones boy?"

"Billy?"

"No, not Billy, his younger brother?"

"The one with the mole?"

"No, that's Johnny, the oldest..."

"Isn't he in jail?"

"He was in jail, but I thought I saw him mowing the Smith's lawn..."

It goes on and on like this. Sometimes we never actually get to the story, it's more of an exploration of someone else's family tree. I almost never know who Billy, Johnny or any of the Jones boys are, but that doesn't stop anyone from telling their story, and that's just fine by me.

Thursday night we were sitting on the back porch, sheltered overhead by the arbor and protected from mosquitoes by an army of tiki torches posted at every corner and nearly every point in between; Sarah's Dad finished telling some stories about a fellow named Alec (which is inexplicably pronounced "EE-lik"), when Sarah's mom, Jan, stepped up with my favorite story of the weekend.

Her story was about Doc Gray, a tractor mechanic and family friend, "who lives up Christy Creek." (He lives up a creek? I wonder if he's got a paddle.)

Jan was working at C. Roger Lewis Agency — the real estate office Sarah's Granddad established — when she heard Doc's voice in the reception area and decided to go greet him. Doc was standing there with a little boy and Jan queried, "Who's this, Doc — your grandson?"

"Yep."

"Well, what's your grandson's name?"

Doc cocked his head and stared blankly at Jan, "Well, I don't know. I reckon I always just call'em "Boy."

Simmetry

A month and about fifteen days ago, we took Simeon to the Indianapolis Museum of Art to have his picture made. Cliff Ritchey was the guy to make them, as far as we were concerned. Simple geometric shapes pepper the grounds of the IMA and it proved to be a nice little backdrop for our little Wonder. Hope you like them.

Yes. Yes I do.

I wouldn't have put this shirt on him if it wasn't true — and 100 percent organic cotton. H&M had a "Mommy Loves Me" shirt in the rack too, but there's only so much commercialism of the parent/child relationship I'm willing to force upon the little man. Ha.

That's all I have to share at the moment. I hope to post some more photos in the near future for all you pining family members, interested-enough onlookers, and accidental mouse-clickers.

these words are the bestest

Generally speaking, I'm a big fan of words. I like the way different letters relate to one another visually. I like word games. I like tinkering with words. I like the sound of words like "tinkering." I like just about everything about them. But, since my right hand was casted, I'm especially fond of a certain group of words — those that can be found on the left side of home row.

I decided to create a running list of these words. It's been fun. My friends Colin and Joe even chimed in that the longest word possible on the south side of the keyboard is: stewardesses. I had no idea. I also noticed that if you're going compose sentences on the left side, they'll all have to be exclamatory because the only punctuation on my new favorite side is an exclamation point. You can, however, vary the number of exclamation points for extra EMPHASIS (YOU ALSO HAVE THE CAPS LOCK BUTTON)!!!! 

Anyway, here's my running list. Feel free to add some of your own in the comments section. You can even put an exclamatory sentence together, if you feel like it.

tread creed raze axe

cave swerve trade trader

grave best bestest were

wad weeds crease grease

wart fart free as

test testes texas verve

swagger craze greatest raw

wax trade sax  vexes

dread gas crass west

vest zest Qatar stewardesses

rear exact dates rates

rat drat err tweed

dazed desert sexes fever

era dessert

Yeah. Let's end with dessert!!!!!!

Attention (photo)shoppers

A week ago, Wednesday, I took a tumble on my bicycle, and I have been left-handed ever since.  The transition from right-handedness to lefty hasn't been a smooth one. It seems that my left is connected to someone else's brain. I know, it surprised me too.

My friend, Colin rightly pointed out that I would likely feel sorry for myself and then feel sorry for feeling sorry for myself. It's difficult to stay down long when a broken hand is exceedingly minor compared with disabilities and circumstances that many in our global population deal with daily. When on this topic with my friend Josh, he added, "Yeah, you know you see those people on teevee that come home from Iraq missing an arm and a leg that are saying, 'oh I'm just so blessed...!'" (that's a lot of punctuation right there!!!). :) 

It was time for me to suck my over-sized bottom lip (it's not swollen, I was born that way) back into place and follow Monty Python's counsel and "always look at the bright side of life." (Song bomb alert!)

I thought back to grade (hey, you can type "grade" with only your left hand home row style) school when I was actually envious of  kids who had casts. I admit, it doesn't make sense. But, it was because they got to have everyone write, draw, scrawl and scribble all over it. It's like a Tattoo 2.0  — everyone gets to contribute to the body art. Cast signing is also great for those of us that just find thousands of needle pokes too high a price to pay for self-expression.

So, I have an idea I'd like to float by you:

• Save the image above (me and my cast) to your hard drive
• Open the image in a photo-editing software (Photoshop or whatever. Heck, I bet MS Paint would work)
• Write, draw, scrawl and scribble on the cast
  
• Save the image and email it to me: rydanoel@gmail.com
• I'll post it back to the blog (unless you'd just rather I didn't.)

I think this could be a fun little little exercise that could have us all feeling better.

Cycles and Seasons

 

Life's been cycling all over the place. Sarah's granddad, Arnold  (Arnie, for short. One character short, in fact) died about a week and a half ago; my own grandmother (grandma for short), Marian died early yesterday morning; Simeon is nearly 10 months old and is developing faster than a polaroid picture; and I could, and maybe I will, fill and entry or 10 about each of those precious marks on my timeline. But, the occasion I really want to mark in this entry is my 8th wedding anniversary to Sarah. 

If marriage is seasonal as most things are, I think this anniversary marks the end of the first season and the beginning of the next. That's worth celebrating if you ask me. If you've read any of my blog entries over the past year and a half, you know that I'm not perfect. And in spite of what I might have you believe, Sarah's not perfect either. But, when you combine me and my imperfections and Sarah and her imperfections, well, you have a perfect fit. And that's worth celebrating too. 

I love you deeply, Sarah. Thank you for loving me back.