Play it again (on competition among lovers)

I've never been much of a competitive person. Of course, I like to win. Who doesn't? But I would rather lose in a fair and fierce competition than win because someone felt I needed to be recognized. That kind of winning, frankly, sucks.

And so, when my fiancee and I began a friendly game of "Words with Friends" (Zenga's version of online Scrabble), it began as a, well, a friendly game. We'd play while on breaks at work. We'd play sitting side by side on my parent's couch (facing our phone screens away from each other under our "no peeking policy"). Fast forward about 50 days, and our amicable competition has become a cut throat past time.

As the English teacher with a penchant for and affinity to unusual words, I'd just expected to wipe out my competition. I mean, I have a word wall in my classroom of interesting words I find in my readings (making the list are words like perclempt, cacophony, erstwhile, and clairvoyance). How can I not kick butt in a game about forming words?

I tell you, I was on a role. Game after game I was winning (I even made a 150 point come from behind victory and clenched the win by two points). I was pulling out words I've not heard or used for years. I'd seen him play, trying out a letter here or there, rearranging at arbitrary random until the game was "sending" his word. He'd gotten me with a few good ones - - words I would not have believed existed (qi, quop, et, jape, yock, zu). But he didn't know the secret. You have to be conscious of the TL (triple letter), DL (double letter), DW (double word), and TW (triple word) squares.

I told him. He listened. And then, I lost.

Imagine the devistation. I considered the initial win a fluke, meerly a lucky handout of letters (I was denied consonants, for heaven's sake!).

And then, I lost. Again.

Half dozen losses later, I decided I'd play him on his own game. Beat him in something he loved. We made a simple wager. I picked up an XBox 360 controller and selected a comic character to battle against his Mortal Combat choice.

I mashed those darn buttons. I twirled the little joystick with my thumb. I mashed more buttons. I moved the controller for extra oomph on my button pushing frenzy.

I lost. Badly.

Every once in a while, my frantic and obscure button punching resulted in more than just sore thumbs - a special combination or a glowing figure with what seemed like temporarily better talent. But for the most part, I was just depressing buttons and my morale while my defenseless character was beaten to a pulp.

It started out best out of five, but I lost three matches (six deaths!) so quickly, that he revised that to best of ten. And suddenly, with a new character (because, you know, it was the character and not my playing that sucked), I won. And then I won again and secured a match.

On a sudden streak of success, I picked another character. I mashed those darn buttons. I twirled the little joystick with my thumb. I mashed more buttons. I moved the controller for extra oomph on my button pushing frenzy. I won.

But then I realized that he wasn't really moving his fingers on his controller. Instead, his thumbs half rested on the buttons while he pretended to be shocked at my sudden burst of playing genius. He moved his controller slightly for legitimacy (he couldn't very well set it down without me noticing he was letting me win, could he?). It was clear, though, that he'd allowed me the win.

Hmmm... so was he giving me the wins in "Words with Friends?" Could I have found my intellectual match in this guy? And if I did, can I handle these occassional knocks to my pride?

*** He insists he did not and has never "let" me win... I'm inclined to believe this a sweet attempt at making me feel better.

For the inquisitive minds
qi (aka chi) is life force or energy in Taoism
quop (usually spelled quob or quab) is to throb or quivered
et is a simple past tense way to say eat (as in "Mommy I done et it already")
jape means to mock or jest
yock, like yack, is to laugh loudly or obnoxiously
zu is an Italian instrumental trio from Rome usually consisting of saxaphone, bass and drums

Scavenger Hunt Sunday: Street Memories

{I've decided to skip the explanations this week and let my interpretations speak for themselves.}

Street Photography

From a Distance (Paper Heart Camera prompt)

Sunday

Liquid

Behind

Unsolicited advice

A father carries pictures where his money used to be. ~Author Unknown

Sometimes, it's not about the money a child costs you.  Actually, it's never about the expense.  Money was meant to be spent.  And honestly, the most valuable expenditure you'll ever make is your time spent with him.  Spend wisely.  Now is when he craves your attention. In a few more years, you'll crave his.

He didn't tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.  ~Clarence Budington Kelland

He may be little now, but he's always watching.  The model of man that you present is that which he will either strive to duplicate or avoid becoming at all costs.  You have his adoration now.  It's your job to earn its preservation as he grows older.

It's not only children who grow. Parents do too. As much as we watch to see what our children do with their lives, they are watching us to see what we do with ours. I can't tell my children to reach for the sun. All I can do is reach for it, myself. ~Joyce Maynard

If you never settle, neither will he.  Not happy with your career, your life, your love?  Make a plan to improve it all.  Start following the plan now.



But first?  It's time to play with your son.

okay?

After he said "ok," he, like many men I know had to settle into the wait for fatherhood.  He didn't have the gentle flutters inside his body, wasn't prey to growth that makes life seem so real.  What he had was the excited ultrasound technician saying, "And there, there's a smile. Look, he's waving."  And he squinted at the screen hoping beyond hope to see something resembling himself.

I don't know what it was like for him those 37 weeks of waiting. 

We argued about an amazing job opportunity that promised upward mobility and stability - a career path.  I insisted that a traveling job would mean too much time away, too many moments missed of this new life.  And he let the job go, promising to experience the fleeting moments of newborn baby, of crawling baby, of teetering toddler.

He assumed the role of father and accepted his son as an unexpected and very welcome gift.

But what about "us?"  Was there one?  Could there be one?

With critical eye, I watched him figure out his role in Chi's life.  If he didn't encourage her, welcome her or love her as his own, that'd be unacceptable.  Could she call him Daddy?  Would it feel right for either of them?  They worked out a relationship, figured out one another's place in the family we'd become.  And I loved him for loving her.

The love for this new family was overwhelming, and both of us were consumed by it.  It stemmed unexpectedly from a friendship that logged hours lamenting about the futility of dating, where we found a commonality.  Our personalities meshed and we shared a history.  And yet...

And yet the woman that I'd become wanted, needed more.  I thought about romance - impromptu flowers arriving at work to be admired by my colleagues; surprise dates alone with the kids safely left in care of family or friends; even just a handwritten note - crafted in that awkwardly twisting script by hand. But romance didn't come in the ways I wanted.   So I dwelled on flaws and on lapses in attention.  I marveled over marathons of WE T.V., picking apart the ceremonies featured while crafting an elaborate vision of my own wedding - dreaming of a secluded outdoor location bursting with color.  But there wasn't a proposal being crafted to warrant the focus.  And despite once being able to discuss anything at length, words became sparse when it mattered.  Ambiguity seeped in, then, clouding the definition of "us."  And then, there was no "us" except where Ya was concerned, as parents. The family of four dissolved, a single Olan Mills portrait a visable, haunting testiment to its memory.

There's an emptiness I feel. Yet another heartbreak.  Except this time it's cause is not rejection.  Perhaps it was impatience.  Maybe it was assumptions.  It definately suffered from one sided confessions - unrequited admissions of feelings, of desires, or dreams.  And in the middle of the hurt, once again words were missing for expressing what was missing and what void needed to be filled.

And what was spoken wasn't right at all.  "I don't know how to be just friends..." And no sooner than the words were released, there was nothing left.  In that nothing, unspoken, but amazingly and transparently proclaimed was, "and I don't want to be anything more..."

OK

I remember the text, "We need to talk."  The almost instantaneous phone call, the panicked, "What's wrong?"  And as a lump formed in my throat, I confided in him that we were expecting the unexpected.  His reply, firm and unaffected, "Ok."  So strong, so matter-of-fact - as though we were discussing the weather from yesterday and not a baby.

And so it began.  My mind raced. 

So different, already, than my first pregnancy, where I, barely out of graduate school returned home heartbroken but determined to keep the child growing inside me.  The pregnancy I so thrilled in, begging for photos of my tiny tummy and stretching t-shirts taught to show the slowly forming curve of my baby girl.  The pregnancy that ended a two-year relationship and began my life at the same time it began hers.

Then, my father breifly brooded, this unwed mother scenario was not what he wanted for his daughter.  But not once did he falter in his support - staying vigil in my hospital room as I wavered between life and death, as my kidneys and liver decided to quit and my skin yellowed with jaundice. Dad kept his laptop out, carefully documenting every medical-type person who entered my room, waiting for a prognosis, a diagnosis, for a miracle.  Doctors ultimately decided it was Fatty Liver Disease and HELLP syndrome even though I met none of the listed attributes of people who succumbed to either ailment.  And when I finally woke from the wavering coma-like state I had been in for nearly two weeks into motherhood, I saw his motivation board above my bed, complete with pictures of his granddaughter and inspirational sayings about strength, faith, and perseverence.
My brother had taken instantly to being an uncle, but in reality, Unc - then a new college student - was a father in every sense of the word. When I secured my first teaching job and moved into an apartment, he moved with me.  We had three rooms - one for me, one for Chi, one for Unc.  He went to school full time, but returned to watch his niece while her Mom (me) went off to work on a degree necessary to keep the job.  Beyond that, there were countless times he rescued me when a restless and unsoothable infant threatened to break her tired, overworked mother.  And he memorized things like "Finding Nemo" and No More Monkies Jumping on the Bed," through countless viewings and readings with an adoring niece.  Unc made it possible for me to create a career by allowing my poor butt to get to class while he sacrificed a social life to babysit. And he was the voice of calm when the 24-hour-mom-sans-father-relief spawned brief lapses into psychosis.

I can't encapsulate what my mom (Oma) did during this time.  She did it all: holding my hand and sharing in my delight at seeing the grainy first images of my child bounce across the ultrasound viewer screen, to planning the baby shower I was too embarrassed to have, to serving as my birthing partner when the doctor said, "I'm sorry, we're going to have to do a C-section.  The baby is not doing well."

It took five years to find a balance.  It took an incredible support system.  It took a lot of introspection to find personal peace.  And it took faith in God.

And here I was again.  Pregnant. 

As I weighed the possible meaning of the solitary "okay," I began to berate myself.  I sat contemplating the unraveling of my delicately woven family unit - that of my daughter and myself - with the introduction of a new baby.  I'd worked so hard to create a stable life for my girl - one where though she may miss her father living his life in another state far away,  she was not without amazing father figures (her grandfather and uncles) who adored her every fiber from the moment they knew of her existence.  And then here was this new life already en route and I dreaded the rejection that surely would come from another who wasn't envisioning a family. 

But he said "ok," and he'd meant it'd all be right... 

My Mister

It's not often that I write about my guy on this here blog.  In fact, when I ordered a printed copy of the last year's entries, he went through and counted the number of times he appeared in a picture (I think the count was 4, and then he lowered it to 3 because one image was the same in two posts).  He took it personal. Oops. 

Truth is, it is easy to write about my babies.  I find myself smiling, chuckling, savoring every little detail as I recall each little thing they do and write about it.  This TCMMR space is my creative outlet - - my public journal space about life as a mama.

But I must say, I really appreciate my MD (aka Daddy M).  His name was Ya's first word: "Dadada-dada."  When I'm with him - even when I'm just "watching" a football game (actually I'm usually annoying him with questions about every play and especially the flags) - I am content.  He tolerates my obsession with hanging up clothes.  He endures my marathons of reality television (ANTM, Rich Bride-Poor Bride, etc). I love seeing him play with Chi at the park.  I find it incredibly amusing to watch him fumble with all things baby (and I pretend that because I have 7-years in the parenting world, I know it all).  It makes me so very happy to see his pride for his son's every accomplishment. And who wouldn't love a man who pouts and mourns over his missing "Sour Patch Kids" that were left (he says) on the dresser, but disappeared before he could return from work to claim them?

I appreciate the little things he does for me just because - like getting me the DVD of "The Time Traveler's Wife" so I could determine if the movie ended as poorly as the book or unlocking the laptop I password protected myself out of using.  He made me dinner for Valentines day so that we could eat leisurely without worrying that Ya would get restless and we'd have to hurry out of a restaurant.  And he finds the best cards for every occasion -- you know, the ones with the perfect sayings that fit our relationship so well it was as though they were penned just for us?

And his sense of humor... it's one of those truly developed comedic talents that you either get or guffaw at.

When we were in middle school, he saw me on stage during a Black History Month program while I was reciting a poem:

"I be thinkin' like I be dealin' and I be seein' things I didn't never see before.  Like I see me and I see that doing my own thing is not defiance.  I can be me and it don't mean I got to show somebody somewhere that I'm better than they think..."  

I remember my outfit that day, totally early 90s: high top black sneakers, tube socks, black cotton shorts, over-sized tee shirt, back combed bangs and a pony tail.  Hot stuff, I assure you.  And I know I was upset when I was told to memorize this poem because being the pretentious youth with a knack for Standard English and a penchant for vocabulary, I had deemed the poem beneath me.  (How wrong I was, how foolish for not reading the poem instead of stopping at the words). For years after he saw that performance, he began every conversation with "I be thinkin'."

We dated for a few months in between middle school and high school.  We kept in touch when I went out of state for college, though were distant friends.  And when Chi was only 8-months old, MD came to my apartment and spent the entire visit getting to know my daughter instead of hanging out with Mommy (whom he'd not seen for about 3 years).   I admit it, I was impressed by his attention to my baby, and I knew there was something more to this man.

Somewhere between then and now, we became an "unofficial item," and though the details are sketchy, the connection is clear.

So, without further ado, this is a portrait of MD exactly as I love him:  broad, unencumbered smile, the hat Chi picked for his Christmas present, and the sweater Mommy got him and insisted he start wearing.

I love...

I L♥VE it when the weather is inviting: when the sun peaks out from behind the clouds, the precipitation begins to dry up, and the blistering cold subsides as gentle wind gusts claim the spotlight. It's January, so it's not too hot (as summer would be). It's the end of a holiday weekend, so the area is virtually clear of extra folk that usually take advantage of nice days outdoors. It's the perfect opportunity for Marq to hang out with the kids and to act like a kid - if only for a moment - himself.

The day off from work proved a great one for a rousing game of "hide and seek" - though I hardly think a fenced in playground is ideal for the hide part of the game.

Chi insisted that Daddy M play a game of catch, but her rules kept changing, the safety base kept moving, and she kept "breaking" for a breath whenever he got too close.

In the spirit of things, suddenly, little man deemed walking passe. Instead, he must run. It doesn't matter if anyone gives chase or if he's just on his own. Ya's pace is always fast. And this particular day, the run included a commanding "Ahhrroooar" or some such wail as he moved.

And then, once he managed to elude Mommy's efforts to take a photo by the brick landscape wall, he decided that it would be more fun to play without his sweater on:

He was not successful in its removal, and so he moved on to try a few big kid activities - as modeled by his sister - around the park.

And Daddy M? During the chase, he tested all the equipment himself. (We'll hear about the aches tomorrow, I am certain).