Some post Christmas thoughts...
It's been a while since I've journaled anything, so my thoughts tend to be scattered about like those oft mentioned bunny rabbits. But, for the sake of an attempt at coherency, I'll try to wrangle them into line. But, really, have you ever tried to wrangle bunnies? those bastiches are QUICK! Anywho, yeah. yeah.
I was reading a random smattering of journal entries, facebook posts and tweets, and I realized that people go through the same things...the exact same things as everyone else, even if you don't think you do. And, sure, the times have changed, but really, it's the same thing. I remember when I was turning twenty one, and I had my first apartment. It was Christmas, and much like everyone else who is in their twenties, in a relationship and in their very first place, I was thrilled to get household items for Christmas from my friends. I read somewhere, how a famous person didn't ever want to go back to their twenties, because for them, it was a time of such uncertainty.
Respectfully, I disagree. My twenties were...fun. I mean, I remember stressing out about how to pay for bills, what my next deployment would be like, stressing about the girl that was in my life at the time. But those were minor things. I also remember my twenty first birthday, a pair of grey long johns pants and a t-shirt and a bottle of mad dog 20/20. I remember a polaroid of me, sitting against a wall, thumbs up, holding this bottle up, like it was the best thing in the world. Now, I think of MD20/20 and I want to start projectile vomiting. hah. Tastes change, I guess. But, my twenties were so much fun. I loved, I lived, I had a really good time. But they definitely did nothing to prepare me for life right now. Maybe, I guess, if I'd spent more time being uncertain then, I wouldn't be so uncertain now?
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yeah, so, it was Rebecca's first real Christmas. And because she's only one year old, she got the crapola spoiled out of her. But really, how many toys does one kid need? I look at the gifts she got from various people, and it makes me cringe inside, because...what will she remember? Her godmother got her this really cool heirloom type picture frame that will grow with her, and my mom made...yes, made, her a blanket. crocheted it or knitted or something, but it was something that took time, a lot of time, I think. It's weird, because, I forget sometimes how much my parents did with their hands, how much of my need to be a fix-it guy originate from them. I change my own oil because I watched my dad do it. I can do things like replace my bathroom floor, or fix a plaster ceiling, not because I watched my dad do those exact things, but because watching him do those things inspired me to be able to do things like that.
I used to work as a framer. A picture framer. You know, you go into a crafts store, and they offer to frame your poster/art/snazzy thing for you? I was one of the people in the back, cutting mats, cutting glass, gluing your foto down, stitching that shirt to a backer, and assembling it all. It was...menial labor, it wasn't very difficult, it wasn't very mentally challenging, but it was work I enjoyed, because there was this definite end product. I could, at the end of the day, sit and look at what I'd done. It wasn't like in retail, where I'd been a glorified shopkeep and sold someone else's goods. It was...satisfying in a way I can't really describe right now. It was a feeling that I want to have again.
But I got off the point, hah. My point was, that I think my kid got overloaded with shiny plastic beepy things, and she doesn't really need them. It amuses me sometimes, because some days, her mom will come home, and I'll be playing music, and 'becca and I will be sitting playing with blocks. Mom asks if she can turn on the news, and I say, sure, the tv hasn't been on all day. And that surprises her, because...I don't know really, why it surprises her. When she takes the kid upstairs to put away laundry and plops Rebecca on the bed, one of the first things I hear is the tv in the bedroom being turned on. And that bothers me. For some reason, I couldn't even really explain why it bothers me, but it does. And...I mean...I know that I turn on Dora and leave the kid in front of it when I'm doing laundry and I don't feel like playing laundry basket spaceship, or if I want some privacy when I poo. But most other times, when I have business to take care of, 'becca is right there with me. (This also makes me thankful for infant amnesia, fyi). I suppose my point of this thought is this. When Rebecca is older, what do I want her to remember? Her dad handing her some shiny plastic beepy? or do I want her to remember me teaching her how to change a flat tire, or how to hammer a nail.
I just...it's just that one of my fondest memories of my dad is him teaching me how to split wood. It's hard work, it sucks, but when your main source of heat is a ben franklin stove, wood chopping is a necessary evil. And like my dad said, it keeps you warm three times. Splitting it, Stacking it, and Burning it. But, despite how much I hated it then, I know how to do it now. I know how to stack wood so it seasons properly, and I know how to split with an axe, a maul and a wedge. And it's weird that it's such a good memory, but it is.
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I love my kid. Plain and simple. That's one thought bunny that just sits there and wiggles its damn whiskers and doesn't go anywhere.
nuf said. I'm off to bed.