Track9: Ain't Gonna Hurt Nobody

Ain't gonna hurt nobody to play a friendly round of Bopping Bee 

“Men do not quit playing because they grow old; they grow old because they quit playing.” 
― Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr

Track8: Lucky

Sometimes, the best stories are sitting just beneath the surface, waiting to be discovered. 

Look under your chair, there's a smile and the Holy Grail. 

A lady sings to you from the lake 

and life has all the luck you're willing to take. 

Track7: We're Playing Basketball

Basketball brings brothers together (and sisters!) 

Track6: Shine On

I discovered this in some old phone files. 

It is golden and you are a good big brother. 

Track5: Happy Birthday

Is it weird? Yeah, probably. 

Is it sincere? Absolutely. 

Riley picked your theme. I told her you would probably think that Kion was Simba because you grew up with The Original. She thinks that's a great thing for you two to bond over. 

Lion King. 

Wishing we could celebrate you in person. 

Maybe someday soon. 

Happiest of Birthdays

and

Happy, Happy New Year

Track4: Same Ol’ Song

I recently received a message from you to stop tagging you in social media posts. I found it uncharacteristic for whom I’ve always known you to be and even now reserve the possibility someone found a way to spoof me. (Your dad used to have a subscription and get a great kick from the SpoofCard)

But I must also proceed as if that was 100% you. 

I replied to that message that I was just trying to always leave a light burning, that my goal wasn’t to force you back into contact with your dad before you are ready but to always know that door stands open. I am saying that because he isn’t good at saying that.



He isn’t good at saying nice things as a general rule.

I am sharing this with you because I hope you’ll understand that there isn’t this First Family / Second Family divide as tends to be imagined. You aren’t the only child who ever waited on your dad to be like a dad to you.



Those tears described in Chandler’s eyes aren’t there because this was the first time his heart bore a dad-shaped injury- they were tears of anger and frustration because it was far from the first hurt and far, far from the last.  

I’m not saying that your personal experience is less valid. On the contrary, I hope you’ll see that the failure to show up in ways you thought he should have nothing to do with you being “less than” anyone else.... I’m sorry if it feels like that. 

It may seem we are miles and miles apart, but we are all adrift in the same sea, dealing with something less than ideal.



But...just because he doesn't choose us, doesn't mean we can't choose each other.

I love you. 

Track3: Somebody's Watching Me

HALLOWEEN 1997

That costume?



It's yellow, but it was also gold.



We searched for that thing all over town.



And if you look closely, you may notice that clean line cut across the bottom? It's like that because we couldn't find a Yellow Ranger costume in your size. We bought one a size or two up and trimmed it down.



I have no idea who the Blue Ranger is- a neighbor friend from your MeMe & PaPa's neighborhood I think.



Papa took you Trick-or-Treating. He sure did love spending time with you, Ty.



Your dad and I went on that first date we had planned (Villa Europa, Basketball @Shoe Carnival & Devil's Advocate) but not before we watched your awesome ninja moves.

You've been impressing me ever since.

Track2: This Is The Story Of A Boy

NOTE: When I first wrote this out, I had also started Track 1. 

This one was to be the intro, perhaps. 

Or maybe that one.  

I
started writing this quite some time ago- there are several drafts. I'm
revisiting them each. 

There's some redundancy - forgive me. But life can be redundant,
really. The story of who we are and who we become can hinge on moments
that show up in all of our stories

 *

They say stories should start at the beginning... the trick is knowing how far back to reach. 

Should one begin in Genesis and work through the naming of all the animals or just cut to the scene where the hero first appears? 

 Who are the heroes; the villains? Are any of the characters conflicted? 

Wait- what if they're all conflicted? I hadn't planned on writing another War and Peace...but, come to think of it, maybe that's the only rational expectation. 

. 

War. Peace. A whole lot of AND in between. 

Once upon a time... the very first time we met, I believe, was in a bathroom stall...

You were three and your teacher had difficulty getting into the bathroom stalls with her crutches. She asked me - the teacher next door-  to help you with some predicament or other that you'd found yourself in--unbuckle or buckle or clean up a mess, I really can't remember which,  but the setting would remain constant throughout our years to come- the two of us awkward and slightly out of place, surrounded by predicaments and trying to make the best of it.



K3 and K4 had recess and lunch together (you always brought a Trix yogurt. ) Mrs. Stacey and I would chat during nap time (you never could get to sleep ) And so, we became acquainted, you and I.



I had not yet met your mom.

I had not yet met your dad.

I knew you first.



For a month or so, that was the way things were. I was teaching and you were a part of the student body. You were a cute little student in my friend's class who had a country twang when he talked. And I was filling the needed teacher positions temporarily before heading off to the college I was accepted at in north Georgia. I regarded the path I was on as a temporary gig before pursuing my goal of becoming a counselor.



Make your plans, but always write them in pencil!

Your teacher, Mrs. Stacey was...IS... a good friend to me. She had been my friend for years before this and acted as a confidant for all my little life dramas. We talked about anything and everything.  And so it was, on the day I first met your dad,  I knew why he was there and what the underlying concern was.  I can't unpack it well- I want to remain neutral, diplomatic...yet truthful.



Nutshell: There was some question over your safety. Your dad had been called in to be made aware of the concern.



At this point, both of your parents were just your parents. I didn't know them or your home situation. I didn't know they were divorced or anything about your life outside of our interactions at school. I didn't need to.  I had no reason to expect that to change.



I was a new student in Real Life 101 myself; knee-deep in my own set of  entanglements, romantic and otherwise.  I wasn't looking to add to the tangle.

Pencil... always use a pencil for those  plans, I tell you.

It was lunchtime and we always went together - k3 & k4-  across the parking lot to the cafeteria. I had my class lined up at the door and Ms. Stacey was getting her own ducklings in a row. Your dad had come for that meeting and was staying to have lunch with you. After lunch, Mrs. Stacey came up to me in the gym and whispered to me something your dad had said about me...

And so it had begun. 

For the next week or so, every time I stopped by Mrs. Stacey's room after school, I found your dad too;  occupying a tiny little k3 chair. They were chatting about friends they had in common and your progress in school, of course.



 I guess the scheme was to spend inordinate amounts of time up there just to maybe say hello to me on occasion.  Word got back to me from Mrs. Stacey that he was interested in a date maybe... but apparently he was shy. 

You and I began to spend more time together while he took over my daily after school chat sessions with Mrs. Stacey.  As they chatted on, you would join me making rounds, chaperoning the cheerleaders, laminating posters, running copies for the next day's lessons, etc.  There was definitely a more direct route to dating, but we have gone on to enjoy the scenic route in many more areas of life. It's okay.

And so, it was on what had become a typical day, the ice was finally broken ... and by ice I mean a bottle of nail polish.  Numbers were exchanged. A waiting game ensued. A date was planned for Halloween night.



Sometime within that week, I approached the pregnant lady sitting in Mrs. Stacey's classroom (your mom). I said " I just want to talk to you for a second. I have plans to go out with Tyler's dad but wanted to make sure it wasn't going to be an issue- with me being a teacher here...but... it's probably only going to be the one date" (ha. pencil I tell ya).



She told me in no uncertain terms what she had learned about your dad and I left with clearance to accept the date feeling that she had obviously moved on and that I was not going to be in the middle of a relationship that could be repaired nor would I be causing any unprofessional discomfort as an employee at your school.

And so, our destiny was poured out of a nail polish bottle, sunshine yellow in your little hands, beating out the rhythm of so many things to come.

The Why: Some of these details may seem unnecessary, but sometimes I wonder if- because the way things are situated on the timeline- you think I came along and disrupted your happy home. Took your dad away from your mom or something... I have no way of knowing what you think or have been told. I can't remember being 3 myself very clearly and so... the truth is, I've wondered what you think. I want you to see how very much a part of the beginning you are - and also, that I would never stand in your way or rob from you to fortify myself.



Some kinds of bridges can only be built by the people meant to meet in the middle of them. To that end, I stand back and keep the way clear, for him, for you, for anyone who needs me out of the way.

Track1: It Was All Yellow...

You were only 3.

You can be forgiven for not knowing the story.

For seeing the title "Songs About Yellow"  and equating it with that favored Power Ranger from days gone by, and certainly we will get to that part of the story, but you painted my world yellow before that... quite literally. 

Sometimes I wonder how the beginning goes in your book. I try to think back to when I was three, and none of my memories are concrete, but, I can often say that about yesterday, so perhaps I'm not the best example. 

I guess I should start with what seems obvious...I think of you most often when I see yellow. Now, I realize there can be less than flattering connotations if a person is called 'yellow'... but I've seen your ninja skills-you're definitely not pansy yellow. That is not the kind we are talking about here. 

The kind we are talking about is bright-sunshiny-happy-golden-yellow.

I was going to entitle this blog something like Hello, Yellow Fellow but... that's corny, right?

Besides, I like the Coldplay song... it would fill the airwaves only a few years after our story begins, it fits .  

"Look at the stars...look how they shine for you.... and everything that you do... " 

 

You were in K3 and I was the teacher across the hall (K4). For the record, I had very little idea... okay, no idea whatsoever...how to be a teacher. But- for lack of staff and because I was kin to those that did the hiring...and because I had often helped in church nursery and did a lot of babysitting- they were letting me give it a go. 

Imagine that! My very first job out of high school was teaching K4 (truly, it was the equivalent of highly structured daycare and not 'formal education' - but it was an awfully big bite for someone as Kelly-green as myself. (Get it? Because I'm Kelly. And being green can mean inexperienced. Funny, no?   No?!   I'll keep trying. )

Your teacher was my friend and had counseled me friend-to-friend thru many a high school drama... just the year before. Yep, I was a whelp. Freshly eighteen and launched into the "real world" a mere 4 months before the school year started. That year, after the K4 class went home or to the nap room, I would cross over to the main school where I would 'teach' a group of 6th graders Art. I use the term with a self-degrading set of quotation marks because I didn't feel qualified but I tried to make up for it with enthusiasm. I was qualified in that. Art has always been and continues to be my favorite subject, so I like to hope that something good came from sheer enthusiasm for those students.  I passed on to them my favorite lessons from Art classes over the years, especially the ones from... the  year prior,  when I was a student....in the very same building. :o) 

See a theme developing?

Yeah, dog paddling in the deep end,  that was me. 

I add a lot of the qualifying because on the surface, saying I was 18 and "teaching" all these various subjects sounds like a tall-tale. But it wasn't. Tall order, perhaps, but totally true. 

But wait! There's more. At the end of the day, I agreed to be a sponsor for the cheer team. Without an adult sponsor, they couldn't have a squad and so I agreed to chaperone the Varsity and Junior Varsity girls-- some of which had been my classmates....just a few months prior. 

I didn't have an extensive background in cheer but I did enjoy being their host, finding new routines and  buying them spirit gear...our colors were Green and Gold..

And THAT is why, when your dad came by after school to meet with your teacher  - I was  in her classroom, carrying bottles of green and yellow nail polish. She and I were friends--ARE friends, and back then we often chatted during breaks. I had just finished meeting with the cheer squad.

As she and your dad began to talk, I moved off to the side to do some teacher-ly things, casually placing my bag of spirit colors right within your reach as it would turn out. I can only guess at your thought processes but, there you were after a long day of schooling and absolutely NOT taking a nap (you were the kid always squirming on his mat) ready to go home but the grown-ups were talking... on and on like they're known to do...maybe if you had some music (you were known for singing 

Men In Black in its entirety back then)...if only you had some drum sticks?

Wait, what's in this bag?  

Bottles of nail polish? 

Close enough!

And so, like Animal, you began to drum on the table using the bottles of polish as sticks.  You had rhythm and you had music... just, not for very long. 

CRASH! went the bottle and SPLASH! went the paint inside.

Yellow. It was all yellow... the table, I mean. And some of the chairs.

Drip, drip, drip went the liquid gold lacquer.

Grown-ups stopped what they were doing, a clean up effort ensued and you got to go home for the day. (Finally!)

And, (Finally!) you had given your dad a tool to CRASH! break the ice and  (Finally!)  speak to me directly. (Him, bashful? Hard to imagine, right? Still, totally true story.)

You see, he'd come up for a Parent/Teacher conference a week or so prior. Then he'd continued to show up, even when you'd already gone home with your mom for the day... only, he mostly talked to your teacher... not me. 

Now he had an excuse to deal with me directly.  A few days later, instead of stopping by Mrs. Stacey's class, he came to my door bearing multiple shades of yellow-gold nail polish to replace the broken one. His strong suit was not color coordinating nail polish and I suppose we can all be thankful for that. The rest as they say, is history (in the making).

 Even now, if you rifle through our keepsake box, you'll find a bottle of yellow nail polish squirreled away.

So, I guess, in some ways, what I'm trying to say is... this is really all your fault, pal.

And, thank you. 

Liner Notes: Explaining Myself

 

I'm writing this for you.

I'm writing this for me.

You'll notice that you came first in the lineup.

That has always been true.

Well, mostly. 

I'm not writing a defense nor justifying my presence...

...but I don't know, maybe in some ways I am trying to do just that.

Still, that's not the driving factor.

I write because I want to say some things while there is still time to say them.

I want the things that can only come from me to have come from me while there still is a me for them to come from.

I don't want untold stories tossing me into my grave, nor do I want others to put their best spin on what they think I meant with my life. 

This isn't the first time I've made an attempt.

Several imaginary copies lie crumpled on the floor of my mind.

They span years and years.

I need to talk about these things with you, truthfully and respectfully. 

There have been a lot of half truths along our way, sometimes no truth at all. 

I don't know what you know.

I don't know what you think.

I don't know what you've been told by any of the usual suspects.

Here's what I DO know.

I do not want to hurt you, make you mad or dig up something painful just for the drama of unearthing the past.

I do not want to push you away. At all.

In fact, it's rather the opposite, I want to pull you in closer.

I want you to know how very loved you are.

I want you to know your part in the stories; in my story, in our family's story.

I want you to know that you are important.

Your stories are important.

Without you, the other stories fail to be written.

When we are sharing space and spending time together, I want you to feel at ease.

I want you to feel loved by the family surrounding you.

I want you to know how much you belong right in our midst.

For a long time, I've felt I had to be careful with you- careful not to get too attached, careful not to lay any claims on you.

I've tried to be careful not to place undue pressures on you nor cause waves in your life when I could help it.

Mostly I've tried to remain neutral.

But I now believe, at times, that has been a mistake.

I still want to respect every single person who calls you loved.

This isn't about casting blame or finally staking a claim.

It's more like finally voicing what's been true all along.

No matter what happens, no matter where we find ourselves in the world, you are an inextricable part of my life, my story.

Staircases and Labels be damned.

I love you as a son and a friend.

I want the best for you always.

I pray for your future and I believe

- have always believed-

that you are full of pure Grade A Potential-ity.

The truth is, we are never-probably-ever  going to bring this up over pizza or tacos.

When you're around, we just want you to linger a little longer, spend more time with you.

No one wants to kill that joy by digging up bones.

Certainly not me. 

But then I look across the guacamole at you, and wonder again for the millionth time if you feel loved.

Really, really loved?

I tend to suspect that you don't.

And I wonder again for the millionth and one time if there's something more

I can say or do to help you understand how very much you are.

Forgive the mumbling and bumbling that will surely follow... I'm swinging from the heart.

And now, without further adieu, let the band play on...