Watch It -- Or Maybe Don't

I’m avoiding hard media this week.

My television viewing consists of infomercials; Tim, the Tool Man, reruns; and a stinking lot of the Hallmark Channel. I’m only listening to Laugh USA, Channel 96 Sirius, and I’m only skimming Facebook status updates.

I just can’t handle the real news. It’s horrific, graphic, and just plain hurts my heart. I can’t do it. It’s not just the tragedy of it – which, in so many ways, should be enough to keep me away.

It’s way more than that. It’s what we do to these sad, tragic characters who commit these crimes.

I roll my eyes when Princess Kate’s royal bun in the oven gets so much coverage; I wonder when life with the Kardashians makes hard news; and I cringe when the First Lady’s fashion choices get airtime. The wisdom of our news industry just isn’t surprising.

Nonetheless, what’s worse than all of that nonsense is what they do to these shooters. The media we encourage and perpetuate inspects these killers; they try to explain the lives, the issues, the neuroses, the psychoses, the families, the friends, the educations, the employment records, the significant others, the living arrangements, the fashion choices, and the social ineptness of these murderers.

They explain the guns, the weapons, the clothes, the Kevlar vests, the GPS systems, the vehicles, the computers, the maps, the cell phones, and the schedules that these freaks used to commit their crimes.

They outline every second of the fatal events that these social mutants perpetuated. They interview victims, victims’ families, eye-witnesses, police officers, mayors, doctors, nurses, coroners, lawyers, judges, psychologists, and criminal profilers.

They make available to viewers diagrams of buildings and grounds of the areas where the shootings occurred; they show graphs of the victims’ ages and genders; they map the distances between the shooters’ homes and where they went on rampage; and they provide a virtual timetable of every second that lead up to the death of innocents.

Then, they furnish coverage of the funerals.

After a while, they make two-hour documentaries about these fatal, mass shootings, and they run them in the prime-time market on major networks. Then, those shows live in syndication. Forever.

Ultimately, who else gets that much attention? What other individual is made into a super hero of such a distorted sort?

When I was a kid, I wanted to be Wonder Woman – only because I watched her on television so much. Who is to say that, with a bit more of a twist in my psyche, I wouldn’t have chosen a less wholesome character to daydream about becoming?

Who is to say that some child right now isn’t scrutinizing this week’s news reports with the tiny sprout of an idea – an idea that might one day lead him to become that sad, psychotic character he sees on television?

Ultimately, evil has always been in the world. It always will be. Simply, we live in a fallen world. That news is not new. Last week did not suddenly bring different, fresh sin into our spheres. In truth, it is the same old wickedness humans have lived with since Adam plucked that first fig leaf to hide his shame.

While the sin is the same, the attention that our human iniquity gets doesn’t have to be. We don’t have to overdose on the details of this sin; we don’t have to anesthetize ourselves to the horror that these deaths brought. We don’t have to prove to our children that this behavior will get them more air time than anyone else. Anywhere. Ever.

For the unforeseen future, I’m sticking to the Hallmark Chanel and the Bob Hope shtick. I pray others will join me, and, as Max Lucado wrote in his December 15, “Up Words,” online devotional, “Dear Jesus,… This Christmas, we ask you, heal us, help us, [and] be born anew in us.”

6,000 Words

So, I haven’t posted in forever, and, if you had already noticed that, bless you! I’m sure my little-read blog has not been missed by many.

Regardless, my computer time has shifted enormously of late. Since my Nook and iPhone have entered my life, I don’t fire up the laptop with quite the same regularity, and I suppose my blog-sharing has changed as a result.

I digress… (I also have become keenly aware that “idigress” likely should have been my blog name!)

When I have been on the computer lately, I have been going through old pictures, putting them all on an external hard drive – the modern-day equivalent of an acid-packed, peel-away photo album from the '80s. I wanted to share a few of the pictorial treasures with you:

Here’s my sweet baby boy exactly 10 years and 1 month ago:

Today, he's looking the 5th grade square in the face and wants to be an author when he grows up. (He's also unloading the dishwasher as I type. Rest assured he's doing it with great drama and resentment. Sigh.)

Here is the same boy's self-portrait, made just a few weeks ago in art class at school:

It cracks me up that there is actually a similarity here -- between the sweet baby and this preteen watercolor. For more on his art, he will be representing Renoir at his elementary school's 4th-grade "Art Museum" this Thursday. His ensemble is complete with frilly shirt and beret.

Here are the boys and I eight years ago in Las Colinas, Texas:

It seems like a million years ago, and yet that's still exactly what I look like. I still wear that watch and, ashamedly, own those same capris. No fashionista comments please. How come those boys have changed so much?

See? These boys of mine don't look the same. Neither does my niece. She's a college graduate as of two weeks ago. When did that happen?

On a total aside, the picture in Las Colinas represents the same trip when Bear Bear was born at the Build-a-Bear Workshop. Note that Bear Bear is still around and going strong. In truth, I think he's gotten better at spelling this year than Son #2.

Here's another family shot with Bear Bear:

I'm a bit embarrassed to notice he's wearing the same pants that he's wearing in this picture from five years ago. I really should look into his wardrobe a bit. Then again, I haven't gotten new pants. Why should he?

Also, I love Metro's lip in this picture. He's sporting a mustache now. I haven't seen his upper lip in ever so long. It looks nice.

Here's Son #2 at three months old before he even knew Bear Bear:

There was a baby in church this morning with this much hair -- or without this much hair. Bald as a billiard ball. I couldn't stop watching him. So many memories wrapped up in that shiny, hairless head.

Thanks for coming with me on this trip down memory lane. We should visit like this more often.

The Parent Trap

We are entering a phase of parenting that makes me pine for a cranky baby, a teething toddler, or even an irascible preschooler who refuses to nap. Those tots I likely could handle; all I would need is a rocking chair, Tylenol, and a story book, in that order. Problems solved.

The two, not-so-tot-like boys who live at my house no longer have issues that can be addressed with that type of razor-like precision. I’m afraid it’s all horse-shoes-and-hand-grenade-type parenting from here on out.

Exhibit A:

Metro got an afternoon phone call from the elementary principal who said that Son #2 had written three curse words on his spelling paper. And these words were not the run-of-the-mill bad words like “crap” or “darn.” No, Son #2 went for the big guns. They rhyme with “duck,” “bass,” and “bell,” though their connotations are not even close to that warm and fuzzy.

Simultaneous to learning of this situation, Metro and I immediately thought, "Did he at least spell them right?"

I’ve written of our struggles in second-grade spelling; clearly, we are not over that hurdle yet.

Secondly, I realized that I was entirely confused by why my bright, downright ingenious boy had the lack of foresight to not only write these heinous words, but to also do it within the range of sight of the school’s principal. Over 500 other children attend his elementary school. Couldn’t he have stayed camouflaged just a bit? Maybe?

In his defense, however, he does think one of these words is really “funk” and believes it to be a type of music from the ‘80s. How he became such a connoisseur of Styx and Phil Collins is another post entirely.

He has also listened to his brother explain repeatedly that an ass is a donkey and hell is just the opposite of heaven.

Sigh.

Exhibit B:

I got an email from Son #1’s fourth-grade teacher who wants to talk to us about this elder boy’s “off-task behavior.”

When you’re ten, isn’t all behavior off task?

Anyway, we have an appointment Monday with ALL his fourth-grade teachers. Not. Looking. Forward. To. It.

Of course, this evidence leads me back to where I began – to Metro and I feeling our way blindly through this obstacle course called parenting. Some days, I would totally trade this phase for a little baby puke on my t-shirt.

Then, again, some days, cursing and being “off-task” seem unmistakably ideal.

Bazinga!

I’m totally besotted with The Big Bang Theory. Totally.

This show about the nerdiest group of physicist friends has been on CBS for nearly 5 years, but, when Metro Jethro and I got the TiVo last fall, we only just discovered them. Now, we’re hooked. They are cooky and funny – and somehow exactly true to life. From Raj’s mis-matched, Indian fashion sense to the spectrum – You know the one I mean… – upon which Sheldon clearly exists, this superhero-loving foursome has been paradoxically placed in Southern California.

In truth, a blog about this show really doesn’t do it justice. Its charm and wit has to be experienced firsthand. Has to. Like you have to see the Grand Canyon or the Pacific Ocean to really “get” them.

Maybe I was too big of a nerd in high school. Or maybe I’m fashion-challenged, totally enamored with ethnic take-out, and genuinely touched by a buxom blonde who gives a real shot to the weirdo who ALWAYS wears a hoodie.

Maybe. Or maybe this show is just stinking funny.

Anyway, they aired their 100^th epidsode last night, and I am stinking excited to watch it. It’s safely tucked away on my TiVo, awaiting a child-free, wine-sipping moment later tonight.

For those of you who need a trailer to get hooked, here’s some of their riveting dialogue:

Knock. Knock. Knock. “Penny.” Knock. Knock. Knock. “Penny.” Knock. Knock. Knock. “Penny.”