Talking to the Owl

I’m writing what may be my last blog post from from this office. I am, in a way, graduating. Graduating from my starter house to my “all grown up” house. Maybe not immediately, but eventually. It should be fun. The house is true Cape, built between 1812 and 1820. It is in the rural part of Lincoln on a route where all the mailboxes are on one side of the street. Fortunately, the mailboxes on our side. A little bog is on the other side of the road and the stream runs underneath our garage, through the backyard, and down a steep hill into a grassy marsh. Beyond the marsh is a large farm with an equestrian school and an assortment of cows that I suspect are more for decoration than food. I’m really excited, but also nervous. All the anxiety of the closing on Monday has set me on edge. Hopefully everything will go alright, and my next blog post will contain a nice walk through of the new place.  

Go back to sleep little one
the thunderstorms are blowing in the summer
it’s only thunder and it will pass
smell the fresh wet air like new grass
the fireflies are coming alive
like fairies from a Midsummer dream
the little sprites that follow our loves and lives
they will know we’re leaving this yellow house
because they can speak with the wind and rain
they will know we’re leaving this little yellow house
this yellow house where you were born
this yellow house where your sister was born

Happy Fathers’ Day!  To think - after 14 years of marriage, I’ve finally been civilized into the ranks of the “suburban dad”.  Civilization hasn’t been easy for me. I think today I’ll just pour a nice glass of Bordeaux, make a mushroom quiche and watch this lovely French video with my daughter. 

We’ve been working on strength by doing windsprints in the water and invincibility with the Superman suit.  I think the perfect antidote to the “soccer mom” is the “rugby dad”.  ”Tim -  the rugby dad,” I like the sound of that.  Now I just need to convince my wife to move to New Zealand where she can get some proper rugby training and return to sleepy suburbia a Haka Fighting Machine.  Isn’t that what fatherhood’s all about: High hopes for your children?