I want to apologize to my children for every time I thought, “Come on! It’s a bee sting. Get over it!” I was stung as a kid, and it wasn’t that bad.
Today, I was riding with the high school mountain bike team. I was dominating from the back, as usual, when someone stuck an ice pick in my forehead. I realized I had been stung, and, man, did it hurt? I wanted to ask the other guys, “Does anyone mind if we stop so I can curl up and cry for a while?” (I didn’t. I kept riding and trying to look tough.)
I’m not crying… on the outside
The pain grew and I kept thinking of my kids and how little sympathy I have for them when they have a run-in with a bee.
Now I am blogging, with a throbbing red forehead… that itches! And I am getting less sympathy than I deserve.
I am sorry, kids. You are right. It hurts.
After deciding to press on with the ride and not cry, I was doing my usual thing where I drift farther and farther off the back of the group of fearless young people. I felt a drip of sweat slowly running down my eyebrow. A moment later I realized that it was actually my six-legged assailant crawling down past my eyeball. I smacked him off my face in a reflex action and also sent my glasses flying off into the forest.
I stopped… fell farther off the pace… found my glasses… and resumed the chase.
“Wow, Dad. Your speed is a lot different than Mom’s.” Your daughter Claire uttered this quote as I drove down sleepy Farnam Street. Another of your daughters stuck up for me, saying, “Lighten up, Claire! He’s going the speed limit.”
Here is another quote I enjoyed: “Dad, why are you driving so slow? Mom would floor it and then screech to a stop in front of Isaac’s house.” Note to my readers: this exciting depiction describes the first forward motion of the car, and it takes place in a 50-foot trip down our gravel alley.
Finally, as I rolled serenely to a stop in front of the high school, Claire said, “Dad, that took you six minutes! Mom gets us here in four.”
Why do I share this story?
I think you should know there is a menace on the road. He drives the speed limit. Be careful you don’t rear-end him as he placidly drives down West Avenue.
I have the best wife ever… she bakes, she sews, she teaches. I just think a woman that amazing needs to be teased now and then.
I drew this pepper in Adobe Illustrator using the Gradient Mesh tool. I made a YouTube video of the Gradient Mesh process and it is one of my most viewed videos. When I look at the views (more 10,000 at this writing) I feel like a superstar.
It is a bunch of long, thin shapes filled with green and brown linear gradients—not gradient meshes, but the good old Gradient Tool. Drawing all those shapes and filling them with linear gradients is not a quick process, but I think it makes a good “wooden” texture.
I drew the entire stem shape and filled it with a linear gradient from dark green to light green.
I drew many long, thin shapes filled with linear gradients.
This shows all the little linear gradients that make up the stem.
Below are my YouTube videos showing the gradient mesh part of the pepper. I don’t show my work on the stem in the videos. I just mention it at the end.
Let me know if you have any Gradient Mesh questions. (You could be one of the first to comment on one of my posts.)
I was not angry when three little girls woke me up way too early and invited me to breakfast with them. (Mother and teenagers are gone for the day.)
I helped the little girls blow out eggs, so that later we might paint them for Easter decorations. Poking holes and blowing out the contents of an egg takes much more time than cracking the shell on the side of the pan. But I endured. After all, I am the best dad.
I let the girls pour syrup on their scrambled eggs.
I let the girls bring another girl child into my house for the day, because “it has been so long since we have had a play date.”
I made cheese quesadillas. (Even though an evil doctor has prohibited me from eating cheese, I will make you cheese filled delicacies and watch you eat them.)
After lunch, I taught a session on drawing the human face in profile.
A spectrum or illustration stretching from youngest to oldest student (except for the instructor’s example on the left). Claire wants me to tell you that the drawing on the right is by 10-year-old Ruthie.
Later, I let my Bethany realize her dream of teaching me how to make marbled paper using shaving cream and food coloring. Because there were four students in her class, I was obliged to donate my last can of shaving cream. I don’t mind growing a beard. Many good dads have beards.
Four girls wasting one man’s shaving cream
The fruits of our labor
I could have started my homework. I could have worked out. But instead, I took the girls to the library. We checked out picture books.
When we got home, I vowed I would get to my homework. But we had new books. I just had to try a few out to see if they were any good. We sat on the couch and read books.
In the evening, Bethany and Lydia made “mailboxes.” A mailbox is a handmade envelope, taped to the wall. (I envision a 24 inch circle of plaster falling off the wall when those mailboxes are pulled down someday.) Into this mailbox a sibling might tuck little notes of appreciation. As soon as the mailboxes were hung, I was waylaid by Lydia. “Dad, how do you spell ‘best’?”
“How to you spell ‘sister’?”
“How do you spell ‘ever’?”
“Thanks, Dad, now I’m going to draw a picture on this side.”
When they had finally gone to bed, I had my chance to get to work. But, I was drawn to the mailboxes. I found scrap paper and made little cards. Of course a card needs a hand-drawn illustration on the cover. I wrote notes thanking my two youngest for the fun day. (I left out the part about keeping from my work and fitness goals.)
It was 11pm. The day was done, but I set up my indoor bike trainer and readied some reading material. As I was about to mount my bike, my son came down the stairs and said, “Dad, did you forget you were going to come up and read to me?” No. Of course not. The book was very exciting. We had to read two chapters.
So here I am at midnight. I should give up and climb in bed. But, in stubbornness, I insist on doing one thing for me. I will write a blog post so that all my selfless acts today may be turned selfish and scream, check me out! Best dad ever.
Last week, Helen’s High School put on their spring play — The Miracle Worker, the Story of Helen Keller. It was excellent. I cried through several Kleenexes.
Helen, my eldest daughter, was a wordless servant and manager of stage and props. The play would have been a total flop without her work. The part where my Helen swept up the food after the breakfast fight scene was very touching. She took the audience through the range of emotions. We laughed when she flinched at the mess. We cried when she missed a big piece of fake scrambled eggs.
Claire, my second daughter, was in charge of Helen Keller’s hair. It was a mystery how Claire could rebuild the actress’s hair after every episode of great struggle. Every time Helen Keller came back on stage, the audience would gasp and whisper, “Oh, look at those braids. How many hair dressers are behind that curtain?”
If you are on facebook, you can see a photo of Helen subtly controlling the play from behind the action here:
I know you don’t hate me because you are evil. You hate me because you have no other way of coping with my great beauty. You look at your reflection in the water dish and see a dogface. Then you look out the front window and see me walking by, and you feel rage. You see a dog whose lips hang down and cover his teeth, as is the fashion these days. You see hair that has the decency to grow around, rather than over, my eyes. Every morning, I climb out of bed ready for the cover of Field and Stream Magazine. While you… even after hours of expensive grooming, you could elude the dogcatcher indefinitely by laying next to a mop bucket. But your scrub brush appearance is not your fault any more than my super model body is my own doing. So, I will not judge you. I will not return your scorn, for I know it comes from a broken heart. But take heart, my friend. Someday in Dog Heaven, you will live for eternity with a perfect body — one like mine.
Drawing of a nervous man. Is he holding a bucket and a piece of cake? Or a stopwatch and a clipboard? It depends on which of my kids you ask.
I volunteered to do timing at my kids’ swim meet this weekend. It was -2° outside. But after entering the Y in my Inuit costume, I changed into shorts and a t-shirt to brave the tropical pool room. I wish the kids could learn to swim without splashing. I’m like, “Hey kid. I’m giving up my Saturday to help out at your race and you thank me by launching eight ounces of pool water onto my foot? You’re lucky I brought a change of socks.”
Timing for the prestigious Frostbite Swim Meet is tense. I kept saying in my head things like, “Okay, this is a 200 meter race. That’s eight lengths. Okay, he’s on his sixth length, I think. Oh crud, my lane is in the lead! I can’t look at the other timers to see if they are getting ready to hit the stop button. Okay, okay, I will try to discern if he is setting up for a flip turn or a reach for the wall. I HOPE THIS TWERP DOES FLIP TURNS!” I needed muscle relaxants by the time my morning shift was over.