High Plains Panhandler

The Advent Candle

We were on the hook to light the Advent candle in church this past Sunday. Coming from a Baptist background, I really had no idea what Advent was supposed to be, so when people mentioned it in church I’d nod and say something clever like: “Oh yes. Advent.”

But our current church sprinkles a little of this and a little of that everywhere. Advent and communion are a few of the things that we do that we never did when I was a kid (Okay, that’s not fair. We did do the communion thing during Christmas. I remember passing around a plate of these little pieces of bread and thinking, "That’s it? I sat through this whole thing and this is what they’re giving us to eat? For a place always asking for money, this church sure is stingy.")

The world according to Google says that Advent is “the season including the four Sundays preceding Christmas.” And all this time I thought this season was named for the people who have come up with creative ways of using their middle finger while driving down the freeway. Tis the season, after all.

Our job Sunday was to stand up in front of the church during the service and, after Suzanne had read a little something, I was supposed to help light the Advent candles, which were four thin candles surrounding a larger candle in the middle. So as Suzanne did her part, the kids and I stood together in a little clump next to the candles. I looked down to make sure everyone was still there: Colleen stood calmly, with her hands clasped in front of her; Megan smiled widely at everyone in the church; Alex had his finger shoved halfway up his nose.

I grabbed his hand and whispered a quick “Yuck!” to him, but I think I whispered it a little too loudly because I heard myself on the church sound system. It sounded like this (Suzanne is speaking in a soft, churchy voice): “This is a blessed time of YUCK!”

It all went fine when it came to my part. I lifted up Colleen to light her candle, then Megan, then Alex (although he had a very eager pyro look in his face so I held his hand as he lit the third candle). I lit the last one, which seemed to take a very, very, very long time, a nervously long time, an uncomfortably itchy, sweaty long time. But I got it and Suzanne then had to read a little prayer, and, of course, since you’re in front of the whole congregation you can’t peek during a prayer, but I should have. Because right after she finished, I looked up to see Alex playing with the little ceramic baby Jesus in the nativity scene. He was holding him up in the air, as if baby Jesus was about to sprout a superhero cape and start fighting crime.

We got the baby Jesus back in his hay safely, and suddenly the pressure of performing was over. Our Advent candles glowed brightly for the rest of the service.

Now when someone mentions Advent to me, I’m a little better educated. Now I can say, “Those candles are tricky to light.”

Alex's 4th Birthday

Last week we celebrated Alex’s fourth birthday at Chuck E. Cheese, a pizza place with the slogan “Where a kid can be a kid.” It should also have sub-slogan: “Aspirin - free for all adults.”

It took about two milliseconds for Alex to go into Frantic Mode once he saw his friends, and they all ran around the play area (where there are slides, games, rides, and a ball pit) flailing their arms and screaming like those strange preacher-types on cable channels 17 through 22 when they start speaking in tongues. “Blooda scooba bippity bloobaa!” One time, Alex tried his hand at air hockey, but he and his friend were too excited to knock the puck around on the table, so they decided that throwing it at each other would be just as fun. I can tell you, from painful experience, that catching an air hockey puck with your forehead is a lousy kind of fun.

The party went off nicely, although I was coming down with a nasty sore throat so I stayed away from all the babies and gentle children. The one time I had to get close to everyone was when I held up the superhero-laden pull-string piñata so everyone could get a chance for candy. The pull-string piñata is different than the bash-with-a-bat kind. These piñatas have a collection of strings hanging from their bottom. The idea is that each kids gets to pull a string or two, and after they’ve all been pulled, the piñata rips open and dumps its candy all over the floor. It really works like this: the kids pull all the strings and I continue to stand on a chair, holding a full box of candy over all their heads, while nothing happens. Then I reached down and rip the bottom apart with my left hand, causing Jolly Rancher concussions on the unsuspecting tots below. To the kids, it doesn’t matter. They’re getting their candy. That’s all they really want.

I went to the Coke machine to get a refill (thinking that a cold Coke would rip down my throat and make it feel better). Next to me was a woman who was busy filling up a baby bottle with water. She rinsed the bottle out and then filled it a quarter-way with water again. Then she quickly filled the rest of the bottle with Mr. Pibb. She put the bottle’s top on and then began shaking it until it starting spitting fizz from the top of the nipple.

“That’s some concoction,” I said.
“It calms her down,” she said.
“Sugar does that,” I said.

It made me a little sad to see that, this woman who smelled of cigarettes pushing a good 10 ounces of Mr. Pibb down her infant’s throat. But maybe she had the same reaction when she saw a gaggle of four-year-olds crawling on the floor beneath my chair, scrambling for candy.

Then again, crawling after candy is a kid being a kid. Sucking down Mr. Pibb when you six months old, I’m not sure what that is.

When we got home after the party, we had our family presents for Alex ready to go, but he wasn’t interested in opening anything else. All he wanted to do was play with the stuff he got from his friends, so he and Colleen and Megan played until lights out. And when they all fell asleep, Alex clutching his new Batman to his chest, blissful and protected from evildoers.

Christmas Concert

Tonight was Colleen's third grade Christmas Concert (or Winter Holiday Concert or Kwanza Concert - whichever. I get confused). This is where the third, fourth, and fifth graders put on a choral and symphonic concert for parents and their video cameras. Colleen was in the chorus and was grinning away when they sang (the other night she asked me if I knew "Jingle Bell Rock." I told her I only knew the Elvis rendition sung with a curled upper lip, but she ignored my feeble joke and simply said, "That song rocks!").

Alex had a hard time seeing. This was helped by a large man in front of me who decided to stand up, videotape the concert, and block the view of 20 people behind him. So I lugged Alex onto my shoulders and said very loudly, "Can you see NOW?"

The man, oblivious to the fact that his enormity would make a better door than window, refused to hear me. But his wife did, and she poked him again and again until he gave up the power of the camcorder. (With instructions to her like this: "Press the red button to record. Got that? The red button. Think you can do that? Think you can press the red button? That's what makes it record you know. The red button.")

Now that Alex was on my shoulders, I backed up to the wall to get out of everyone's way. I would say that I forgot he was up there while I enjoyed the concert, but that would be a lie. This little dude gets heavier and heavier every time I lift him up. He was crushing my spine.

Soon the choir started singing "Frere Jacque" and when they sang "Frere Jacque, Frere Jacque, Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?" I heard Alex softly sing along. His lyrics were a little different though. He sang:

"Open presents. Open presents. From Santa Claus. From Santa Claus."

Now that's a boy who knows what he wants.

Skunk Patrol

The other day at our Wildcat Bluff Nature Center board meeting our skunk, who sat through most of the meeting happily chewing his food, decided he didn't like me and pacing back and forth in his cage, giving me (you guessed it) the skunk eye. After the meeting I walked over to his cage to try and make friends. He did not like that at all. He lifted his tail, pointed his non-working stink factory at me, and when he saw that that was doing no good, he jumped at me, stopping short a few inches from the edge of the cage, then he stepped back and jumped again. Each time, his cage moved a few more inches off the table, and I could tell, relying on my decades of experience with caged skunks and Saturday morning cartoons, that he'd push that cage off the table in no time and make his escape into the wild where his lack of stink glands would be quite detrimental to his survival.

I pushed the cage back fully onto the table and left the room before I could cause any more trouble.

A few nights later, Alex and I had Boys Night Out, which consisted of a trip to Chick-Fil-A for dinner and some playtime in the indoor play area. We were banished from the house because Suzanne and the girls were having a Mother Daughter Tea with their girl scout troop, and this was a thing that offered no invitation to rowdy little boys and tired little dads.

Before we got to Chick-Fil-A, I tempted Alex with a trip to the comic book store so that he could get a second Superman comic, but he looked at me very seriously and said, "Daddy, I already have a comic book. Let's go to Chick-Fil-A." That put me in my place.

Chick-Fil-A is at the edge of a Wal-Mart Supercenter parking lot, a gigantic expanse of treeless concrete were the faithful begin their pilgrimage to everyday low prices. Wal-Mart Supercenter parking lots have their own ecosystem, which often consists of fast food restaurants and bank branch offices. Sometimes, depending on the season, you'll see people selling large stuffed animals, foil-wrapped tamales, pumpkins, and firewood.

Chick-Fil-A is a great place to go with small kids because the chicken nuggets are actually made out of chicken (instead of mysterious gray chicken-flavored food substances that we've seen at other places), and the play area is big enough for kid fun but compact enough to score high on the parent safety quiz. Alex devoured his nuggets (mainly because he couldn't play until he ate his dinner), and ran into the play area (thankfully set off in a glass-walled, mercifully soundproofed room) with zeal. Inside he met a friend of his from preschool and within a few seconds Alex was jumping toward his friend, stopping short, stepping back, and jumping again.

Exactly like the skunk at Wildcat Bluff.

Now I've often called Alex a little stinker, but this was a little too close for my comfort. His friend didn't quite like the "jump in my face, jump back" routine and looked a little scared that Alex was going to do something painful to him. I tapped on the glass wall, called Alex out of the room, and asked him what he was doing. He told me he was just playing, and then his friend ran out, tugged on Alex's shirt, and when Alex spun around his friend flinched and stepped back. So then Alex roared (he's into that these days) and ran back into the play area.

I watched them play and I realized that nothing insidious was going on at all. I had the vague thought that Alex was a secret bully and the Mr. Hyde part of his personality was coming out, spurred on by his sugary lemonade and inhaled nuggets, but that wasn't it at all. Alex helped his friend up the slide, and when they were both at the top they both roared (although then his friend looked around nervously).

That was a perfect and pleasant Boys Night Out. Alex yelled, and climbed, and ran, and chased, and I read my book. Let the girls have their tea! We boys have our jungle gym, waffle-cut french fries, and skittish friends.

For an hour, everything was right in the world.

A Little Horse

Alex has been shaking off a little cold, and so this morning his voice was a little gravely. I said to him, "Alex, you're a little hoarse."

"I am not!" he replied with great indignation. "I'm a little boy!"

Even though you could barely hear him, he spoke volumes.