Posted by: Dylan Stafford | February 16, 2012

Kindergarten-103

We went to another kindergarten open house last night. We’ve been to six.

We have six applications, six health and immunization forms, six preparatory interview evaluations. I have labeled manilla file folders for each school, with all the pastel-colored handouts sorted.

Ultimately, Jackson is going to get admitted, and also not get admitted, to some combination of these places and we’ll have to decide what we think is best from the choices remaining.

I’ve been a UCLA admission director the past nine years in the business school and I’m wondering if my kindergarten experience is karma, some cosmic payback. At least we got rid of pastel-colored handouts a few years back when we put our UCLA application online.

What I’m seeing is that kindergarten shopping is not about comparing apples to apples. These schools emphasize different things, and they do so boldly and unapologetically.

The six school are three public schools, two Catholic schools and one public charter. Two schools are dual-language programs, Spanish-English, while one is German-English, and all talk about the extra challenge dual-language is for children. The Catholic schools melt my heart by unreservedly talking about developing character, and the secular, public schools still speak about whole-child development, even while they must use more coded language of diversity and respect and cross-cultural awareness.

Last fall, as we entered the pre-kindergarten, first-time-parent, big-city-Los Angeles, decision year, my uninformed stereotype was that hell-hath-come-to-education.

At my son’s UCLA daycare, from the first kindergarten panel of parents speaking about kindergarten, I left feeling that I’d been living under a rock, was hopelessly naive, and had already doomed my son to obscurity by my ignorance of the sad state of affairs in Los Angeles. I left that session feeling socio-economically lost, that because I can’t afford $25,000/year kindergarten, all was doomed.

Now, four months into the pre-kindergarten orientation, I’m seeing the opposite. Instead of disaster, what we have here in Los Angeles is an embarrassment of riches. While these six schools all offer different emphases, there were some striking, overwhelmingly positive, similarities:

  • Parent involvement
  • Leadership
  • Big hearts and a fighter’s spirit
  • Cookies

Every school had volunteer-armies of current parents, at the welcome tables, mingling, organizing the evenings. Each school has fund-raising/booster-groups of parents actively making the schools better places by providing the means for teacher’s aides, after-school enrichment and a myriad of other ancillary services. Yes, these services were probably paid for by the state in year’s past, so these are reactionary, but their spirit was always can-do-because-we-should-do.

Every school’s information evening was kicked off by a principal, the leader of each tribe, and the Catholic school’s evening was opened by our own monsignor, the head of our parish. There was no dearth of top-down leadership represented. Every one of these six schools is a thriving village, which led to next observation.

Big hearts and a fighter’s spirit were on display in each of the six. Obviously, teaching and school administration attracts people who want to make the world a better place, the big hearts.

But also, in our times of political-screaming and non-listening, these schools’ principals and teachers across the board were warriors for what is possible for children. There were no wimps. There were no whiners.

From one school, budget cuts from Governor Brown eliminating Transitional-K? Well, we’re still going to offer it, even though we’re not sure how, because we can’t just leave these kids in limbo for a year.

From another school, the private-Catholic school, “Every detail counts. We’re raising little ladies and gentlemen here. We wear uniforms and we think it is for the best.”

From the language schools: Your kid may have a strong will. He may not want to learn a dual-language. It’s hard. But we tell our kids it’s like the car seat, non-negotiable, and for their own good.

These were just three examples of this warrior-spirit, warrior in the noble sense that there are things worth fighting for, like our children’s futures.

What struck me was the can-do attitudes across all the schools. The whining and blaming that so sickens me in our politics right now was absent.

Politics reminds me of boys-gone-bad, like petulant, chubby, spoiled little ten-year-old boys shrilly screaming the sky is falling, who have more than they could ever use, but still don’t know how to share. Whereas all of these schools made me think of grandmothers’ wisdom, of the village where the elders are taking the long view and making decisions for the good of everyone. No complaining. No whining. No one left behind.

And cookies.

All the schools had snacks–brilliant. My wife laughed at me as we mingled afterwards and I helped myself to chips and dip–and cookies.

“I love the way you just make yourself at home,” she said.

Maybe I am at home. Maybe, at 42, with a four-year-old, living in the big-old-megapolis of Los Angeles, light-years away from my own small-town-Texas childhood with one kindergarten and no drama, maybe in spite of all of that, I’m realizing I’m home here.

We are going to do right by our son, with the help of one of these kindergarten villages. And more than that, other families, and our American experiment, is going to do right also. The sky isn’t falling. With courageous teachers and administrators like the ones we’ve been meeting, maybe things aren’t so dire after all.

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Posted by: Dylan Stafford | February 13, 2012

(Happy Valentine) That’s what friends are for

This story won’t be as good as the wedding it describes. A typical wedding—hopefully—has one moment that takes your breath away; this wedding had five.

I’m sitting in an empty food court in the El Paso airport, watching a dusty sun set behind the mountains, eating a sandwich and waiting for my next flight back to Los Angeles. It’s Sunday and I’m flying home from attending the wedding.

The bride was Priscilla, a friend I’ve known since kindergarten. The groom was Scott, but he’s much more recent in my life; we met in junior high. We all grew up together in Denison, Texas, an old railroad town on the border with Oklahoma. This wedding was 25 years in the making.

It’s like that when you’re from a small town, knowing people your whole life. Even though I left Denison in 1987, I still keep up with my friends. I’ve been to weddings and someday I’ll go to funerals.

Priscilla and Scott each have children from a previous marriage. Priscilla’s two twins are just becoming teen-agers while Scott’s son is a young man of 20. I’ve listened to my friends who get divorced talk about how tough it is to go back and start dating, especially when they’re actually looking for someone serious.

“It’s different out there now,” I’ll hear them say. “It’s hard to meet good people and everyone is older and has history and it’s just not the same.”

I don’t know what it is like to get divorced. I’m in my 8th year of marriage to Marisa and I want to stay married. Marisa’s grandparents were married 69 glorious years. They always said glorious like a mantra, with a long first syllable glooor-ious.

Marisa’s grandma would joke about staying married for the long haul. “Divorce? Never. Murder? Maybe…,” she’d say with a twinkle.

I don’t know the all back stories of Priscilla’s, or Scott’s, first marriage. I do know that I can’t imagine trying to be a parent to my son Jackson without Marisa. I do know I like having a companion for life.

About six months ago on Facebook, long distance from Los Angeles, I started to suspect sparks might be firing between Priscilla and Scott. Being still Facebook-fickle, if I smelled smoke there was probably already a bonfire. It made my heart glad that they might be dating, knowing they are each loving people.

Then, before Christmas, I received a wedding invitation in the mail and it was clear the sparks had indeed lit a fire.

Together with their three children

Priscilla and Scott

Joyfully invite you to celebrate their marriage on

Saturday, the eleventh of February

Two thousand twelve…

The invitation had a pink bow and an illustration, a line drawing of not two, but rather five people wearing tuxedos and dresses and holding hands, like a wedding-version of those white decals you see on mini-vans.

“Do you want to go?” asked Marisa.

“Well, that’s my busy time at work, and we’re trying to save money,” I replied. “I don’t think we can really make it fit.” This was before Christmas and I was tired from the fall quarter and the expenses of the holidays were staring at me and I didn’t see how it could work.

“Well maybe just you should go,” she counter-offered.

Marisa watches “Say Yes to the Dress” every week. I like to cuddle on the couch with my wife and watch TV, but oh, I-just-say-no to that show. It never makes sense to me, a TV show about trying on dresses. Really, what is the point? You put on the dress. You take off the dress. You like it. You don’t like it. Ugh. But since one football game is the length of three episodes I don’t complain. I may fall asleep beside my wife, but I don’t complain.

My wife is romantic and the wedding invitation sat on the top of the mail pile staring at us. We came home from our Christmas visits to New Jersey and Texas, and Marisa brought it up again.

“You better check prices if you think you’re going to go to that wedding. It’s starting to get close,” she said.

I got online and looked at prices and times and checked with my weekend work obligations and called my mom and my sister and my best friend Travis and all of a sudden I had tickets booked. Ding—you are now free to move about the country. I had a flight and a rental car and the whole trip would be about 36 hours start to finish; deep down I’m a romantic too.

I kept thinking about my other friends who’ve had to start new chapters in their lives. I kept thinking about raising my four-year son and feeling baffled by daddy-details and how hopeless I would be on my own without Marisa. Here were two good people making a new future for themselves and their three kids, and I was going to get to see it begin.

On Facebook, I posted that I was coming to the wedding and started to hear about the other friends who’d be coming too.

Life stayed busy at work and we’re going to kindergarten open houses in Los Angeles for Jackson and we’re waiting to adopt a baby and Marisa has contractors making plans for a room addition that we can’t afford and all of a sudden it was Thursday night before the wedding.

I called Priscilla and with the time difference reached her and Scott as they were coming in the house from having dinner with his family.

“How are you feeling? Are you ready for the big day?” I asked.

“We’re doing great. We just had dinner with Scott’s family. My mom’s got most of the details under control and the kids are getting excited. It’s all coming together,” said Priscilla. She sounded like a basketball player being interviewed at half-time, fired up and ready to go.

Priscilla’s the oldest of three the same way I am the oldest of three. We are both in the same kindergarten picture from 1974 and we went to the same elementary school, since our homes were only three blocks from each other.

Priscilla’s mom Kay was a big part of our lives. When we were younger, she threw really great birthday parties for Priscilla with fun games and food. When we got older, it was more complicated. Kay was the mom who knew everybody and everything and when we all got to be teenagers and started trying to push the boundaries she’d know about any mischief almost before it happened. It was like she had satellites and computers and tracking software—back before there were such things. Today, raising my son in huge Los Angeles, I wish there was a network as tight as we had in Denison.

Kay also made sure Priscilla learned piano as a girl. Priscilla was always taking piano lessons and it paid off as she became a very gifted piano player and singer. She sang at church, she sang in choir, and later she was in the Miss Texas pageant and she sang there too.

In high school in 1986, when the song “That’s what friends are for” was popular, Priscilla decided that she and Roger and I were going to perform it at a talent show. (I’ve known Roger since pre-school and he sang the Ave Maria at my wedding.) I don’t know how she talked me into singing but she did. We were in the spotlight and I got stage fright and I just kept telling myself, “Make your voice sound like Rogers’ voice. Make your voice sound like Roger.” The harmony may have suffered but I survived and we ended up performing a couple more times before we graduated.

When we started driving, since our houses were so close to each other, we started giving a friendly little honk as we would pass each other’s house. It slowly expanded from a quick honk to a game of let’s start blowing the horn a block early and see if we can keep blowing it until a block past. It kind of got obnoxious for the neighbors and at some point my dad asked me to knock it off.

My dad always liked Priscilla, and maybe that’s why it took him a long time to ask me to cut it out with the horn blowing. He would always ask how she was doing and he kind of followed her progress more than he did most of my friends. Priscilla was the only friend I had with red hair and I always thought Dad liked her partially because his mom, my grandmom, was a red head and partially because he was a choir director and appreciated her music.

Back in 2012, the Thursday night before the wedding, I continued my conversation with Priscilla.

“Remember how earlier I thought my sister Lisa might come with me to your wedding and then it didn’t work for her? Well now her schedule has changed and she can go. Does that mess up your count for the reception? Can Lisa be my and one?” I asked.

“Sure,” she replied. “We have room and it would be great to see her.”

“Thanks,” I said. “How about your husband-to-be. Could I talk to Scott for a minute?”

Priscilla put Scott on the line and I asked him how he was feeling, so close to the big day. He sounded calm but excited at the same time. We talked a few minutes and I learned his mom had come in from San Diego. I told him I appreciated getting to come and bring Lisa and he said he appreciated me making the effort from California.

The next time I would see him would be 36 hours later, in a tuxedo in front of the church.

I got up about 4:45AM Saturday, journey-proud and ready to go. I did my morning meditation and stretching and quiet time routine that I use to get my days started. The house was silent as Marisa and Jackson were still in bed so I had time to get online and do one email for work and then to make a Facebook posting about going to the wedding. I printed the Yahoo! map of the route I would take from Dallas to Denison to Fort Worth back to Dallas. I drew the route with a sharpie and took a digital photo and posted it on Facebook with the heading of “Priscilla and Scott’s Wedding.” I jumped in the shower and by the time I got out there were already “likes” accumulating.

Marisa and Jackson took me to the airport for an 8:25AM Saturday departure. I kissed Jackson through the window, marveling that I would be home in time to tuck him before bedtime on Sunday. We live in amazing times.

On my laptop, I got some work done on the flights to Dallas. Ding ding Southwest airlines always makes you take multiple flights to get to Dallas and I went through Austin.

I landed at 2:45 and Lisa was waiting for me outside and we had just enough time to make it for the 4:00pm ceremony, about 60 miles north of us. It was a clear, cold north-Texas February day, about 28 degrees with a steady wind. Lisa had the car warmed up and we launched up the Dallas Tollway to 635 and then to 75 north.

We missed an exit because the HOV artery was blocked off so we got detoured about three miles east on 635 before we could get out of the HOV lane to make a u-turn back to 75 north. If we’d gone about five miles further, we would have come to the overpass where my dad delivered my sister in the backseat of a 1965 Volkswagen Squareback when they ran out of gas on the way to the hospital, but that is a story for another day.

Back on 75, we were listening to my sister’s massive iPod collection and talking and laughing and drinking diet Coke and it felt like a long-ago road trip, coming home to Denison after some concert in Dallas or up from Texas A&M. We pulled over and I changed into my dress shirt as I pumped gas, jumping in the cold air to stay warm. The whole weekend was designed to fit into a carry-on bag so I was traveling light, a better shirt but the same pants and shoes.

We got lost one more time as we’d never been to the church and GPS in the country doesn’t always sync.

Marisa called me at about five minutes to 4:00PM from a park in California where she was hanging out with Jackson.

“We’re kind of lost,” I said nervously.

“Don’t worry. You’ll find it and remember, weddings never start on time,” she told me.

The GPS had everything right except the last turn. It told us to go left when we should have gone right. We made one more u-turn, re-crossed the highway, and headed down an old country road until we found Friendship United Methodist Church.

The church appeared to be about 100-years old, wooden and painted white, with a steeple on the left side and an old cemetery off to the right. It looked like a church from a movie.

I had to use the restroom from all the diet Coke, but we were late and I’d just have to hold it because this was one of those churches were you walked in and you were already in the sanctuary.

We sat down on the bride’s side and started playing that fun game of trying to recognize people you haven’t seen in a while. I spotted my high school friends and we all ended up sitting in two pews together. I didn’t recognize either Priscilla’s younger sister or brother, as I hadn’t seen either of them in over twenty years.

The room was wider than it was long, so it felt like it was turned sideways. The walls had wood paneling and there were pretty stained glass windows on either side. There was a small balcony behind us with a tripod for filming and the younger kids running around having fun.

Being from LA, and being late, I thought I was going to be the last one but it turned out lots of people were still arriving. The church was ultimately very full and we got started about 4:30.

The first of the five moments was about to happen.

Priscilla’s children are fraternal twins, one boy and one girl. They are just becoming teenagers and her boy is a bit more shy than his sister. Sister was a bride’s maid and came down the aisle by herself, beaming and enjoying being in the spotlight. Priscilla was escorted by her son. He had his arm in hers but he was a full foot shorter than his mom.

About half way down the aisle he started to get shy. Unlike his sister, the spotlight wasn’t so comfortable for him and his body language was something I’ve seen Jackson do many times. His shoulders came up and his head bent and he leaned into his mommy, and he stopped walking.

Priscilla stopped too and turned and whispered to him. There she was on her big day, gracefully, stopping being a bride for a moment to be a mommy. She couldn’t not be a mommy anymore than I could not cry seeing them.

The ceremony was conducted by Priscilla’s brother, who is a minister. He was dressed Texas-casual, not wearing a tie and not wearing vestments. He added heartfelt words of his own to encourage his sister and Scott.

When Priscilla spoke to say the first part of her vows her voice was almost cracking, the emotions were so close to overflowing. That was the second moment for me, the regal rawness in her voice.

I’ve been to a lot of weddings because I’m a preacher’s son. There are benefits to being a PK, but one drawback for me is that I have this mischievous little snarky voice inside my head. It’s kind of like my little devil, and as long as I don’t put it on loud-speaker, all goes well.

After the first set of vows had been exchanged between Priscilla and Scott, as they stood holding hands and staring peacefully into each other’s eyes, there was a pause and the organ gently started to play a melody.

The pause was just long enough for my little-devil voice in my head to snark. This would be a great time for Priscilla to burst into song, it said silently. I squelched an urge to chuckle inappropriately, but even as I was squelching, she did begin to sing.

She didn’t burst. She didn’t perform. This wasn’t Miss Texas, but rather her wedding and she gently coaxed out the beautiful words for her about-to-be new husband Scott. She was singing only to Scott; we just all got to eavesdrop.

When the rain
Is blowing in your face
And the whole world
Is on your case
I could offer you
A warm embrace
To make you feel my love

“He didn’t know she was going to do this,” whispered my friend Joy into my left ear as she set another Kleenex on my knee. I was leaking out both eyes as Priscilla finished her love song. Moment number three.

“That’s Bob Dylan,” said my sister Lisa in my right ear, who knows everything about music. “Adele covered it, plus some kid on American Idol. I just popped a contact lens crying.”

The whole congregation was a sniffle-fest for the rest of the service.

I asked Scott afterwards, how he kept it together.

“I didn’t know she was going to do it. I heard the music and said to myself, Oh boy, she’s gonna sing. I know you’re not supposed to, but I locked my knees. I said to myself, that will keep me focused,” Scott explained to me. I told him I didn’t know how he did it, staying composed.

The couple shared more vows and Priscilla’s voice, the voice which moments earlier had sung so confidently, that same voice was again tender and fragile. And again I appreciated that I was witnessing something so special. Lots of people get married in the unlimited power of early youth, when there’s nothing impossible and the sky is the limit. I was seeing two people do that more remarkable thing, to claim a future in the face of clear evidence that life doesn’t always work out. Courage isn’t the absence of fear, but rather having fear and acting anyway.

I cried some more as heard their vows and witnessed their courage and that was moment number four.

Luke, Priscilla’s preacher brother, was bringing us home. We were getting to the end of the ceremony and sniffled-out and soon the kiss and the benediction and this wedding would be complete.

But instead of that predictable wrap-up, there was one more moment coming.

“Today is something special,” said Luke. “Today, we are not just joining a man and a woman, but we are joining these children. Priscilla and Scott have prepared some words for the children too.”

Oh nelly. Could there be any more? I bounced my shoulders left and right, nudging Joy on my left and my sister on my right. This was too much.

Priscilla went first. I’m not sure her exact words to her new step-son, himself a man of twenty and a tad taller than his father, but this was the gist of it.

She walked over and took his hands and looked him in the eye. “Jeremy, I want you to know that you will always be important to me. I want you to know I will always be there to encourage you and we’re going to be together for the long haul.” She then took his left wrist and placed a bracelet on him.

Scott then went to the twins and shared with them that he would be there for them too. The daughter he gave a bracelet and the son, a Lego.

My Kleenex was damp all the way through.

Keep smiling
Keep shining
Knowing you can always count on me
For sure
That’s what friends are for

Those were the words back in high school, when I followed the much better singing Priscilla and Roger onto the stage.

Those words fit today just as well. Scott and Priscilla had taken my breath away over and over in the thirty minutes of their ceremony, and had left a church full of people dabbing and crying. They had made a miracle, a family.

Congratulations Priscilla and Scott. Thanks for sharing your day.

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Posted in Acceptance, Appreciation, Dylan's Diaries, Friendship | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Posted by: Dylan Stafford | February 7, 2012

Kindergarten-102

So we survived Christmas, traveling from Los Angeles, to New Jersey, to Connecticut, to Dallas and home. That’s what we do, living away from our families and wanting to have holiday family memories, we travel.

It is now 2012 and our son officially begins kindergarten this year, this fall. That means it is time to get serious and let the kindergarten open houses begin…

I’m an admission director at UCLA and I make MBA open house presentations for a living. Now it is my turn to be on the receiving end, and sit in the audience.

Our first open house was right here in our little town of Culver City. It was a Thursday night and we got our friend Herb to babysit Jackson. Marisa was cooking dinner until the last minute, and by the time we left we were already going to be late.

I get hormonal when I’m late. All my manners and civility are forgotten and I turn into a jerk quickly. We were on a one-way street close to the elementary school and there was an open parallel spot.

“Should I park here?” I asked.

“See if you can get a little closer,” said Marisa.

Why did I ask? When you’re the driver, drive. Make the decision and let the passengers be passengers. I was chastising myself silently while we circled the block, getting closer to the school, but finding no parking spots. See, if we would have parked and walked, we would almost be there by now. I was thinking it, but not saying it; restraint of pen and tongue and email, that’s recovery 101.

We followed the one-way street as it went up to the school–and then away from the school–until we found a side street with open spots and we hurriedly jogged back. Someone was standing out front with flyers who I thought was a greeter. We try to have greeters at UCLA for our events.

“Are you voting in the election? Have you considered your choices for school board?” the campaign volunteer asked.

“Sorry, we’re late for an event. Do you know where the open house is?” I apologized as we scooted past. She nodded over her shoulder.

We walked in and it smelled like a school, like the 1970s and Hyde Park Elementary in Denison, Texas. At check-in, there were several stacks of pastel-colored papers and we grabbed one of each and only at our seat realized half were in Spanish.

Marisa went ahead but I stopped at the bake sale and fortified myself with cookies. What’s an elementary school event without a bake sale? I thought as I gratefully munched on a chocolate chip cookie. I rationalized that these weren’t empty calories, these were small contributions to making the world a better place.

The open house was in the cafetorium. The most horrible word ever, cafetorium, a strange combination of cafeteria + auditorum. I hear cafe- and I’m ok, but I hear -torium and deep in my mind I’m thinking crematorium and I’m unsettled, like death-by-school-cafeteria-food. Who decided that was a good word?

We sat down on long picnic tables in the back half of the cafetorium. We were actually only a few minutes late and the principal came up and addressed us. She was a young woman, probably still in her thirties, and she was full of passion and love for kids and teachers and learning. I liked her because she reminded me of me.

“For how many of you is this your first child in kindergarten? You’re probably realizing this is a lot different than when we were all children. For many of us, we just went to the school down the street. And today you have more choices,” she said.

Good, she is aware of her audience, I thought. I was trying not to judge her, but I make university presentations for a living and part of me was still evaluating the whole experience: parking, signage, cookies, volunteers, slide projector, sound system, all of it. We are going to send our son here for seven years and look at the artwork on the wall. Will Jackson do well here?

There were four kindergarten teachers. They were the highlight of the evening. Each took turns introducing themselves. They talked about sharing the curriculum and developing it together. Music and math are taught together, as one fortifies the other. There is recess. There are after-school programs. Once a month families meet in a park and all walk to school together. Marisa was taking furious notes, while I ate cookies.

The audience, the evening, felt like America to me. There were probably 120 people attending. There were lots of hispanic families in the audience, with the tiny little Mexican-American moms sitting with their arms crossed over their purses, listening intently. I wondered how much of the excited, caucasian-teachers’ presentation was hard for them to interpret. I lived in Mexico to learn Spanish, and when people get excited it’s hard to understand a second language.

The website had said the open house was from 6:30-7:30. At 7:30, my men’s meeting starts each Thursday night. I’m the treasurer and that group is one of the highlights of my week.

About 7:15, I started looking at the agenda and looking at my watch and wondering how they were going to wrap up by 7:30. I’d be late, but only a little, if the evening ended at 7:30.

The principal spoke after the teachers, then a director of after-school events and then a man who was in charge of the mysterious process of how everyone gets assigned to the several kindergarten choices in our town, and how vouchers work for intra-city transfers.

In my seat my critical-annoyed brain was suddenly up and running again. Maybe it was the cookies wearing off, or maybe it was Thursday night and I was tired, or maybe, deep-down I was just irritated that choosing a kindergarten in Los Angeles, like most things here, was a big production with too many choices.

Don’t they know public-presentation basics? Always respect your audience’s time. The worst sin in public speaking is to go too long. Aaah… My thoughts were gritchy, but Marisa and I were in one car and there was nothing I could do but wait.

My recovery sponsor always tells me, when someone or something is bothering me in life, “Dylan, that person or that situation was put in your life today to teach you to be loving and tolerant.” That is what he’ll always say. It doesn’t always make me feel better, but maybe it isn’t supposed to. Maybe it’s supposed to make me grow up.

About 7:55, the evening was winding down. The voucher-supervisor was still speaking, but it was getting detailed and down to the level of family-specific Q&A. The principal intervened and let us know we could leave if we needed to, or stay for more one-on-one time.

Marisa and I made our way to the door.

It was my first kindergarten open house. I’d ridden the roller coaster from annoyed-being-late, to high hearing the principal and teachers, back to low when the evening went past 7:30.

Marisa and I were de-briefing and as we got to our car in the darkness. I started laughing, half humorously and half bitterly, because on the windshield underneath the wiper was a white piece of paper glowing in the darkness.

I reached for the paper as Marisa walked around to her door. It was either a flyer or a ticket and as I opened it, I read the love-note from Culver City’s finest after-hours meters maids.

$60 ticket for parking in a no-parking zone.

Dylan, you can be a jerk and blame your wife or you can shut your trap and go home and catch the last 15 minutes of your men’s meeting. I tossed the ticket in the back seat and did my best to not let my body language slip over into righteousness.

Recovery 101 again, you can be happy or you can be right. Whether we were late, or whether we’d taken the first parking spot, I can still read and somehow I’d not seen that this was a no-parking zone. I earned this ticket fair and square and putting blame elsewhere wouldn’t help a thing.

I dropped Marisa at home and made it my meeting. Recovery is all about living now, in this 24 hour unit of time, and not getting too far into the future. How do I balance that now-living with making a good choice for Jackson’s future?

I don’t know.

But I know that we took the actions. We attended our first Open House. We listened. We got the process started and did some footwork. The results will come, if our own house is in order.

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Posted in Acceptance, Appreciation, Dylan's Diaries, Kindergarten, Really?, Worry | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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