May 2004 Archives

In '86, my friend's parents got a Chrysler New Yorker. It seemed like a typical suburban family car, except for the fact that it talked; KITT style. If you left the door opened, it would say "the door is ajar". If you were losing your lead outrunning the bad guys, it would say "they're gaining on us, michael".

At the time, I thought in a few years all cars would talk. Turns out that wasn't the case. Digital speedometers are another inovation that didn't ever make the big time.

Zoe is learning the comic value of ending her routine with a reference to the first gag. During lunch, I told Zoe a joke:

    Q. Where do you take a sick drink to make it feel better?
    A. To see the Doctor Pepper.

Later in the meal, Zoe told us a joke:

    Q. Why didn't the cow jump over the moon?
    A. Because he was sick and went to see the Doctor Pepper.

Yesterday, Sarah put an alarm clock in Zoe's room as part of our quiet time initiative to smooth the transition away from daily naps. On days when Zoe doesn't nap, she has to spend time in her room playing or looking at books by herself. For her first attempt, Sarah set the alarm for thirty minutes from the start time and told Zoe she could come out of her room when the music came on. The music came on, and Zoe came out. Preliminary results indicate a high likelyhood of success for this initiative.

Last night, the clock still in her room, Zoe asked when she could get up in the morning. I told her she could get up when the clock reads "seven zero zero". As always, she called me in to turn off her light after she looked at books. Excited about the clock, Zoe recounted it saying 8:16, then 8:17, then 8:18...all the way to 8:23, laughing wide-eyed with amazement when she told me about the middle number changing from one to two.

When I checked on her before I went to bed last night, my little big girl was asleep at the foot of her bed as if she had fallen asleep trying to keep track of the numbers on the clock.

I remember being fascinated by a digital clock when I was a boy. At my grandmother's house, an early, digital alarm clock captivated me with mechanical numbers flipping over at each minute. That clock gripped my attention for what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes at a time. I wouldn't take my eyes off the clock for fear of missing the three turning over to four. When my eyes finally fell closed, I would reopen them at the click of the minute turning only to be disappointed to have missed it. I wanted so much to open that clock up and explore its gears, but I restrained myself with knowledge that spankings at Mama Lawrence's house are delivered with a switch.

This morning, Zoe called for me at 6:18. When I entered, she was frustrated that the clock would "never say seven zero zero". Realizing that the seventh hour would come, but not knowing how many minutes were left in the sixth, Zoe had been watching the clock since 6:11, hoping that each new number would give way to 7:00. After I explained that there are a lot of minutes between 6:11 and 7:00, Zoe got frustrated with the process and asked me to turn the clock off so she could get up. I complied.

When I read Krista write "my bassist and his wife have a beautiful baby boy" on look, ma, no hands! this morning it reminded me that I need a band. She said "my bassist". I want my own bassist.

Actually, forget the band; I just want a bassist. I'll take applications in the comments. The winning candidate will be able to lay down a funk groove with or without a drummer. Experience doing backing vocals is a plus. Must be comfortable playing in small venues such as my living room and back yard.

Compensation is comenserate with experience and comes mainly in the form of props and shout-outs.

EOE. Clowns and venemous snakes need not apply.

I introduced Zoe to the chicken/road genre of jokes on Wednesday night. Here are two doozies Zoe brought down the house with last night:

Q. How does a cow cross the road?
A. He (sic) says, "Moo, stop cars, moo".

Q. How does a turtle cross the road?
A. He waits until there are no cars.

Pretty good material for an almost-four-year-old. Yes?

Here's a photo of Chase and me earlier today.

I googled "will roden" and discovered that this site is number one. I feel honored by the page-rank algorithm, yet I am also humbled by the responsibility that comes with being the first Will Roden of record.

This is my salute to all the other Will Rodens out there. I promise to do my best to bring honor to our name.

Don't get my wrong, I've got some good moves. I can shake. I can spin. I can tickle, giggle, coo and peek-a-boo, but Zoe is the one around here who can always make Ava smile. Sometimes I give it everything I have, and Ava just throws a fleeting half-smile my way to let me know that she appreciates the effort but isn't in the mood. Then Zoe looks at Ava sideways and sends her into a full giggle.

I love seeing the bond between them develop.

Zoe saw my nine iron this afternoon and asked me what it is. On a whim, I had it out to chip balls around the back yard while Zoe played outside.

Golf used to be a huge influence on me. Her question made me realize that the only visible evidence of that is a dirty golf bag next to my water heater. I've been thinking a lot about golf since she asked that.

My life would be very different if my dad's step father didn't entertain himself as a child by sneaking onto the golf course near his house. He went on to UT on a golf scholarship. Dad's childhood centered around golf, much more so than mine, and he followed his father's path to the UT golf team.

I don't know when Dad started taking me to the golf course with him, but I was pretty young. Many of my strongest memories are set on the golf course and driving range at the old Austin Country Club. When Dad hit a ball on the driving range it seemed to fly forever. That is, when I could see them. More often than not, I wasn't able to follow his ball off the clubhead.

When I was about five, Dad gave me a seven iron. I wanted to send a ball airborn so bad. Dad told me to just swing through the ball and don't think about it going in the air. How can I not think about the thing I'm trying to do? That was a little too zen for the five-year-old me.

I didn't shut up about it for a week when I finally hit a ball into the air. It probably went 20-40 feet. We were on the eighth hole at the country club. It was a dog-leg right. I've never again felt as successful as I did that day. I wanted to play golf like Dad, and after going airborn, I knew I was most of the way there.

Dad was a great golfer, and not just from my naive perspective. In his prime, in 1984, Dad could have taken Byron Nelson or Tiger Woods. Never mind that they were 72 and 9 years old respectively, he would have put them to shame.

I was so proud of Dad when Tom Kite said that my Dad could teach me to chip better than him during a group lesson he gave for children at the country club. I thought it was cool at the beginning when he knew Dad's name, but for Tom Kite to actually complement my father's golf game was amazing.

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I'm not even close to getting to the point of this entry yet. More later.

I like that Robosaurus has a link on its web site to "book Robosaurus at your event". They don't mention price, but if it's reasonable, I think Zoe would like to have him at her 4th birthday party.