The Runtyun

She was born the same month that I was, forty years later though. When the excitement of the birth was over and the baby was clean and wrapped up in her birthing cloths, when I stopped feeling woozy and found a certain control over my emotions. The nurse handed me the cooing little bundle–my daughter.

She was warm in my arms. All I could see were her eyes, they were so big. I know that at only a few minutes of age there is not very much for a baby to reference, yet she looked straight at me and she had me. At the time I did not know the adventures that I would go through as a father. The things I would endure as a parent and man. At the time all I saw were eyes and a bright red pudgy face and a little bubble of saliva at the corner of her mouth.

I put her down on the birthing table and just stared. What had I done? This little creature, perfect with ten toes and ten fingers, one little head that looked too big for that little body. What had I done? I put my hand out to her to see what she would do. Nothing. I guess she could not see–being only few minutes old. My finger brushed her hand, she did not jump, but reached out and gripped my finger. She was strong!

She would have to be strong coming into the life I was involved in. We went through a few struggles before getting to the somewhat stable life we live now. During her toddler years she was very out going. Her smile in the morning was brighter than the sun at sunrise. It carried me through some of my darkest days.

Now she is so wise, yet strangely naive. She can understand things beyond her years, yet in another minute ask a question so innocent that I can only wonder. The Runtyun is growing into a fine person despite my parenting skills.

I have stumbled through this whole parenting experiment and you know what? She is doing pretty well despite me.


Sunday, October 13, 2013

This Morning


This morning the Runtyun and I had our usual "It is time to get up" battle. It is Sunday and though I do not participate in an organized religion, she does.
The Runtyun is a member of the choir and attends Sunday school at the cathedral. She is also a member of the church's EYC, a group that teaches religious issues, but also encourages the kids give back to the community. When she was much younger and I felt the need to have her join the choir, it also seemed like the right thing to do to have her go to Sunday school. She is now the longest standing member of that choir. I rationalized this thinking by understanding she would socialize and perhaps learn some valid moral lessons.
When she entered the sixth grade, I felt she had grown enough to make a few of her own decisions and gave her the option of leaving the choir and not going to Sunday school any more. For me either way worked; if she decided to stay, I would be able to spend time at my favorite coffee shop and do a little writing, if she stopped I could stay at home and use that time for writing in an undisturbed environment, or just lazing around on Sunday morning doing chores. For the runtyun, there was a more profound lesson involved. Not one of religious conviction, though if she gets her spiritual connection at the church, I am OK with it, but one of commitment. The lesson she should learn is that when we decide to commit to something we need to stay with it, even if we are tired and want to sleep in.
When I started the long process of waking her up this morning. She said she did not want to go to Sunday school. I have to say it was tempting to go with it. After all I could work on my story undisturbed and we could then do something in the afternoon. I had the little guys on my shoulders, one saying, "It's OK, you really want to stay home, she will be sleeping for a long time and you can work on that story." The other looked across it me and said, "Nonsense. The whole reason she goes to Sunday school is to show her the need to follow through. C'mon get her going and let's get this party started."
After much moaning and groaning the mound in the bed finally rolled out and we embarked on today's journey.

olc

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