Listen in MP3
I'm okay... I just ran too hard... I told her... I don't need... to go to the... nurse's office.
Yeah. It's... in my backpack.
Okay. It's... it's... in here....
No, I'm... okay. This isn't bad. I can... still play.
Here it is... Okay.
Hhheewwwww...
But I only do it once. My dad says...
Okay. Hhheewwwww...
I used the nebulizer this morning. My mom makes me do it before breakfast. She makes me blow into the tester thing and if the needle doesn't go far enough she makes me do the nebulizer.
The inhaler? I dunno, I just put it in my backpack. For Emer...Gen...Cies.
Yeah. I remember. You said... I should use my inhaler before recess...
But I can't let the other kids see it.
They won't pick me for the teams. My dad said you can't show them any weakness.
I guess so. Ashley... and Brandon... and Mathew... They all have 'em.
I dunno, they get picked, I guess... but they aren't good.
At sports. You can tell who's good and who isn't... and the kids with inhalers, the way they hold the bat, you can tell.
I just have to try harder. You get asthma from sitting around too much watching TV. My dad says Teddy Roosevelt had asthma until he became a cowboy.
I dunno, he was a president or something. He's the one with the moustache on the mountain. My dad wants me to go out to a dude ranch next summer and get over my asthma.
It was great. Yeah we saw the presidents and my dad and I went hiking, up on the big rocks. We saw a prairie dog, and a bison, all by itself, and a tiger salamander on a rock and some mudpuppies and a tree frog and my mom didn't believe us but we saw a bobcat. In the afternoon. My mom says no one ever sees bobcats in the afternoon but we saw one. My dad took a picture on his phone but it was blurry. My mom said she wished we had taken a picture of the tree frog instead because it might be in danger specie.
No, I didn't need it at all when we were camping. It was only on the way back, at that motel...
My dad says they didn't clean right the room right. He's gonna sue the owner for cost of the emergency room and for him and mom staying up all night, or if he doesn't sue them he's going to call the agency in South Dakota and get their license in trouble because he knows someone.
No, my mom doesn't think I should go. She says I need to do what the nurse at school says before I can go to any dude ranch.
Yeah, I know. You say...
I should use my inhaler before recess.
Okay. One more time.
Hhheewwwww...
Showing posts with label Christopher. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christopher. Show all posts
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Arthur, August 8, 2007
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I've never had much use for people who leave notes on my door, there was this fellow in the Navy, not on the ship, mind you, you couldn’t get away with kind of nonsense at sea, he was a petty officer third class I believe, I was only a seaman at the time, this was in one of the stateside ports, Portsmouth probably, but this fellow, we were always finding notes from him on doors, stuck there with thumbtacks, nobody ever saw him coming or going, how the hell did he do it we used to wonder. And the other guy, this was years later, at the store, after the Groeschlers had sold the business, sure I hoped the new owners would let me run the store by myself, and eventually it did work out that way, but right after the sale, this kid from Indianapolis, a college kid, he'd taken a course in efficiency or some damn thing like that, of course he didn't know shit about the lumber business, he made us all line our desks up in a row, and we all had to get inboxes and outboxes, every damn salesman had to put an inbox on the left front corner of his desk and an outbox on the right front corner of the desk, do you get the picture, can you imagine a lumber salesman with a desk like that, I gotta tell you, one thing about the Navy, it gives you a damn good preparation for putting up with guys like that, not that there's any comparison between keeping your ordnance in a nice tight pattern when the shit is flying all around you and making sure that your inbox is exactly one inch from the left front corner of your desk, so your college-kid boss can drop off purchase orders without looking you in the eye, no comparison at all, except that in both cases, you just say Yes Sir and you do it, and if you're lucky you survive. At least for a while it seems lucky, surviving one thing and then another, although my wife made it very clear that she was the lucky one, the one to go first, she didn't want to be a widow, not at all, she didn't think much of surviving for survival's sake, unless she was just saying that to make me feel better, though how it would make me feel better I don't know, telling someone they are unlucky for being alive, no consolation there, still it hasn't been that bad, living without her, I've still got my health, except for forgetting a few things and not keeping the old house clean enough for my daughter's standards, good riddance to that place, my social life, if you know what I mean, it's been much livelier here, I never thought I'd put on a pair of hip waders again in my life, and the apartment itself is alright, a pretty good place to live, except that I can't understand why that new case worker needs to leave so many notes on my door.
I've never had much use for people who leave notes on my door, there was this fellow in the Navy, not on the ship, mind you, you couldn’t get away with kind of nonsense at sea, he was a petty officer third class I believe, I was only a seaman at the time, this was in one of the stateside ports, Portsmouth probably, but this fellow, we were always finding notes from him on doors, stuck there with thumbtacks, nobody ever saw him coming or going, how the hell did he do it we used to wonder. And the other guy, this was years later, at the store, after the Groeschlers had sold the business, sure I hoped the new owners would let me run the store by myself, and eventually it did work out that way, but right after the sale, this kid from Indianapolis, a college kid, he'd taken a course in efficiency or some damn thing like that, of course he didn't know shit about the lumber business, he made us all line our desks up in a row, and we all had to get inboxes and outboxes, every damn salesman had to put an inbox on the left front corner of his desk and an outbox on the right front corner of the desk, do you get the picture, can you imagine a lumber salesman with a desk like that, I gotta tell you, one thing about the Navy, it gives you a damn good preparation for putting up with guys like that, not that there's any comparison between keeping your ordnance in a nice tight pattern when the shit is flying all around you and making sure that your inbox is exactly one inch from the left front corner of your desk, so your college-kid boss can drop off purchase orders without looking you in the eye, no comparison at all, except that in both cases, you just say Yes Sir and you do it, and if you're lucky you survive. At least for a while it seems lucky, surviving one thing and then another, although my wife made it very clear that she was the lucky one, the one to go first, she didn't want to be a widow, not at all, she didn't think much of surviving for survival's sake, unless she was just saying that to make me feel better, though how it would make me feel better I don't know, telling someone they are unlucky for being alive, no consolation there, still it hasn't been that bad, living without her, I've still got my health, except for forgetting a few things and not keeping the old house clean enough for my daughter's standards, good riddance to that place, my social life, if you know what I mean, it's been much livelier here, I never thought I'd put on a pair of hip waders again in my life, and the apartment itself is alright, a pretty good place to live, except that I can't understand why that new case worker needs to leave so many notes on my door.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Christopher, June 4, 2007
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Look, I'm not the kind of guy who has to win all the time. I hear about professional athletes, how they're all afflicted with competitive natures so intense that they turn every moment of their lives into a contest, a life or death contest about who has the best stuff, who got the best deal, whoever can say, "I'm the winner." I mean, I guess that's why we like to watch them on TV—they give it their all. But I've always thought—I'm glad I don't have to hang out with guys like that—guys who won't let a little kid win a game of tic-tac-toe.
Tic-tac-toe might be a bad example. It's such a trivial game—the first player has an absolute win-or-draw strategy—just mark the center box—and the second player has an absolute draw strategy, even if the first player makes his best move—just respond by marking one of the corners.
Everyone knows that, right?
Now that I think of it, tic-tac-toe is a great example.
The point is, when you're playing tic-tac-toe with a kid, and you want the kid to win—you've actually got to try to lose—you've got to deliberately make moves that you know are bad. Sure, it goes against your competitive instincts, but you do it. Apparently this is something that Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods or Magic Johnson just cannot bring themselves to do—and it's not just the superstars. I know some guys who know some minor leaguers—and they all say the same thing—what separates professional athletes, even the ones at the bottom of the heap—from all ordinary people—is this simple thing—an inability to throw a game to a kid.
And I gotta tell you, I've thrown plenty of games to my kid. Tic-tac-toe, Chinese checkers, Super Mario 64—I've thrown them all. I've let the whiffle ball float past my outstretched hand so I could call it a home run. And not because Jake is one of those whiny, narcissistic kids who throw a tantrum if they don't win every time. He's not. But I want him to taste victory sometimes. It gives me pleasure. Of course, if he starts celebrating too much, well then I turn it up a notch, let him feel what it feels like to lose.
But on the whole, I think I'm pretty well-balanced when it comes to competition.
Which is why it's so weird that I got into such a thing with that neighbor girl. Samantha. Sam's eleven, and Jake is eight—now I'd be kidding you if I didn't say right up front that this is a friendship that I keep a close eye on. One of these days, Sam is going to get into girly stuff, clothes and make-up and gossip and so on, and if everything goes well, she'll lose interest in playing with the scrappy little boy down the block. On the other hand, if she tries to pull Jake into that stuff, then I'll have to intervene.
But right now, she's a tom boy—bigger and stronger than Jake, and a lot more coordinated. If my boy can take what she dishes out, more power to him.
Look, I'm not the kind of guy who has to win all the time. I hear about professional athletes, how they're all afflicted with competitive natures so intense that they turn every moment of their lives into a contest, a life or death contest about who has the best stuff, who got the best deal, whoever can say, "I'm the winner." I mean, I guess that's why we like to watch them on TV—they give it their all. But I've always thought—I'm glad I don't have to hang out with guys like that—guys who won't let a little kid win a game of tic-tac-toe.
Tic-tac-toe might be a bad example. It's such a trivial game—the first player has an absolute win-or-draw strategy—just mark the center box—and the second player has an absolute draw strategy, even if the first player makes his best move—just respond by marking one of the corners.
Everyone knows that, right?
Now that I think of it, tic-tac-toe is a great example.
The point is, when you're playing tic-tac-toe with a kid, and you want the kid to win—you've actually got to try to lose—you've got to deliberately make moves that you know are bad. Sure, it goes against your competitive instincts, but you do it. Apparently this is something that Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods or Magic Johnson just cannot bring themselves to do—and it's not just the superstars. I know some guys who know some minor leaguers—and they all say the same thing—what separates professional athletes, even the ones at the bottom of the heap—from all ordinary people—is this simple thing—an inability to throw a game to a kid.
And I gotta tell you, I've thrown plenty of games to my kid. Tic-tac-toe, Chinese checkers, Super Mario 64—I've thrown them all. I've let the whiffle ball float past my outstretched hand so I could call it a home run. And not because Jake is one of those whiny, narcissistic kids who throw a tantrum if they don't win every time. He's not. But I want him to taste victory sometimes. It gives me pleasure. Of course, if he starts celebrating too much, well then I turn it up a notch, let him feel what it feels like to lose.
But on the whole, I think I'm pretty well-balanced when it comes to competition.
Which is why it's so weird that I got into such a thing with that neighbor girl. Samantha. Sam's eleven, and Jake is eight—now I'd be kidding you if I didn't say right up front that this is a friendship that I keep a close eye on. One of these days, Sam is going to get into girly stuff, clothes and make-up and gossip and so on, and if everything goes well, she'll lose interest in playing with the scrappy little boy down the block. On the other hand, if she tries to pull Jake into that stuff, then I'll have to intervene.
But right now, she's a tom boy—bigger and stronger than Jake, and a lot more coordinated. If my boy can take what she dishes out, more power to him.
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