Tick-tock, ya don't stop...

Greetings from the land of yes-I'm-still-pregnant-wanna-make-something-of-it?

Baby isn't due for another 2 weeks, but that doesn't stop folks from WETTING THEIR PANTS because OMG it could really happen any minute.  Two more weeks people.  At least.  I've tried to mentally prepare myself for 3 more weeks, just so I'll be delighted if he comes before then.  It will be the only time in the history of my life that I'll be more than happy to be wrong.

But this post isn't about pregnancy.  It's about clocks.

Clocks?  Yes, clocks.  Not biological ones, either.  Real clocks.  The kind that tick.

After his dear, sweet father passed away earlier this year, Jeremy made a couple of trips to New York to help with sorting out details and such.  He returned from one such trip with a mantle clock that had been in his father's house.  It didn't work (no tick-tock for that clock), but was a nice keepsake.  It proceeded to sit awkwardly on an end table in our living room for several months.  Handsome clock.  Sort of lazy though, what with no tick-tocking.

Fast forward to early July.  Jeremy's birthday.  He's a tough one to buy gifts for (never end a sentence in a preposition).  I consider myself a fairly good gift-giver - even excellent on some occasions - but I always seem to sort of strike out when it comes to Jeremy's birthday.  This year, though, I was determined to get it right.  His wish list included a new pair of flip-flops and a John Deere riding lawn mower.  Guess which one was immediately stricken from the list by the executive panel of experts?  I was going to have to get creative.
I sat on the couch, racking my brain for ideas that would help redeem the lackluster gifting of birthdays past.  And then I saw it.  Out of the corner of my eye, I spied that clock.  It was staring at me.  The clock!  I could have the clock repaired!  I tracked down a clocksmith in Charleston and quick as a tick-tock, I'd made an appointment to have the clock inspected.  The next morning, I made the 30-minute drive over the rivers and through the woods to the little man's workshop.  He was a real, live, honest-to-goodness clock wizard.  And maybe a little bit coo-coo, if you know what I'm sayin'.

He took a polite look at the clock, marveled at the craftsmanship (I bet he says that to all the clocks), placed it gently on his workbench, and took off his glasses.  He was ready to render his verdict.

I waited with baited breath.  The redemption of my gift-giving abilities hinged on his next words.

"Well," he began.  "With clocks like this...," he continued, "it really helps if you wind them once in awhile."

Not a darn thing wrong with that stinkin' clock except it hadn't been wound in probably 13.9 years.  With a flourish, he fetched a clock key from one of his many drawers and showed me how to wind the clock.  I couldn't help but notice that he talked a little slower and described how it should be done in painstaking detail.  Gotta talk slow in the presence of idiots, apparently.

The sweet man felt so sorry for me that he wouldn't even let me pay him for the clock key.  He insisted I take it.  Proof that sometimes, it does pay to be a doofus.

As surprised as I was at the easy "repair," I was even more profoundly surprised to learn that the clock tick-tocks loudly AND chimes on the hour and half hour.  Every hour.  And every half hour.

Say what?

Allow me to introduce you to our newest and most talkative family member.  This clock has revolutionized our dinner conversation.  Now, after breezing through the normal evening pleasantries of "how was work," "just look at the rain," and "what's that smell?", our attention turns to the maintenance of the clock.  It's been difficult to get the adjustment just right on the pendulum, so it's either running slow or fast.  We're getting close, though, and like an old married couple, nary an hour passes when we don't hear the chime and comment about how accurate it is:

*7:00pm chime sounds at 7:02pm*
"That's pretty close!"
"Yeah, it's been running about 2 minutes fast since I adjusted it yesterday afternoon."
"How much did you adjust it?"
"Just a turn or two.  It doesn't need much, you know."
"I know.  Did you wind it, too, or just adjust?"
"It only needs to be wound on Fridays.  So I just adjusted it a little."

A similar conversation ensues on the hour and half hour.

If this is any indication, we're going to be excellent and VERY attentive parents.

The most random post ever posted

Lately, because apparently I don't have much else to do, I've been marveling at how changing just one word in a common phrase or sentence can entirely change the sentiment or tone of the communication.  I began noticing it especially when dealing with my teenage friends - you know, the folks who are used to being told what to do, how to do it, which choice they should make, which priorities they should hold dear, etc, etc, etc.  But I think it applies to all sorts of interactions.  Let me show you my two most favorite examples (thank goodness, you're thinking.  Because so far, this post is lame).  

Example #1:  "I want to talk to you about something."  

I find myself often uttering this sentence, or something similar, to my teenage friends.  I began noticing that they almost wince when they hear it.  'Here we go again,' they're probably thinking.  I began thinking that most of the time, I don't really want to talk TO someone.  I want to talk WITH them.  Talking TO someone, I believe, implies that while I'd very much like to convey my point/opinion/thought, I don't have much interest in engaging in a two-way conversation.  I've begun to think that talking TO someone is only one step away from the ever dreadful talking AT them.  I think we'd all agree that being talked AT by someone is not a good feeling.  To say instead, "I'd like to talk with you about something," hopefully conveys that I'd like to share a conversation.  I'm interested in expressing myself and I'm also interested in being affected by the other person's thoughts/insights/point of view.  

Example #2: "I didn't have time."  

I try not to make excuses much, but sometimes I catch myself evoking the old "there aren't enough hours in the day..."  It happens a lot to me on Monday mornings, when I remember conversations I meant to have with volunteers, teachers, friends, etc. on Sunday mornings at church.  Sunday mornings are a total BONANZA for me, regardless of how well organized I am or how clear my schedule seems.  I'm always tempted to say, "I'm so sorry we didn't connect yesterday morning.  I just didn't have time to track you down."  I got to thinking that making that statement sort of says to the other person, "you're not important.  I didn't have time for you."  The truth of what happens is that I don't MAKE time.  I have plenty of time, but I also have priorities and things that demand my attention.  I think saying instead, "I'm so sorry I didn't make time for you yesterday," is a more accurate depiction of what actually happened.  It's not that you are a hassle or not worthy of my time, it's that I'm sort of a frazzled jerk sometimes.  I consider this the "it's not you, it's me" statement of our generation.  

There are other examples which I'm sure you'd find equally as riveting as these two, but I'll go ahead and stop there with enthralling you with the inter-workings of my over analyzing mind.  I guess I just think it's fun to spend time really thinking about if the words we're used to saying actually convey what we're really trying to say.  

Word to your mother.  

Ready! Or not.

36 weeks pregnant.  Unable to figure out why I'm not freaking out.  Is it that I'm not freaking out yet, or that I'm just not freaking out ever?  A planner like me, not freaking out about such a major life event?  Either I'm a breath away from a panic attack, or I've reached a whole new level of zen in my life that I didn't know existed.

It could really go either way.

People are forever excitedly asking, "so are you ready?", to which I reply "uhhhhhh...I guess?  I think so?  Wait.  Ready for what?"

As proof of my zen like state, here is a list of things I've done lately to prepare for my first-born:
1). Got my hair cut today.
2). Got my hair colored today.  (Yes, the color is safe for pregnant women.  Back off.)
3). Got my brows waxed today.
4). Made a prenatal massage appointment for Friday.
5). Plan to get a pedicure on Friday.
6). Ordered pink socks with tread on the bottom for labor.  They are very pink.  Traction socks, they're called.  No slipping around for this preggo.
7). Have become slightly obsessed with finding a maternity robe and stocking up on cute-yet-practical pajamas.
8). Thought a lot about packing a bag for the hospital.  Reeeeeeeally been thinking about it.  Really.

As further proof of my zen-like state, here is a list of things I haven't done lately to prepare for my first-born:

1).

This one's more of a visual list.  Mount Baby Gear is slowly overtaking the dining room.  It's bursting with cuteness and begging to be organized and arranged.  

And to Mt. Baby Gear of Cuteness, I say loudly and with conviction, "relax, dude.  It'll get done, man..."  

To the man on the unicycle

Dear Man on the Unicycle,
It was several weeks ago when I first saw you peddling furiously down the street past my house.  I must admit, I was taken aback to see such an unusual sight.  But then, I thought, good for you.  Good for you for knowing how to unicycle, and good for you for not letting the risk of a few curious looks from your neighbors keep your love of the uni at bay.

I've seen you almost daily since then, always late in the afternoon, always in spite of the less-than-ideal weather conditions.  Rain?  You scoff at the rain.  Wind?  You harness the wind with your mind and use it to propel you further along.  Heat?  You dare the flames of the sun to lick your single tire.

I imagine you as a young boy, all those years ago, watching your grandfather attentively as he demonstrated the art form to you in the flat, level field next to his fading red barn.  Again and again you practiced until finally you'd mastered the task and the unicycle riding torch was passed to you to carry solemnly.  And you do.

I wonder though, about your riding....what motivates you?  Do you aspire to join the circus?  Perhaps you're IN the circus, enjoying a brief sabbatical in South Carolina?  Is there a unicycle race of some sort of which I'm unaware?  A Tour de France of sorts, minus all the mountains?  If so, may I please have your autograph?

Lastly, I would like to applaud you for always wearing a helmet.  Because if it's not safe and totally weird, it's not fun.    

Curiously yours,
Bits and Wiz