Tuesday, April 03, 2007
On rare occasion I say something particularly profound giving the appearance of intelligence. This occasion of course was a complete accident. I was talking with my office manager about a burn on her thumb. She explained that she tried to catch an iron from falling after bumping the ironing board. That’s when it happened. The words spilled out without hesitation as if they had been trapped in some hidden part of my brain just waiting for their chance to escape from the cavern on the front of my face and impress the world. “You’ve got to let a falling iron fall,” I responded, forever recording myself in the annals of history. Years from now when you hear someone else say that, you’ll know that this is where it started. Okay, maybe not. But the phrase still got me thinking. I can look back to several times when I tried to help someone out of a problem that they didn’t even realize they were in and even more times when the same was being done for me. I can think of very few times when the helpee arose from the problem in better shape than they began and the helper arose as a hero. In fact most of the time the helpee still fell leaving the helper exhausted either mentally, spiritually, physically or financially. Still, it’s our nature to want to help others, especially if they’re going through something very similar to what we’ve been through in the past. As if vicariously solving their problems will help us rewrite our own history. So, to all of us out there trying to rewrite history, we need to remember that sometimes you’ve just got to let a falling iron fall. Chances are if you try to catch it it’s still going to fall and you’re going to get burned.
After hearing unnumbered tales of the horrors of taking your child for his first haircut Amber and I decided to finally take on the challenge. Caleb is now 18 months old (At what age do kids cross over from monthhood to yearhood? Do we need to have some sort of celebration to commemorate the event or just let it pass uncelebrated?) and he has inherited his mother’s natural curls. As cute as Amber thought those curls were, they had to go. So I took an hour off work to go with Amber for Caleb’s first haircut, bracing myself for the worst. He walked in, sat in his mommy’s lap in the chair and took it like a man. Not a squirm, not a fit pitched, nothing. He did better in the barber chair than I do. Come to think of it, I think that earns his way into yearhood. Caleb is now a year and a half old.