Dear 2020,
I'm celebrating your halfway point tonight. You have been relentless. Remember what we did on Day 1 together? We were in Walt Disney World. Magic Kingdom. By the end of March, you know where I was? Mayhem Kingdom. Jasmine did not prepare me for this Whole New World. A world where there is no school and no play dates. If I'm wearing a mask in October, it better be for Trick-or-Treat and Trick-or-Treat only.
My 5-year-old knows a song with "quaratine" in the lyrics. How does that make you feel, 2020? Innocence of youth vanished like toilet paper. You know what one of her most embarassing moments was in this calendar year? A 4-year-old knew what coronavirus was and she didn't. I guess I'm the bad parent, 2020. Sorry, I didn't even know what the word pandemic was until this year. I want to go back to simpler times. Like in 1999, when our biggest concern was the Mayan calendar ending civilization.
Oh, and as for our 2-year-old, she turned 3 on Saint Patrick's Day. You know who was going to dress up like a leprechaun at her sister's school and leave a childhood memory for the ages? Me. And that didn't happen. But, you know what did happen? My 3-year-old still pees the bed and I blame you. You messed up everyone's sense of timing. We are lucky we know what day it is anymore. Today is Tuesday. Taco Tuesday. We got them from Taco Chellz, a new restaurant in town. They were delicious. Oh yeah, you tried to doom small businesses and force families to eat together at their dining room tables.
You also have made us even more dependent on technology. Yes, I'm writing on a blog that is posted online. I get it. But, Instagram can be Instagone. Twitter, fly away. Everyone is on an online opinion rampage. Saving grace- America's Got Talent is back. The nightly news, aka America's Got Problems, will be drowned out by four people judging others. 2020, we crave judgement.
Yes, this is Positive Johnstown. I'm trying to provide some laughs. Don't be so serious. Have a sense of humor. I've got an arsenal full of gratitude and I'll unleash it every step of the way until 2021. I know we have a long way to go. Don't worry about who I am voting for in November. If I had to do it today, I'd write in Santa Claus and slam dunk a chocolate chip cookie. If there is one person I want in the oval office, it is that big, fat, jolly man...or Mrs. Claus. Doesn't matter. Either of the Claus.
Tomorrow is July. I'm inviting Santa for a Christmas in July party at our house. I don't know if our friends will be allowed to come, but whatever. Santa can come. His beard is pretty much a mask anyway. Maybe, I'll bring this full circle and invite Mickey Mouse. Maybe he can be the VP...or Minnie Mouse. Doesn't matter. Either of the Mice.
Well, 2020, I'm signing off. Ease up a bit for the second half. I'll speak for all of humanity when I say, relax. I can't tell if you've gone fast or slow, but you've gone in an utterly bonkers direction.
I hope this blog finds you well. I hope you "like" my blog. If you don't "like" it, please don't go on one of those judgement rampages. It is not doing the world any good.
I'll write to you again in six months. Peace be with you.
Tuesday, June 30, 2020
Saturday, June 20, 2020
Pandemic DMV
On Tuesday, June 16, 2020, I arrived at the DMV to renew my expired driver's license. I arrived at 8:29 AM, one minute prior to the opening of the door and the onset of emotion. Here is the pandemic play-by-play:
8:29 AM: Sun is shining. There are 31 people standing in line. The person in first place is a man in scrubs. We shall remember him as "Sunrise Scrubs".
8:31 AM: I call my wife to simply exclaim that 31 people had beat me to this position in life. Without saying much, she tells me she is trying to take care of our two children and simultaneously be a business woman. Stand your ground.
8:40 AM: I realize that without a hat I am vulnerable. "Sunshine Stephenson" burns easily. I plead for mercy to the family of three behind me. They vow to save my spot in this procession of angst. I jog to my Subaru as if walking would be disrespectful to my fellow Pennsylvanians. I emerge with my "Dad hat", an UnderArmor snapback that only a Dad can wear. Perfect for the DMV.
8:45 AM: The family of three behind me are here for a driver's license test. A teenage girl and her parents in the ultimate heat - driver's test, spicy morning, pandemic...torturous theatre in this final week of spring. I drift back in time and remember my parallel park - the worst parallel park to pass in the history of our nation.
8:50 AM: A woman who presumably works in this box of a building greets the disgruntled. She is pleasant and I give her great credit. To be the "pump up DMV spokeswoman" is no walk in the park. She politely asks why each of us is here. Loaded question. Loaded question.
8:55 AM: I have random conversations with my band of brothers and sisters regarding the "Real ID". I determine I just need my face on a card. I don't care what the classification as long as it is not a "Fake ID". I have a Zip-Lock bag of items that my wife handed to me. It was like when a child is handed their brown bagged lunch except mine has a checkbook, documents I don't understand, a passport, and nothing to eat.
9:00 AM: I'm still outside but the promise of shelter feels more real. I am still not sure if I am going to get a "Real ID" at this point. I learn that you can't actually get the "Real ID" in this box of a building today. You can apply for it and then do some World Wide Web magic. I think then a magician delivers the "Real ID" to your house and pulls it out of a hat. Not a "Dad hat". One of those tall black hats that Abraham Lincoln once wore. President Lincoln never had to get a "Real ID".
9:10 AM: I am inside. There is no turning back now. I get my ticket. The DMV ticket is not something you typically equate with victory, but it feels like a Super Tuesday with it in my hand. With mask on, I wait for my time to come.
9:15 AM: I am chosen. It is like the scene from Toy Story when the alien is selected by the claw machine. Your life has purpose. Your destiny awaits.
9:16 AM: This guy is talking so fast. I'm digging into my Zip-Lock. He asks me if I am here for my "Real ID". Stunned, I thought that was not an option. He explains more. I'm still elbow deep in my Zip-Lock. He can validate documents behind his shielded supreme station and then can grant me passage IF I have everything I need. He seems confident I have what I need considering the depth of my Zip-Lock.
9:21 AM: Validated. He says, "Make sure you have everything you came in here with." I can't do that because I don't know what I came in here with.
9:23 AM: Phase 2. Same ticket. New claw machine calling. Wait to be called. New room. Wear the same mask, except for the picture. I thought it would have been hilarious if Governor Wolfe declared everyone had to wear masks for their photo ID. First, safety first. Second, the DMV worker doesn't have to say, "Smile for the camera." Everyone wins.
9:26 AM: The picture taker thanks me for being an organ donor. Internally, I thank my internal organs. I accepted this award on behalf of my kidneys, heart, and brain.
9:29 AM: I smile as if I am getting struck by lightning. It has been one epic hour. I am lighting up this ID with crazy eyes and a smile that radiates stronger than the morning sun.
9:32 AM: A man hands me my new license and I am expected to confirm the facts. I just look at the picture and say "all good". This is not my "Real ID". He tells me to exit out the door to the left.
9:33 AM: I walk through the waiting room like a champion. I miss the exit door.
9:33 AM: I pivot and walk back toward the exit like Bashful. I see the sun through the door.
I should have jogged back to my car. I was satisfied, relieved, and ultimately still confused about the "Real ID". With my "Dad hat" on, I realized that satisfaction, relief, and confusion might be the three primary emotions of parenting. Think of them as the green, yellow, red of being responsible for another human being.
I hope I never forget this DMV experience. I hope I never forget my parallel park.
My only "real hope" is for my brain to take home the greatest award of all...
Lifetime Achievement.
8:29 AM: Sun is shining. There are 31 people standing in line. The person in first place is a man in scrubs. We shall remember him as "Sunrise Scrubs".
8:31 AM: I call my wife to simply exclaim that 31 people had beat me to this position in life. Without saying much, she tells me she is trying to take care of our two children and simultaneously be a business woman. Stand your ground.
8:40 AM: I realize that without a hat I am vulnerable. "Sunshine Stephenson" burns easily. I plead for mercy to the family of three behind me. They vow to save my spot in this procession of angst. I jog to my Subaru as if walking would be disrespectful to my fellow Pennsylvanians. I emerge with my "Dad hat", an UnderArmor snapback that only a Dad can wear. Perfect for the DMV.
8:45 AM: The family of three behind me are here for a driver's license test. A teenage girl and her parents in the ultimate heat - driver's test, spicy morning, pandemic...torturous theatre in this final week of spring. I drift back in time and remember my parallel park - the worst parallel park to pass in the history of our nation.
8:50 AM: A woman who presumably works in this box of a building greets the disgruntled. She is pleasant and I give her great credit. To be the "pump up DMV spokeswoman" is no walk in the park. She politely asks why each of us is here. Loaded question. Loaded question.
8:55 AM: I have random conversations with my band of brothers and sisters regarding the "Real ID". I determine I just need my face on a card. I don't care what the classification as long as it is not a "Fake ID". I have a Zip-Lock bag of items that my wife handed to me. It was like when a child is handed their brown bagged lunch except mine has a checkbook, documents I don't understand, a passport, and nothing to eat.
9:00 AM: I'm still outside but the promise of shelter feels more real. I am still not sure if I am going to get a "Real ID" at this point. I learn that you can't actually get the "Real ID" in this box of a building today. You can apply for it and then do some World Wide Web magic. I think then a magician delivers the "Real ID" to your house and pulls it out of a hat. Not a "Dad hat". One of those tall black hats that Abraham Lincoln once wore. President Lincoln never had to get a "Real ID".
9:10 AM: I am inside. There is no turning back now. I get my ticket. The DMV ticket is not something you typically equate with victory, but it feels like a Super Tuesday with it in my hand. With mask on, I wait for my time to come.
9:15 AM: I am chosen. It is like the scene from Toy Story when the alien is selected by the claw machine. Your life has purpose. Your destiny awaits.
9:16 AM: This guy is talking so fast. I'm digging into my Zip-Lock. He asks me if I am here for my "Real ID". Stunned, I thought that was not an option. He explains more. I'm still elbow deep in my Zip-Lock. He can validate documents behind his shielded supreme station and then can grant me passage IF I have everything I need. He seems confident I have what I need considering the depth of my Zip-Lock.
9:21 AM: Validated. He says, "Make sure you have everything you came in here with." I can't do that because I don't know what I came in here with.
9:23 AM: Phase 2. Same ticket. New claw machine calling. Wait to be called. New room. Wear the same mask, except for the picture. I thought it would have been hilarious if Governor Wolfe declared everyone had to wear masks for their photo ID. First, safety first. Second, the DMV worker doesn't have to say, "Smile for the camera." Everyone wins.
9:26 AM: The picture taker thanks me for being an organ donor. Internally, I thank my internal organs. I accepted this award on behalf of my kidneys, heart, and brain.
9:29 AM: I smile as if I am getting struck by lightning. It has been one epic hour. I am lighting up this ID with crazy eyes and a smile that radiates stronger than the morning sun.
9:32 AM: A man hands me my new license and I am expected to confirm the facts. I just look at the picture and say "all good". This is not my "Real ID". He tells me to exit out the door to the left.
9:33 AM: I walk through the waiting room like a champion. I miss the exit door.
9:33 AM: I pivot and walk back toward the exit like Bashful. I see the sun through the door.
I should have jogged back to my car. I was satisfied, relieved, and ultimately still confused about the "Real ID". With my "Dad hat" on, I realized that satisfaction, relief, and confusion might be the three primary emotions of parenting. Think of them as the green, yellow, red of being responsible for another human being.
I hope I never forget this DMV experience. I hope I never forget my parallel park.
My only "real hope" is for my brain to take home the greatest award of all...
Lifetime Achievement.
Tuesday, June 2, 2020
Dear Graduates
Geneva Preschool Graduates:
On Sunday, May 31, 2020, you stood in cap and gown under a glorious setting sun. You were blessed with a beautiful evening to celebrate academic achievement. Your ceremony would be streamed, tagged, liked, and dispersed across a wondrous web. Ultimately, you, the class of 2033, landed on Youtube, the social media moon.
However ... orbiting around your celebration is a country in turmoil. As the ten of you said the Pledge of Allegiance, we, the adults, had to ponder if our nation is in fact "one". Standing like a constellation, you boys and girls looked indivisible. You sounded ready and unafraid. And happy. And maybe you can go out and seek justice for all. But, for now, just be kids. For now, just seek your hiding friends.
Chase birds. It is much more thrilling than living your life tweet by tweet. Also, chase dreams. Your childhood super power is the gift of impenetrable dreams. Those dreams should never be politicized or criticized. And, even if they are, build character by continuing the chase. Get after it.
On your graduation night, each of you introduced your "Name Song". Your name matters. Your life matters. All life matters. Keep singing. Spread positivity one note at a time. The music you made tonight drowned out the noise that all too often bombards our adult brains.
And I would be a fool not to recognize and celebrate your teachers. Their efforts over the last few months were nothing short of heroic. No one could have predicted how this school year played out. They provided cheer and direction when the world was confused and lost. They used a technology called Zoom to educate and jack you up on ice cream before bed. One of your teachers sprang up like Michael Jordan in an attempt to save a balloon from entering the atmosphere on this last hoorah. She came oh so close in an "Air Jordan" for the ages.
I watched that balloon disappear into the sky. It happened fast. Growing up happens fast too. Make a pledge to each other to enjoy the summer; to spend time with those you love; to continue your education somehow someway, each and every day. Keep what you want. If I were you, I would hold on to faith and a sense of humor. That just might keep you indivisible after all.
Cassidy. Maggie. Julianne. Arya. Lincoln. Maria. Wyatt. Alex. Reed. Lily. Congratulations.
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