Band of Brothers...

The Rall Family sat on the back porch this evening, enjoying the breezy, humid air. Growth is all around us...the walnut and apple in our backyard have raged with green leaves and expansive development with the heavy rains of the past weeks thunderstorms. They shield our second story walkout deck from a majority of the neighbors in our town-home village. I am glad I decided not to cut them down. 


The walnut was going to go because it kills other plants. It affects many other greeneries in the yard because of a toxic substance it emits called juglone. The term"allelopathy"refers to the relationship between plants in which one plant produces a substance that inhibits the growth of sensitive plants nearby. It ends up being in competition for resources with the other greens that try to live in our little paradise. We were going to get rid of it for the sake of other life in the yard.


The apple tree suffers from a cedar rust that forms lesions on the fruit and the leaves. The sporing begins in the wet spring and spreads to the whole tree after wintering in the nooks and crannies of the branches and trunk. It lurks quietly, never dying, just sleeping through the cold until the warm temperatures and wetness bring it back to life quickly and aggressively. The beautiful leaves have already begun to turn from verdant green to spotted with gold and orange speckles that will eventually consume the leaves and the fruit, rendering them fairly useless in a slow, silent accedence to another form of resilient life.


Kristina and I have dabbled with the idea of getting rid of them because we would never be able to grow a garden, lawn, or anything else with the walnut. The apple tree is just plain, old sick, and putting her down seems to be the best thing to do in our minds. 


I hesitated in completing the executions, partly because of laziness, and also thinking how much I like to have trees around. As we sat outside tonight, we appreciated not only the fact that we have some privacy from our neighbors, but also have a good 35-45 feet of trees where most other yards have none. The world needs more trees, not less, especially in these parts of suburbs, traffic, and bad-quality air days.


Today was a day of reflection. I had the opportunity to watch a number of episodes of Band of Brothers, the fine Hanks/Spielberg homage to Easy Company, 101st Airborne, who went ashore in WWII on D-Day. They didn't stop until they were in the peaks of the Bavarian Alps at Kehlsteinhaus, or "Eagle's Nest," above Berchtesgaden, which was a rarely used getaway for Hitler and the upper echelon of the Nazis. The question is, what does this have to do with the beauty of my son sitting on my lap with my wife at my side? 


Well, for one, the trees and fresh air helped Preston calm down when he was going into his dusk-destined meltdown. When we emerged from our A/C laden home into the fresh evening air he immediately relaxed. He began to chat with the trees. He tracked with his expanding three month old eyes our one year old kitty, Ziva, as she skirted the railing as only cats can do 15 feet above the ground, taunting danger, but never in it as she tiptoed across the narrow ledge flirting with oblivion.


Two, I teared up as I held him, listening to him vocalizing as only he can, with squeals, squeaks, and sloping "wheeee's" as he spoke to the trees, the kitty, the life, that for him, is brand new. We forget sometimes that we have seen so much that it might not be so new any more. To him, a walk out on the back deck is a new adventure, complete with wise topiary sharing the wisdom of many years, including the stories of short saplings who at one moment, bloomed for the first time. Much like our son, a tree starts from a tiny seed, very small beginnings, and acquires dozens of stories untold throughout the ages. Preston cannot share his stories in our language yet, but he told us tonight there is so much to see in our own back yard. We should stop and feel the breeze. We should listen for the crows alighted on the top branches of the 60 foot pine with all of his friends at the end of our residency "row." Life is full of opportunity and a good view, if you just know where to look.


Finally, there is a strange connection between these young men who served in a war that seems so much further away as more time passes in our own lives. We have new conflicts, new challenges, and many opinions on where and how we might use our knowledge and power in the future. My hope is that my son might find a day where people don't have to choose death over life. If there is anything war has taught us, it is that you can be selfless in spite of danger, you can honor those who have shared in your struggle, and you can live to fight another day if you have the capacity to acquire courage. I see now in the arbitrary nature of our being how others choices have affected mine. I see how fortunate I am to be able to sit with my family on the back porch, with our version of two soldiers offering us shelter in a time of need, without asking anything in return but allowing them to serve. It reminded me of The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein:


“And after a long time the boy came back again.
"I am sorry, Boy," said the tree, "but I have nothing left to give you-
My apples are gone."
"My teeth are too weak for apples," said the boy.
"My branches are gone," said the tree.
"You cannot swing on them-"
"I am too old to swing on branches," said the boy.
"My trunk is gone," said the tree.
"You cannot climb-"
"I am too tired to climb," said the boy.
"I am sorry," sighed the tree.
"I wish that I could give you something... but I have nothing left. I am an old stump. I am sorry..."
"I don't need very much now," said the boy, "just a quiet pleace to sit and rest. I am very tired."
"Well," said the tree, straightening herself up as much as she could,
"well, an old stump is a good for sitting and resting. Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest."
And the boy did.
And the tree was happy.”


Thank you to all who have sacrificed. Some give all so that others don't have to.

A superhero at work...

Tonight, as I bound between the kitchen prepping our "Weight Watchers" Ginger Soy Pork, Asparagus, and Horseradish Mashed Taters and sneaking peeks at the Washington v. Boston hockey series, my wife Kristina remains in our son's room, holding him as he cries. We call it the "witching hour," as many of you do, and it remains one of many mysteries we cannot solve as parents. Preston cries, then pauses, then cries again louder. We don't know why

We have a few theories as to why. Mine is Preston is sharing his day. Kristina's sister Becky came over to visit the Manassas National Battlefield Park with her two daughters to share a picnic lunch with our family.  We ran around, played with beach balls, and I got a fine lesson in physical education and following directions from my four year old niece, Lydia. The 21-month old Marin was satisfied with bouncing the ball off my head, which seems to be an attractive and ample target. Marin wandered the blanket spread with food, stepping in a plate of hummus and squeezing juice bags of organic juices on her with her tiny feet like a mini - Godzilla.

Lydia loves our son, to see him, to talk to him, to touch him and Marin does as well. They are both so tender with him considering how young they are. We had a chance to take pictures, talk about life with kids, and the nieces and I wandered off to play. After a few hours in the fresh air we went on our way and the girls headed back over the bridge to Maryland.

Later in the evening, Kristina and I went out so she could begin her running routine and Preston came along with us in the "BOB." We walked through the neighborhood and shared the falling light that comes at sunset on what became another perfect day. Preston dozed off as we finished our final leg and we thought the "hour" would pass us by. By the time we had him in the house, it had begun. One of the many things babies do is cry when they have a need. I think he was telling us the story of his day because he can't talk and crying is the only way he can get it out. We did a lot today so the crying lasted longer.

My wife and I are married four years today. I hear her sneaking out of the room after two hours of holding, soothing, nursing, and loving our son. I could tell you a million reasons why I love her. But I will share two. One is, she is a wonderful caregiver. She takes care of us silly boys in this house, gives us all we need, and loves us to the ends of the earth. The second, she loved us before she knew us. She and I used to work together in my cavorting days and she always pushed me, expecting more, holding me accountable. Many others tried, but she and I both knew deep down inside I could do more and be better than I was. A good friend does that with you, not for you. I knew she would be a great mother and a great wife early on, but I didn't know she would do both with me. As we go into our fifth year, words will never say what she means to me.

Suffice it to say, she is a natural...loving...tender...stubborn...determined...funny girl. We are the luckiest boys in the whole world. She just came downstairs, time to start dinner. I love you Kristina. Thank you for loving us and Happy Anniversary!

Christopher and Preston

Up the front buttercup...

My brother-in-law, George, has anointed the rear end explosion of his two daughters as an "Up the Back Crap Attack." (It is always important to source other people's work). Today, I typed away at my desk, Preston ("P") swinging at my side in homely, domestic bliss when he begins to fuss and hiccup. I found yesterday that "me carrying him around" was a perfect cure for his diaphragm so I got him out of the swing and put him over my shoulder expecting immediate results knowing deep down I just like to carry him and hold him close.

We proceeded to walk out to the back deck to enjoy the beautiful day, blue skies, and a stiff breeze when my "Spidey Sense" began to tingle. Actually, it was a seismic shift of my right hand firmly ensconced under his buttocks, shaking and trembling in a manner similar to our earthquake here in Virginia a few months ago. P rattles often as infants do in some sort of emittance, whether front or back, but these rumblings from the "dark side" insisted on investigation.

Upon placement on our fine changing table (thx Craigslist) fit only for a prince, our worst fears were realized. Just as George had warned us, P had managed to defy gravity in a broad pattern of effluence which mingled not only on his backside, but down his leg and around the front to areas I never would have imagined. The physics of this event had changed what we know about the universe, at least in our little corner of the world. Kristina ("KP") and I are proud to announce our first experience with such a thing. I am about to use a phrase that parents know but we didn't until now - I to myself as much as anyone else:

"When you have kids, everything changes." I know poop will be a part of my life for a while, but we are confident our son has a bright future in the manners of release. We laughed, smiled, and expressed language we never dreamed would come true for us - "OMG, look at where this...Wow! I didn't think this was possible...look, he got it under there...let's try to limit it to three towels, we only have so many...etc. and so forth." To the bathtub, Batman!

We have joined in the union of the first bath. He was slippery, he wrestled, but his disposition never really changed. He is calm and peaceful, "chill" as the kids used to say. We turned him front side to back side, attacking the hip and down the leg to the feet - first between the two master bath sinks (too cold), then the bathtub in the bath chair (hard to use because you can't flip him on his tummy, which was horribly necessary in this instance). We are fortunate because there were two of us and I am proud to say we survived, though we did take casualties (under the fingernails, elbow of one fleece, four towels, a onesie, and the smell of death in the air). I am beginning to surmise practice will be in order for me to master this skill before KP returns to work in June.

The work was completed, egos intact, and the strategizing began for shopping for even more materials to sustain our force (hazardous waste laundry basket with step-on feature...perhaps more plastic bags to protect the dirty laundry from the REALLY dirty laundry...maybe we take out the closet doors and use all this space instead of all this crap that we haven't touched in five years...what is that on my hand? Ewww!). This experience is a glorious process of firsts. We are tracking all the things that happen first (trip home, pediatric appointment, Mia's visit) on our calendar and many of you have already been through them.

We humbly submit for peer approval what I have christened the "Round the Front Buttercup" in honor of George and his daughters, explorers and adventurers on the forefront of this new frontier. I must also honor my sister-in-law, Rebecca, who deserves an enormous amount of credit for holding the front line against the thousands of "Up the Back Crap Attacks"our two nieces fashioned through the years. After careful review, we believe the theory of "Up the Front Buttercup" will hold up under the scrutiny of our contemporaries. Just don't get too close to the a...

"My name is Preston and I have a hard time keeping it in my pants."

They tell you but you don't believe it

I went upstairs last night to feed my newborn son asking my wife to eat a grilled cheese sandwich with  tomato soup and to rest. They say you need to take care of those who take care of you.

The young man was upset when I took him from his new crib to feed so I instinctively began to sing to him in the blue-light lit room the old lullaby my mother sang to me..."too la roo la roo la...too ra loo ra li..." The great thing about that song is you can write the words as you go. I have never been to Kilarney, but I know my own back yard.

As the serenade continued a moment came where I had my him on my lap, his chubby, little trunk facing me held between my legs, arms akimbo, bracing his head in my hands as an extension of my human frame. His eyes opened to see what our lactation consultant called his "Superman." She pointed out when Preston is spread-eagle on my chest, skin to skin, his arms don't reach all the way across and he fits into a very small percentage of my body. "Imagine how safe he feels with all of that man around him," she opined.

I don't know if I am a "Superman," but today I thank my mother for singing to me when I was a child. As I crooned, this wee little man who will rely on me and his mother for everything the next little while, smiled contentedly, his eyes following mine in the violet light unable to see the tears that were running from mine. I am a father and this is my son. I see I will lift the world for him if need be. Let there be no doubt.

Home Sweet Home

Preston came home yesterday. We realized today we too are back. I wonder where the shower is?