So it really is for sale!

Mr. Waxman

…could easily pass for this guy:

Mr. Goblin

The resemblance is startling, no?

So some of you know (or have seen firsthand) that I grew a “playoff beard” during volleyball season. I stopped shaving sometime around mid-October, and told the girls I wouldn’t shave until we lost in the postseason. As it would happen (and as readers are aware), we didn’t lose until the state semi-finals, and the beard came in quite nicely.

However, our loss (a five-game heartbreaker after taking the first two games) struck me in such a way that I think I’ve refused to accept the fact, and thus, have refused to shave. This, of course, drives my wife bonkers.

I’ve run into a few friends who only see me typically at church, and then not every Sunday, and without fail, the reaction has been one of … well, “shock” seems like such a strong word, but I don’t think it’s overstating things. And so, in fairness to those of you who don’t live within viewing distance, and because my wife believes a public shaming will cause me to finally capitulate (she’s wrong, of course), I present to you … The Beard:

A thing of beauty.

And here it is in Grizzly Adams mode:

Zowee.

Over the holidays, Deb and I came to an agreement. If she helps me stick to an exercise regiment and I get down to 180 pounds, I’ll shave. Until then, I’m not even trimming the beast (unless my employer says something — I assume we have some kind of policy on facial hair, but he hasn’t said word one yet).

Wish her luck.

But Agassi is a different matter, and because it’s his final tournament, the USTA has seen fit to ensure his matches are on Arthur Ashe court in primetime. I watched him struggle with Andrei Pavel in the first round on Monday night, and last night watched him brilliantly hold off Marcus Baghdatis, the young Cyprian who looks a bit like an “Agassi for the 21st century” with his flowing locks, orange shirt and booming groundstrokes, in five sets.

(Well, let’s be honest — I’m getting old. I watched the first four sets, then fell asleep before they finished the first game of the fifth. I’m a wuss. An old wuss.)

This afternoon (about 30 minutes ago, in fact), I took a break to catch the afternoon broadcast on USA (this week has been a boon to my wife, sister and wife’s best friend — Deb plays ToonTown every night while I’m in bed with the kids watching tennis) and happened to see James Blake start his second round match with some guy I can’t recall and am too lazy to look up. Blake, who has a penchant for wearing well-tailored sleeveless muscle shirts on court, was wearing a white Nike polo shirt with a black and pink design across the front, along with black shorts and a white “do-rag.” After a few minutes, one of the ladies in the breakroom commented that he was also wearing pink “girlie shorts” — she was referring to his compression shorts under his tennis gear.

For a moment, I couldn’t understand why Blake would wear such an odd getup. And then it struck me: It was a tribute. To whom, you ask?

Rocker.

You gotta love it.

UPDATE: For those of you not fortunate enough to see the ensemble as worn by Blake, we provide this photo as a public service:

Real men wear pink. Apparently.

Yes, we’re aware of how foolish that statement sounds in hindsight. Give us a break (and pardon our pun).

As the orthopaedic surgeon who examined Alex said, “Trampolines simply cannot be made safe. We had them in school when I was a boy [he's older than us], but they weren’t safe then, either. We had spotters and used them at gym time. You don’t see them in schools anymore because no one can get insurance. Now they’re in everyone’s backyards. You never saw them in backyards in those days.”

He said his neighbor has one, and the rule for his kids is “one at a time.” If he ever catches them on the tramp with another kid, “they’re done forever.”

We clearly understand that sentiment. Alex was on the tramploine with another child when he got hurt, simply because he caught the trampoline surface coming up as he came down, thanks to the jumping of the other child. His little leg just couldn’t handle the stress; it was a little like landing on concrete. He has a hairline fracture of his tibia, just below his knee. Monday morning he had a long-leg cast put on, from his mid-thigh down to his toes. Given the options, he opted for “glow-in-the-dark.”

Busted, yo.

Thankfully, Alex has been a little trooper through the entire ordeal. He remains a polite little boy, using “please” and “thank you” whenever he asks for something (and he has to ask for nearly EVERYTHING now, unfortunately), and has understood the need to be careful (the shooting pain up his leg when he isn’t careful is probably a helpful reminder).

His wit has remained intact, as well. He initially received a splint on Thursday (basically a cast-like backing, with Ace bandages wrapped up the length of his leg). Monday morning, the orthopaedic assistant took Alex’s vitals and let him know we needed to remove the bandages in order to take a new x-ray of his leg. Alex wanted to do the unwrapping himself, so the assistant held his leg up by the heel while Alex methodically removed the bandages. That led to this exchange:

The kid is FUNNY, I tell you.

So, today marks Day Six of Operation Mostly Immobile Alexander, and the generals have indicated we’ll be entrenched through June 12. We gave crutches a try on Monday, but settled on an aluminum walker that lowers enough to fit his 46-inch-tall frame. This is obviously a big help, allowing him to use the restroom without being carried there, and has caused more than one conversation about who might be faster, Alex or Great-Grandpa Chappel (the head-to-head sprint has yet to be scheduled). Though he has enough puzzles, coloring books and schoolwork to keep him busy (along with “The Incredibles” video game for the PS2, which has hooked Daddy), he loves to get visitors, so feel free to drop on by.

Finally, we appreciate all the prayers over the weekend, and though God didn’t heal Alex’s leg, we’re confident there are lessons to be learned for all involved. We just pray we learn ‘em.

Stop on by and see the incredible glowing leg!

That pretty much rocks, I’d say.

Anyway, you’ve not visited my humble blog to read proclimations, I’m guessing. You want one thing, and one thing only: photos of adorable munchkins.

You greedy little readers. Your wish is my command …

So yeah — Christmas was yesterday. The Simon family, though, celebrates several mini-Christmases, as we travel to visit out-of-town relatives. Last weekend we packed up and drove the three hours to my mother’s place in Westland, spending part of the weekend with her and part with my father, in Brownstown Township (I think that’s his technical address, anyway — in this day and age, I never mail him anything, it seems). Before I get to the gift stuff (a vital part of any post-Christmas blog entry), permit me a moment to offer a bit of backstory (hey — it’s my blog and I’ll digress if I want to).

As I’ve mentioned before, I come from fairly musical stock, though our instrument of choice is our voices. My sister, to my knowledge, has never learned to play an instrument, and my mother used to be able to pluck at a guitar a bit, but both have always relied on others to produce the instrumental notes while they use their God-given vocal talents. When I was a teenager, I suddenly got a bug to try and learn the piano. I can remember taking about half-a-dozen lessons from a wonderful older woman who really had a heart for teaching children — trouble was, I was no longer a child. I was a teenage boy more interested in his girlfriend who skipped about three straight weeks before showing up on the fourth only to find his instructor leaving for a dinner with her husband, having learned not to expect me. We mutually agreed to cancel any further lessons.

About 18 months ago, I decided I wanted to learn how to drum. Now, I have rhythm (I also have music, daisies and green pastures — indeed, who could ask for anything more?), but drumming is a bit of a different beast. I found that the same limitations that kept me from really taking to piano (namely, an inability to keep a certain time with one hand while the other played something entirely different) was making learning to drum a struggle. I can play bongos, for example, and I can tap my feet to a certain rhythm, but trying to make all four appendages work together was mind-boggingly hard to me.

So I told my wife I wanted a guitar.

Now, you guitar-playing readers are probably thinking to yourselves, “Does he think guitar is EASY or something?” No, I don’t think guitar is easy. Yes, I realize I’ll still need to learn to make one hand do something entirely different from what the other hand is doing. Yes, I realize that just like piano or drumming, I’ll need to practice, something I clearly had little desire to do during those aforementioned forays into musical education.

But there’s a difference this time.

I actually OWN a guitar now.

Strummin’

Yes, dear readers, thanks to my wife’s mentioning of my wish to my father, and my father’s generosity, I am now the proud owner of a Squier by Fender acoustic steel-string guitar (you guitar players are collectively sighing, “You should’ve started with a nylon-string guitar, you fool” — and I can’t really disagree. Steel hurts). It comes with a swell little book that walks you through the “Fender method” of learning to play, which so far entails learning a neat little Spanish-sounding ditty using only the “E” string and the first and third frets (more importantly, though, I now know what a “fret” is).

I have an ace up the sleeve, though, and it’s those aforementioned guitar-playing readers of mine. The next time one asks for help with a computer or blog or something, I’ll start bartering for lessons. I have no shame.

Enough about me. Let’s move on to the munchkins, shall we? (Egads, this is a long post.)

Saturday we visited my in-laws and Deb’s grandfather in Grayling. While there, Alex and Abby posed for a sibling hug (Alex, it seems, is at that age where just smiling for the camera is a chore — no, he must make odd faces. You’ll see as we go on).

Ain’t they adorable?

Christmas Eve, we stopped by the home of the Dewey’s, who had two of their three children and one of their two children-in-law (or “in-love” as one of my aunts likes to put it) in town for the holidays (the other child-in-love would arrive the next day, and her husband, the third child, is serving our country in Kuwait/Iraq — yes, your prayers for his safety are welcome). The Dewey home is a warm and welcoming place, and my kids adore Mike and Lori, so they’re pretty relaxed while there.

One, two, three — yer out!

Alex continued to show his uncanny ability to avoid a natural smile…

You talkin’ to me?

…unless you catch him while otherwise engrossed, such as being tossed about like a rag doll.

Flyin’ high

Sunday morning, despite my son’s protestations that I, in fact, am actually Santa, the “real” Santa “proved” his existence with a visit to the Simon living room.

The living room

Alex, of course, was confused and amazed.

“What the … ?”

His sister shows he doesn’t own a patent on amazed faces on Christmas morning.

“For me?”

Alex then takes back his crown when his sister shows him their joint gift.

Emotion overload

Finally, I’m hoping to put to good use my new study bible, a New King James version with a concordance, several in-depth articles, introductions to each book, many maps, and a variety of word studies using Strong’s references. I figure if I can’t learn enough to convince people of their need for God’s grace with this tool, I can always use it to club them into submission. It’s pretty heavy.

I’m kidding about the clubbing thing, you know.

Mostly.

Merry Christmas!

Momma is out of town for a day or so (overnight), so I only have one of those girls with me (and my boy, of course). We miss you, Momma, and pray God’s blessing over you and your friends during your travels. Have fun!

That’ll have to do for now. In the meantime, check out a couple friends and family of mine who don’t have self-imposed constraints on their words and produce some wonderfully funny and thought-provoking posts, here and here.

Though I don’t have the “guns” for it, I like cutting the sleeves off my undershirts, especially for wearing under polo-style shirts in the summer at work. (Why don’t I buy tank-top style undershirts? I like the t-shirt neck, but thank you for asking.) Each time I do so, the shirt sleeves become a source of entertainment for the munchkins, as evidenced below.

Where’s tha party, yo?

If that’s not enough munchkin cuteness for you, here’s another. I take photos for a couple of local dog breeders (found here and here, though the latter one is still being finished up – her’s is new), and while shooting the most recent round of puppies on our front lawn, my daughter got into the act.

Cuteness overload

And that’s that, at least for now. I’ll try not to go 17 days without a cuteness fix next time.

Both of my children have — to my mother’s eternal horror, no doubt — picked up the Simon gene for peanut butter eating, particularly peanut butter on a spoon. My father passed this time-honored tradition on to me, and I’ve passed it on to both of my children, though it’s important to note you must never allow Abby to get her own peanut butter, lest you find it in some highly unusual and inappropriate locations.

This afternoon, when I arrived home for lunch, I overheard my wife attempting to get Abby to say “peanut butter” — the kid wants it, she should learn to ask for it, right? This four-syllable monstrosity is a tough one for any two-year-old, though the abundance of “T” sounds makes it a bit easier than, say, “metaphysics.” My wife, in grand “Hooked on Phonics” fashion, broke it down for my daughter. “Say, ‘Pee. Nut. Butt. Er,’ Abby,” she instructed my cherubic-faced child. “Peen-uh butt,” my daughter enthusiastically replied. “‘Pee. Nut. Butt. Er,’” my wife implored. “Peen-uh butt,” my daughter said again. My wife gave up, at least for the moment, and gave the child what she requested.

Later, we were all four on our way to a store. My wife decided to give “peanut butter” another try, perhaps for Daddy’s amusement.

“Say ‘peanut butter,’ Abby,” my wife said. “‘Pee. Nut. Butt. Er.”

“Peen-uh butt,” my daughter replied. “Peen-uh butt.”

“Peench-uh butt,” she then said, far more emphatically. “Peench-at BUTT!”

Yes, my lovely child had transformed a harmless term for mashed peanuts with sugar into her favorite diaper-changing game, that being Daddy’s call of “PINCH THAT BUTT!” And she proceeded to repeat the mantra a mind-numbing 48 times (no, we didn’t count — I’m guessing).

“PEENCH-AT BUTT!”

“PEENCH-AT BUTT!”

“PEENCH-AT BUTT!”

But perhaps the best part was my son’s response to my daughter’s insistent banter. Not really understanding that she’d changed what she was saying (and thinking she was just murdering the pronunciation of “peanut butter”), my son dryly interrupted her with a sidelong, “It’s peanut butter, Abby.”

And rolled his eyes.

Not actual photo of event

You had to see it, I guess.