The Sioux Falls Airport

Sitting here in the Sioux Falls Airport, waiting for our delayed plane to take us “home” to Denver, my mind drifts back to my first time here. It must have been some twenty-two (or so) years ago. I was standing on a window ledge at the end of a long, abandoned hallway (probably the same window ledge I sit near now--near gate 8). I stared out at the tarmac and the runway lights and craned my neck, trying in vain to catch one last glimpse of my Grandpa and Grandma as they boarded their plane. When I began to feel the tears creep up from somewhere deep inside and threaten to spill over my eyelids and down my cheeks, I must have reached up for my father's hand.

On the way home that night, Dad stopped at a truckstop just off I-29 and bought me some Rolos. He handed them to me with a promise that we would see Grandpa and Grandma soon enough.

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Less than a half hour ago, I removed my contented son from his Grandfather’s (my father's)arms. His little hands made one last exploratory grasp for Grandpa’s earlobes and cheeks and then, with a quick hug, we said our good-byes and headed for airport security. Deep in my gut, it feels a lot like that day some twenty-two years ago. Only this time, we’re the ones leaving. Grandpa and Grandma are the ones staying. And this time, there are no Rolos.

We’re grateful for a good week in Iowa. A good week with Adrian’s Grandpa and Grandma and the rest of the family. But sometimes, it’s hard to be reminded of what we (and Adrian) are missing.

My Big Mouth

Back in Jr. High, when older brother Micah was qualifying for state track meets in high school and brother John was shattering the records in grade school, I decided I wanted to be a runner too. So every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, a showed up in the grade school gym with a few dozen of my classmates for track practice. We'd slog out a couple of miles together and then return to the gym, wheezing, to do sit-ups and push ups under the watchful gaze of (my then hero)Coach Landstra . And then, every other week or so (or maybe more often, I've tried hard to blot this time of my life out of my memory) we'd climb on the bus and drive to Orange City or Hull or Rock Valley for a meet.

The meets did not go well for me. Mr. Landstra always put me in the mile (which is not to say I was an actual "miler"). Back then I liked to think it was because my coach/hero saw some potential seeded deep within me--a gift that would blossom at any moment and result in a beautiful bouquet of ribbons and trophies. In retrospect, I've realized that it was most likely because the mile race always had a fountain start. This meant that Mr. Landstra could enter as many runners in the event as he desired--which is really a way of saying that he could have me "participate" in the meet without having to worry about my liability to the team.

I'm not bitter.

At any rate, I donned my blue "SCCS" t-shirt and lined up with the other slow guys (and a few fast guys) for every mile race for two years. As you might have guessed, I did not win any of them. There were, however, personal victories. One of the greatest came that cool spring day in eighth grade when I not only managed to finish without getting lapped (a first)but also came home with a fourth place ribbon. Never mind that there were only three other participants that day. It was still a victory for me.

Some day, I may write about my brief foray into high school track. (Being the brawny fella that I am, I naturally signed up to throw the discus, which really means that I signed up to ride around in the van and hang around in the weight room with my pal, Dave). This lasted for three weeks, until the coaches threatened to make me run. Then I heard other duties calling my name and quit.) But suffice it to say, running and I don't get along well. We never have. Probably never will.

All of which might make you wonder why I'm considering running a marathon.

That's right. I'm considering running a marathon. There are probably a lot of reasons for this (Dealing with my demons? Being white?). I'll leave those for the professionals and say that the the main one is that I told Jill that I would. To be more precise: I told her I would if she would.

This, of course, was a foolish thing to do. Jill has a much better history with running than I do. Not only does she voluntarily run on a regular basis, she's actually finished a marathon, and a half marathon (trail!), and several 25k races. She's reallly quite something.

But back last March, when I heard this sentence coming out of my big mouth, all that seemed like a distant memory. Jill was eight months pregnant and, um, not exactly in peak running form (though she was actually very fit--for a pregnant lady.)In fact, she was wondering if she would ever get back to running again. So, being the loving/encouraging husband that I am (and going through my annual three week flirtation with running, where I pick it up, try to convince myself that I like it, and then drop it again), and being a man with little or no ability to think before I talk, I told her that, if she wanted to get back in shape and needed a training partner, I'd be that guy. I would run a marathon with her. (I don't know why I didn't offer to do something more pleasant with her--like make a practice of climbing mountains on our knees with our hands tied behind our backs, but I digress).

So, long story short, Jill is looking at doing the Ft. Collins Marathon in six and a half months. The question is, should I be true to my word? What if I ran with her for four hours--but only covered a mile or two? Would that honor the sprit of the thing? Is it even physically possible for me to cover marathon distance in less than, say, nine hours?? Or should I say to my beloved wife, in the indelible words of the great Meatloaf, "I would do anything for love, but I won't do that?"

Please tell me what you think. And then go and conduct my pants experiment and report back (you bums).

Adrian Update

More video of our little boy. I'm impressed that I managed to cut thirty plus minutes down to five. You should be too. This is all from October, which was full of "firsts." He now sits, is working on eating solid foods, went in the jumper. Oh yeah, he's also huge.

The six month stats are:

• Height: 28.5". 95th percentile
• Weight: 19 lbs. 75th Percentile

In other words, my sixth month old can beat up your six month old. Probably.

A few other notes on the video:

• For some reason, I'm in most of the shots and Jill is not. This is not because I'm a more active parent (Jill is probably caring for Adrian over 90% of the time). Its so that when he's nineteen, full of resentment, and in therapy, we'll have at least some proof that his father was around.
• We do talk to our son. Quite a bit, actually. However, I hate the sound of my voice, so I've managed to cut nearly all of the adult chatter out.
  
  
  Adrian, Oct 08 from Joel Schreurs on Vimeo.

Fall Photos

I'm a little concerned that these pictures are going to cause you all ot overlook my last post. That wouldn't be so bad, but I really need your participation in my "Pantastic" experiment. So please, look at the pictures, get your fill of Adian, and move on.

Pantastic (A Public Service Announcement)

Author's note: Yes, this post is long. As I've noted before,
brevity is not my strong suit. But even if you choose not to read it all
(thats your choice), please catch the last full paragraph and participate in my
little experiment.

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I hate shopping. Especially for clothing.

Of course nearly every guy says that. It's one of the requirements for getting your man card.* In fact,I'm told they'll take it away if you don't scratch yourself, spit a lot, and say things like this: Oh, the wife wants to go down to the mall again. You know those broads, always spendin' the money on shoes and fancy purses. Not me. I'd rather hang out in front of the big screen with my Buddy Weiser. I'm just a fine wearin' my blue jeans and an old Metallica t-shirt. That's all I need to work on the truck anyway. At least that's what I've been told (so I do say something like this, at least quarterly.)

So yes, my Y chromosome compels me to declare my disdain for shopping. But it's not just that. I really hate shopping. And not for all the regular reasons (what are the regular reasons?). I hate shopping because I'm tall. As a tall person living in a ground-huggers' world, I can't walk into a store and expect to find, say, a pair of pants that will fit me. Inevitably, I'll end up standing under the florescent dressing room lights in something that resemble Capri's, wondering if I can pull it off in the name of faux Euro styling. (I can't.) Or I'll stand in front of the mirror tugging down some other extra baggy pair as low as I can around my waist to get an extra inch or two (or three or four) of length, all the while wondering what the old ladies will say about this young buck they now have for a pastor.

All that is to say that I don't shop much. At least not in stores. Shopping for me usually involves a half hour in front of the computer (give or take an hour) , clicking through the sale pages of a few select stores that I know stock tall sizes, guessing what I think will fit. It's still not my favorite--but it's a lot better than going through the mall and striking out for three hours.

That's my regular routine. But a couple of weeks ago I decided to depart from it and risk a trip to the mall. A local store was advertising a 40% of sale and I figured it was worth a shot. I wasn't optimistic, but I needed a new pair of jeans and I'll do most anything to save a few bucks.

Upon arrival at said store, I was more than pleasantly surprised. I was elated. I found not one, not two, not three, but four pairs of pants (jeans, actually) in my regular size. Giddy as a school girl, a loaded them into my arms and headed to the dressing rooms. I figured the only question for me that day was How many will I take home?

Well, it took about two minutes for it all to come crashing down. Not one, not two, not three, but four pairs of jeans failed to fit correctly. And this time, they weren't too small. They were too big. I nearly crumpled into a ball in the dressing room with a wail. The humanity of it all! How could it possibly be!

As a shuffled back to the shelves cursing the cruelty of it all and wondering, once again, about size inflation** in the U.S, I was caught by a sales guy in an argyle sweater. Clearly, he read my emotions well. I hate trying on pants, he confided in a hushed tone. But I've found a secret. You don't need to try them on. You simply take a pair of pants and you wrap them around your neck like this. If the two sides meet at the back of your neck with little or no overlap, they'll fit just right. Trust me on this. I never try on pants in the store. And they always fit.

I couldn't help but stare at the sales guy. Then I couldn't help but check out his pants. They did look good. But I was pretty sure he was just screwing with me--that he had some bet with his buddies in the back room about how many people the could get to perform this ridiculous stunt. But nevertheless, I grabbed another pair of the shelf (things were looking up again--they had some a size smaller) and headed back to the dressing room. And, of course, I didn't try them on right away. Instead, I ducked my head low (to make sure no body could see me over the dressing room door--another problem tall folks run into in this short world), held the jeans to my neck, and tested them out. Things looked good (and I felt like a fool). So I whipped off the jeans I was wearing and tugged them on. One leg, then the other. Perfection!***

This is where I need some audience participation. Was the sales guy putting me on? Was this just a fluke? Please, go find your best fitting pair of jeans or pants, wrap them around your neck (see photo), and report back in the comments section. What is the correlation between how they fit around your waist and how they fit around your neck? Please do it! This could be a pants-fitting revolution!

*Along with having propane and propane accessories in your garage

**This is my theory that retailers are catering to the fattening up of America by making their sizes bigger (so a XL today is more like an XXL of fifteen years ago).

*** Or near perfection. They were actually a little long, but since they were only twenty bucks, I figured I could put up with it. Of course, there was a time when I'd have been thrilled to find jeans that were too long (the sheer novelty of it all!). But now I'm not so sure. As I noted to an old friend, while the extra length is clearly deemed fashionable right now, people in my position aren't supposed to be fashionable. We're supposed to sport what I've heard referred to as "Pastor's Pants"--best seen in people in my profession who cross their legs and have their pants pulled up to about mid-calf, exposing their milky white legs and grey socks. With the right length pant, I can pull this off with astounding flare.

The Sitter

It was a Friday night back in the fall of 1993. I was slumped awkwardly in the front seat of an old Buick Century that belonged to a man name Mike. Mike drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he explained bedtime routines and emergency contact information. He rolled through a stop sign and added, "There's pizza in the fridge."

Normally, that news alone would be enough to make me ecstatic. But I hardly heard. I was too busy worrying about what the night would bring.

I was to be the babysitter for the evening. I liked kids, but I had never done any babysitting before (at least not officially). So as we drove down Sioux Center's Main Street--past the recently erected Centre Mall--questions raced through my mind. How was I going to entertain a ten month old child for more than, say, four minutes? And when was the last time I'd ever changed a diaper (if ever)? More importantly, did I really know how to do it?

I was pretty sure I didn't. But I figured I'd try almost anything for a $1.75 an hour.

Things ended up going just fine that night. I put the diaper on frontwards (At leas I assume that I did. The Pooh Bears go in front, right?). I got little Justin to bed on time and without too much crying. And I was extra vigilant. I made sure to stay awake until Mike and Michelle returned home--even if it meant fighting off sleep all the way through Letterman and halfway through O'Brien. Then, sometime before midnight, my eyes heavy with sleep, the couple returned and Mike drove me back home. As I prepared to leave the car, he shook my hand, thanked me, and gave me my paycheck for the night. Seven dollars and fifty cents.

I thought about Mike and Michelle last night while we were doing our last minute search for a babysitter. At first I thought, "Wow, I wish I could find a babysitter for that cheap!" Then I thought, "Wow, what kind of parents were they?! I can't believe they actually allowed me--at the ripe old age of thirteen--to assume responsibility for their child?! Someone should have called social services!"

Needless to say, we have yet to enlist the services of the local jr. high students. And it's not only because they charge much more than $1.75 an hour--though that probably has a little to do with it (we're far too cheap to go out for dinner and pay someone 8+ dollars an hour to watch our child). It has more to do with our own fears and paranoia. Jill's doesn't make a habit of saying things like: "Over my dead body." But I expect she would if I suggested we leave Adrian under the watchful (or not so watchful eye) of a seventh grader.

But that does leave us in something of a bind. Lots of folks from church offer to babysit, of course. But it's one thing for them to offer on a Sunday morning. It's another for us to ask for a Saturday night. If they were family--or family family--we wouldn't hesitate. But they're not. So we do.

Thus far, Jill and I have come up with a fairly simple solution: we don't get out much. At least not together. When we do, it tends to be some church event that we really can't avoid (such was the case last night). But most nights, we end up sitting quietly in our living room. Maybe watching Law and Order (or The Office if it's a good night). Maybe reading a book or writing blog posts. It's a far cry from the wild night life we once new and loved.

Okay, it's really not that at all. But still, it would be nice to have the option from time to time. So--anybody (preferably anybody related) want to move to Denver and be on standby Adrian duty? The pay is not great--but I'm sure the rewards are.

Puppy Love