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She was born with a head full of dark hair, not enough to do anything with but just enough to hold a small bow.  I remember Allison occasionally, and unintentionally, wishing away the days of short hair so she could have enough to pull back, just enough to create a part or maybe enough for a small ponytail.  The day came faster than we anticipated and Madison started sporting pigtails and ponytails, clips and barrettes of various size and color... then today happened.  At two years old she was finally getting her first haircut.

We attempted to prepare her for this event several days in advance by letting her know what to expect and even having a mock haircut so she would be familiar with the idea.  On the way to the salon, we picked up a few blow pops in case of an emergency (a tactic we successfully used before when getting her ears pierced) although we didn't use or need them in the end.

Madison sat there with patience beyond her years and soaked in every moment of this experience.  Immediately reminding me how routine life becomes and how the mundane tasks of adulthood upkeep can simply fall into a category of the daily/weekly/monthly to-do lists; another item to quickly check off when the time presents itself.  Yet for Madison, this was an event approached with pure excitement.  With the demeanor of a seasoned adult comfortable enough to accept the welcomed change scissors and a blow dryer can provide, it was her eyes that displayed the joy and innocent curiosity of a toddler.

While this day is ultimately another milestone considered a first for her, I can't help but think of it as a last.  The last few strands of baby hair that Allison collected in an envelope, those same strands we combed after bath time and stroked during feedings or tucked behind her ear when they were finally long enough to do so.  The last time I'll see her sit in a salon chair staring at a reflection of intrigue and naivety waiting for the initial sound of cutting shears then watching a tiny curl tumble over itself before landing in what would become a small pile of toddler hair.  With every first to absorb, there seems to be another last worth grasping onto a little longer... the circle of life, I suppose.  My baby girl is transitioning into a little lady right before my eyes.

SNIP SNIP

July 31, 2013

I watched as she climbed the slide backwards reaching the top of a mountain constructed inside her head. She turned around and stretched her tiny legs out before her then inhaled deeply and pushed. Almost immediately, her feet felt the ground beneath them and with a swift twirl she was off to enjoy the climb again. Refusing the steps provided for convenience and practicality, Madison preferred to do it her own way.  Stubborn.  Determined.  Eager. Traits she received from both parental gene pools.


Those same traits would later be used to conquer the fear of using the steps for their intended purpose.  Several minutes compiled into several hours over the next few days spent staring at those steps with curious eyes scrutinizing every angle and detail before accepting their open invitation.  Then, one afternoon with the sun setting over her shoulder, she made the climb successfully.  I watched as she did it again.  And again.  Stubborn. Determined. Eager. Traits to be used for the rest of her life... one climb at a time. That's my girl.



THE CLIMB

July 28, 2013

Not long ago Allison, Madison and myself were in the kitchen having a snack of a lunch as we were in mid preparation for family portraits in a few hours. My parents are always begging for a family portrait, but not any picture of the three of us will do. My parents want a picture of the three of us plus them and my brother. A family portrait. The kind with a sponge painted background and a-place-your-hand-on-his-shoulder-tilt-your-head-this-way kind of situation; they arranged the appointment while we were instructed to simply show up and smile. Deal.

That is, until the bottom fell out.

Allison walked towards our living room setting up the ironing board to quickly iron a pair of my khakis when I heard her ask about some water on the floor. What? Where? I rounded the corner into the hall and saw a large puddle of water on the tile floor, but I didn’t see the source of a leak. Where was it coming from? Odd. We wiped up the puddle and turned around only to discover there was a puddle in the living room, too.  Well, crap.  So we wiped that up and immediately saw the puddle form again from underneath. Water was coming through the seams from underneath the hardwood floors!

Amidst the chaos, we didn't manage to take any pictures so I've taken the liberty to (poorly) paint a picture of our living room as we discovered it...


And this was our reaction...


And this was Madison...
I could feel my blood pressure rising and attempted to hold Madison back from the water while trying to calm my heart rate at the same time. The water kept coming. I looked in the half bath in the hall to make sure the toilet wasn’t overflowing. Considering our track record, that would be a plausible explanation. No luck. I opened the small door housing the hot water heater under our staircase and choked on the breath I had been holding. I immediately turned off the water supply and screamed for towels. Allison started throwing me anything she could grab with the potential for absorbency. Beach towels. Hand towels. Paper towels. I shoved everything I could on top of the floor to soak up the water.

There was so much water. I screamed for more towels. Madison tried to help by throwing everything she could get her tiny hands on into the closet. Magazines. Toys. Books. Thanks, but no thanks little lady. That’s not what we needed at the moment. I ran outside to get the water hose hooking it up to the tank allowing it to drain outside, down the driveway and into the street.

Hello neighbors. Ignore the man running in and out of his house wearing pajama pants holding a water hose; we’re having a crisis over here.

I called my father in a panic to let him know our hot water heater busted, water was gushing all over our house, we wouldn’t be able to take pictures today and asked if he could come help because we were drowning in a collection of tank water and tears. Sometimes I can be a little dramatic. Nonetheless, he showed up to a situation far more in control than I had originally described and replaced the hot water heater with a brand new one. What would I do without him?

Meanwhile, Allison is reaching out to the insurance company to cover our bases in case our floors were ruined. The tile floor was fine. The hardwoods we had installed before moving in a little over two years ago, not so much. They were already starting to buckle in certain places and provided a nice squishy sound when stepped on. They needed to be replaced. We don’t mind doing repairs and improvements ourselves here and there, but we’re not DIY professionals (and this isn’t that kind of blog) so we know our comfort zone and when to hire out.

The next few weeks were full of inspections, estimates, quotes, measuring, appointments, phone calls, paperwork, Madison’s second birthday, more quotes, the realization our flooring isn’t stocked, special ordering said flooring, receiving the wrong quarter round therefore exchanging it out for the correct quarter round, discovering a box of the special ordered flooring was damaged, taking the damaged box back and being told to allow two weeks for another special order, a moment of silence while I tried to hold my composure (and my religion), the suggestion of checking every store within the eastern part of North Carolina to see if anyone had the flooring in stock only to discover one store a few hours away had 11 boxes… I only needed one so I asked they ship two, just in case.

All of this finally brings us to the day of installation when the existing floors were ripped up and disposed of and the discovery that the subfloor (of concrete) contained some moisture bringing production to a complete halt. The moisture would need to be at a level 0.45 or below before the new flooring could be installed and we were reading at 0.8 in some places. The guy looked at me and said to bring in some fans and cross my fingers for a few days of dry, warm weather to bring the moisture level down. Sure thing.

That is, until the bottom fell out. Again.

While this summer isn’t short on heat, it has also been very wet.  I feel like it’s been raining forever making it impossible for the moisture to dry out. We have a couch in our hallway. We have a coffee table, a buffet table, a chair and a half and an ottoman shoved in our kitchen. We have various lamps and picture frames and toddler toys spread out among the other rooms in eager anticipation for these floors to be installed. Over the last nine days, we’ve had the moisture level checked twice. The first result gave us high hopes as we saw the level at 0.6 only to have those hopes extinguished with the second visit reading at 0.8 again. For the love of Noah, can we get a week without rain? Judging by the rumbling thunder and torrential downpour that woke me at 1am this morning, I take that as a no… and so we sit and we wait in a state of perpetual living room regurgitation that is our house at the moment.

As for the family portrait, it has yet to be rescheduled. Until then, this pitiful photo of us eating dinner picnic style upon the concrete subfloor will have to do (our kitchen table is buried somewhere among the living room remains).

IN HOT WATER

July 25, 2013

As the world waits in eager anticipation for Prince William and his wife, Kate the Duchess, to announce the name of their new son, I find myself thinking about those first few weeks after Madison was born. To say both Allison and I were exhausted is an understatement. I know, I know. Allison did all the work! I’m not taking away any credit there, but watching it was exhausting in its own right.

Allison and I worked out a deal that I would be on diaper duty as long as she was breastfeeding, which seemed fair. She was quite literally keeping our baby alive so the least I could do was ensure there was a clean bottom to pat during those late night/early morning feedings. That being said, newborns require a lot of diaper changes. I specifically remember rocking Madison in the early hours of the morning while we were in the hospital and laughing hysterically… at nothing… but I couldn’t stop. Apparently being that tired was hilarious.

Once we were released from the hospital and back in the comforts of our own home, Madison slept in a bassinet on Allison’s side of the bed. We tried the bassinet on my side, but I couldn’t sleep at all for the slightest noise had me out of bed to inspect fingers, toes, and airways to make sure everything was as it should be. I would have put her in a bubble if I could have… and so the bassinet had to stay on Allison’s side. In the middle of the night, I would find myself changing a hungry baby’s bottom and then passing her off to her mother; a routine that lasted for the better part of two months (even though Allison continued to breastfeed for a year total).

At two months, Madison was outgrowing the bassinet at a rapid rate and so it was time to transition her into the crib in her room across the hall. This would set the tone of how nearly every transition thereafter would work: Allison and I consumed with the bittersweet moment of watching one phase end and another begin while Madison handles it like a champ and shows us there’s nothing to worry about. Instantly she loved her crib and started sleeping through the night and has continued to ever since.


Hopefully, the Prince and the Duchess will have the same beginner’s luck that Allison and I seemed to have. Granted, our baby wasn’t born to a royal applause and doesn’t have cameras flashing and following her every move… unless you count me as a one man paparazzi.

While Will and Kate are blessed royalty, Allison and I are royally blessed. Crowns and tiaras and fancy titles aside, Madison is our princess and even with all the money in the world there’s not a single price to put on the privilege it is to be her parent.

ROYALLY BLESSED

July 23, 2013

They grow up so fast. A phrase I hear every other day it seems from family and friends, strangers and acquaintances alike. Admittedly, I’m guilty of saying it myself on occasion. Someone once mentioned these are the caterpillar years because before long our children will blossom into butterflies and spread their wings. As sad as that is, I feel it’s probably one of the more accurate statements I’ve heard in regards to parenting.

I try to take each day as it comes; soaking in every minute of every moment she gives me. As a toddler her efforts of affection are often, but are also quick so I find myself constantly making a mental note to drop everything when those moments present themselves. I make a point to squeeze her tightly, wrapping my arms around her cocooning her in my embrace as often as I can. I’m curious to see the beautiful butterfly she’ll become, but these are the days our lives are made of and I wouldn’t rush or trade them for anything.

BUTTERFLY

July 21, 2013

When having a child there are certain traits you cross your fingers they inherit like nice teeth or eye color or the math gene, then there are those you pray don’t show up like health issues or crooked toes or uneven ears. I may be biased, but Madison is perfect (aren't they all?) -- it's true though she is -- except she inherited her mother’s mosquito allergy.

What an itch.

Allison can attract mosquitoes from miles around and swell up almost immediately from one meet-and-greet. It seems Madison has that same unfortunate talent. The actual bites swell up and the surrounding skin becomes very red, some of the bites even blister. Madison had a few bites after the fourth of July since we were out late in the evening watching fireworks and, absentmindedly, forgot to apply bug spray. In the days following, a few of the bites blistered and popped although she never tried to touch them or scratch them (unlike Allison with hers, she’s like a cat with a post that woman). We put a Band-Aid over the ones that seemed to be the worst; in the event they started to itch they would be more difficult for her to reach. Initially, she was hesitant about the Band-Aid itself so I threw one over my index finger to cover a battle wound from an earlier struggle with the lawnmower.
 

Band-Aid Buddies! Allison rolled her eyes every time I said this for the next few days, although I’m almost positive I caught her fighting back a laugh once or twice when she thought I wasn’t looking. Madison smiled and I kissed her band aids, then she kissed mine. It was then I realized exactly how our relationship works… every time I save her she saves me right back.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

BAND-AID BUDDIES

July 18, 2013

I grew up in a very small town.

A town where stoplights hung as decoration with high hopes of serving a purpose, where the smell of peanuts traveled for miles during the summer, local restaurants were all family owned and your waitress had your order memorized and your drinks ready before you found your seat, everyone everywhere was on a first name basis and rest assured if they didn’t know you directly they knew someone that did. A town with a church on every block with a designated pew for families in each, where the participants in the Christmas parade outnumbered the audience, fields of cotton and tobacco served as your neighbors and several streets lacked the painted clothing of highways.


I learned to ride my bike in that town and felt the sting of tiny leaves from a holly bush down the road. I practiced my trumpet before dinner and received feedback in the form of phone calls from neighbors around the corner. I caught lightning bugs in mason jars and splashed in mud puddles during downpours against my mother’s wishes. I played hide and seek in the woods behind the house and raced the neighborhood kids when the chimes of the ice cream truck were heard nearby. I cursed and cried my way through puberty, as any child does, hidden within the walls of my bedroom. I found the love of my life in the halls of the local high school and threatened curfew on more than one occasion.

I will be forever grateful to that small town because of those things plus many more, however, I eventually outgrew those city limits and decided to leave with both Allison and the memories in tow… past the idle tractors at the town’s edge and into the sunset while hand surfing through the wind in my sails.

Sometimes, now with Madison more than ever, I find myself thinking back to those days of my youth where time seemed to stand still like the smell of rain after a spring thunderstorm and afternoons were filled with neighborhood exploration sans parents. Regardless of where life leads, that small town will always have a part of my heart... it will always be home.

HOME

July 16, 2013

Farewell, Mr. Write Away.  Hello, Bradley Cowan.

That's my name and now it's my URL, too.  Mine... as in I own it. Let that soak in.


Sure it looks a little strange around here at the moment, but I'm working through the ins and outs that come with the transition of changing the name.  Why Bradley Cowan?  Again, it's my name (or a version of) plus it's easier to remember than Mr. Write Away.  There's not an obnoxious period that leaves you wondering if it's part of the web addess or not.  Punctuation.  It's so important.

This blog serves as a documented journal for myself and my family, why not put my name on it?  Literally.  Hopefully, I'll have the sidebar cleaned up and other things (about me, contact, etc.) running soon.  In the meantime, feel free to follow me on both Twitter and Instagram under my real name:  @bradleycowan. 

Yes, I know the buttons all point to Mr. Write Away.  I'm working on it, I promise.

SAY MY NAME

July 14, 2013


I’m sure you’ve seen them standing on various corners around your town or occupying random patches of grass near stop signs holding discarded cardboard covered in Sharpie drawn pleas for help. Have you given to the homeless? More often than not, I’m guilty of turning my head and avoiding eye contact as I roll to a stop pretending to focus on the red octagon, a sign I’ve seen hundreds of times, counting down the seconds until I can move by and move on… temporarily affected until I reach my destination.
Temporarily affected essentially becomes forgotten; the story of their lives.
A while back Allison and I were cleaning and purging several items we unintentionally allowed to collect over the years when she mentioned we should make a kit of sorts to give the homeless man located on the corner near a restaurant we frequent. Sure. Why not? One man’s trash is often another man’s treasure… except we didn’t stop there. Allison wanted to include a few other small items that would maybe help someone in a world of seemingly quicksand find their footing again.
We started with a large canvas bag and filled it with the following:
  • Food items (oranges, bananas, small bags of chips, granola bars, canned drinks and bottled water)
  • Hygiene items (toothpaste, toothbrush, floss, mouthwash, shampoo, soap, deodorant, lotion, disposable razors, shaving cream and a comb)
  • A notepad, pen and envelopes
  • Band-Aids
  • A sweatshirt (size XL in hopes it would fit regardless)
  • A bag of loose change and a few dollar bills
A helping hand doesn’t always have to be in monetary form. The only items we purchased were hygiene items (with the exception of a few unopened from our own supply such as floss and shaving cream). Once the bag was full, we casually passed it through the passenger window one afternoon as we rode by and received a very gracious “thank you, God bless” from a gentleman we didn’t know. To date, we’ve never seen him again.
Homeless doesn’t have to mean hopeless.

It's moments like those I fall in love with my wife all over again.  It's moments like those that my faith in humanity is restored and I'm immediately inspired to be a better version of myself... to help others in the ongoing struggle to become better versions of themselves. 

For more information on helping anyone affected by these circumstances, please visit here or here.


This post was not sponsored or paid for in any way by the sites mentioned. I’m not affiliated with any organizations that help the aforementioned cause. This story and the words used are my own.  Image source.

SIGNED, SEALED, DELIVERED

July 9, 2013


The other day Madison was playing with her little people (miniature versions of Disney characters that literally have to go everywhere she goes) lining them up one by one and pairing them off as she does.  Pointing to each one individually asking me to say their names, an informal role call, when I noticed Beast was standing on his own away from the group.

I plucked him from his current location and announced "the Beast" before placing him next to his female companion in the yellow dress.

Madison shook her head back and forth adamant that he wasn't included and ostracized him once again.  To her, it was clear one of these was not like the others.

I picked the tiny figurine up, reminded immediately of my adult position as my hand completely engulfed the small painted plastic character, and before realizing it I jumped into the parent role.  It came so naturally and quickly without warning.  A random, blitz Danny Tanner moment.

It was then I explained that some people may look different and sometimes even act different, but it doesn't mean we should treat them differently.  At the root, we're all the same.  I looked at her big brown eyes staring back at me and watched her take Beast from my hand and nod in what seemed like complete understanding.

Then she kissed him on the head and placed him in the middle of the others.

I suppose the lesson for her was acceptance yet it felt like a gentle reminder for me, as well.  Maybe having kids is what brings us full circle.  Maybe having kids is the ultimate life lesson that encourages us to revisit and fertilize the good in ourselves. 

Maybe in the end, Madison will have taught me more than I could have ever imagined teaching her.

A TALE AS OLD AS TIME

July 7, 2013

Of the many talents people possess, pausing time has yet to be one of them. Time runs like a flight of never-ending stairs leading up and counting down to life events, to appointments, to the one moment where you have absolutely nothing to do and are completely void of responsibility (I wish). If only for a minute, time would allow us to catch up with the goal of keeping up maybe those empty slots of voided responsibility would come along more often. While time plays hard to get like the confession of a schoolyard romance, there is always one day that comes along to celebrate the collection of minutes producing the span of our lives… our day of birth.


I remember, as a small boy, thinking age 30 seemed a lifetime away and surely my hair would have surrendered to my youth while wrinkles threatened my face with gravity by then. How naïve. How completely wrong I was. As I approach, and accept, my 29th year I find myself grateful for the many lessons I’ve learned along the way. It seems every year I uncover a better version of myself… a wiser, finer-tuned, more appreciative me. Hopefully, this next year leading to my 30th birthday will not be full of hair loss and loose skin. I was sure to take a picture of myself now, the only real effort one has in pausing time, to capture this moment. The same moment 29 years ago reserving a time where I was void of responsibility, if only for a day… if only for a minute.

TWENTY NINE

July 2, 2013

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