Intent meanders (yeah, I said it twice now), far beyond it's well-intentioned beginning, but it often ends up where it started.
Like this guy, how did he go from happy clown guy...
...to a clown doing an "opstikl corsh" (obstacle course)? The goal seems to be tainted "piy" (pie), "posn (poison) is corn." Dude meandered.
This guy wears a hat by day and...
...at night dreams of being a ninja, or a warrior... or a cross-dresser, uh, at the same time. He's pretty nonplussed about the whole thing, though.
(You see what I did there, just meandered around some and then, here I am.)
I started writing here about ten months ago. Honestly, I started out with one intention and that was to showcase this essential nonsense. I wanted to make it funny, cutesy, maybe lightly poignant, innocuous frankly. I starting thinking more about it and I became aware of what you might call my hidden intention.
When the boys were like ten or twelve months old, feeding them was brutal chaos; exasperating beyond description and, oh, so cute. I kept asking people what they fed their kids at this age and, well, none of them could really remember. I thought at the time: "What's wrong with you people, how could you forget this important thing?"
I vowed that I would always remember those firsts steps and tumbles; the look on the face tasting pumpkin for the first time; blue and red rompers stained and tattered and perfect.
I promised to savor every kiss and smile; immortalize every tooth, lost and gained; to remember the story of that scar on your lip, or the one on your forehead.
I knew I would never forget that moment when Nick crouched behind the plate and Zack stood at first, both proud and confident, under the impossible blue of a June Ohio day. I would never forget finding that old picnic table, half buried in a creek, an endless wonder of crazy juxtaposition. I would remember every teacher's kindness and love, every friends name, every book read, every favorite food and Lego guy, every blooming dream, every open gesture of the soul.
I'd remember every bike ride, growing longer right along with their lanky legs and confidence. I'd remember all the stuffed animal names, however incongruous; the favorite Hotwheel; every cocked eyebrow and wiggled ear; every dimple, every freckle.
Right now I can't remember what I made for dinner last night. Parenting is a frenzy of both emotion and activity. I understand now that I can't be expected to remember everything my child does. That's too damn bad, in my opinion.
Which brings me back to meandering intent. So often, I will see something important; a pumpkin in the mulch pile, a few drawings of dragons about to be thrown away, toddlers swaying and singing "Simple Gifts" in a Thanksgiving kitchen, a paper computer or a drawing of happiness and hope, I will see these things, and so many more, and think to myself: I must remember this.
So, I guess in a very purposeful way, I blog to remember. That's better than the dream of making it as a big time writer with a book deal and a famous, money-producing, thought provoking website. Yeah, my dreams have indeed meandered that way as well. And sometimes I think about quitting this thing, leaving my little streak of verisimilitude here in the blogarena, and moving on.
Neither will happen, probably. I think, honestly, my intent is practical, noble, decent and kind; it is to celebrate childhood, two particular, personal childhoods in this case, but all childhood, to celebrate innocence, to celebrate a kind of love I cannot afford to not remember.