What's in a word?

We tried an experiment a couple of weeks ago.  We tried to not use the word "good."  And boy, was it hard.  I never realized how often I use that word. 

"How was the meeting?"  "Good."  

"This is good food!"

"You pulled yourself up - good boy!"

"Good job eating another spoonful of carrots."

"It's a good day."

It got rather ridiculous, trying not to say it, because it punctuates every conversation.  And instead of a rich, deep meaning - because after all, God is good -- it's become a catchall term that can mean almost anything.  Pleasant, convenient, okay, fine, nice, tasty, strong, nondescript.  

In 1984, language is whittled down to remove most adjectives.  And "good" becomes a catch-all term that prevents people from thinking too much, feeling too much, desiring too much.  It's almost as if absent from words to describe them, deeper meanings can't exist.

I'm not really an alarmist or conspiracy theorist when it comes to language.  I'm not the type of person to freak out when someone wishes me a "happy holidays" or when a teenager apathetically mumbles "whatever."    But I do think language enables thought.  It allows the transportation of ideas.  

But more on the practical level, what does it say to Kekoa when I use "good" too often in my parenting?  That he's an upright boy for eating his vegetables.  That upper arm strength wins favor.  That "being good for the babysitter" means that as long as one behaves well, he is on morally stable ground.

That's legalism. That's teaching him that outward behavior is equal to righteousness, heart condition notwithstanding.  

Of course, not using the word "good" could also equate to legalism.  Anytime you're busy complying a list of "don'ts" that will enable a better/more successful/happier life, you're probably engaging in legalism on some level.  

BUT I want to use language as it was intended - to convey meaning.  So I'm trying to consciously describe my thoughts rather than lazily relying on the easiest term to come to mind.  For example, "be wise and calm" rather than "be good."  "Sunny and warm" instead of "good weather."  "I'm proud of how hard you worked" instead of "good job on your exams."

It's rather interesting - I find myself being much more specific in my praise.  And isn't that when I like when others praise me?  Don't I prefer "This soup is so creamy!" to "Good food"?  And isn't "you've been so patient!" more helpful to a kid to hear than "you've been so good"?

In the end, I find that when you strip away all the cheap meanings of "good," it opens up the rich, divine mystery of a moral, righteous, good God. 

Eight months

It's been a whirlwind of a month: first In-N-Out, first donut, first time meeting lots and lots of people, first time keeping a secret, first time being able to tell a secret: I'm going to have a new cousin this year!!!*  But this month I also experienced a midlife crisis in advance regarding my career.

As some of you know, I have had plans to be a spaceman for quite some time.  I even have the uniform.  It really seemed the perfect job for me because wouldn't you know, astronauts wear diapers too!

But then this month, I went on an airplane to California and it TOOK WAY TOO LONG.  Now, I don't know where California is, but Mommy says the moon is further.  I don't see how that can be, because if a cow can jump over it, surely it can't be *too* far away.  But just in case, I don't think I'll be a spaceman.

So then I thought, "Maybe I'll be a sailor."  Things started out pretty well on that front - after all, who wouldn't love a sailor with a bright blue cap?

But then I went overboard, courtesy of Uncle Andrew, and decided that maybe the sea is not calling my name.

Maybe a professional jockey?  That was a really exciting prospect at first, and I threw my heart and soul into being the very very best.

This is a face racing to win.  Or filling a diaper.  Whichever.

But my goodness, after riding hard for what seemed like FOREVER, I didn't move an inch!

Slowest. Mount. Ever.

I then considered a career in athletics, but then I watched the Super Bowl and it just looked too painful.

Oh sure, laughing at other people's pain is fine, but I'm just not cut out for it myself.

Professional eating?  I'd be great if only contests involved peas, squash, green beans, and carrots.  Man, I practically inhale that stuff.  And I have a great tolerance for mess, which is a must in the professional eating arena.

But it seems most people are interested in watching people inhale hot dogs, and Mommy won't let me try those for some reason.  There's also too long of a list of things that I don't like: pears, peaches, turkey, yogurt, applesauce.  Mommy thought my tastebuds might be broken, but it turns out I really like ice cream.

Maybe a drummer?

Too loud.  I just don't know that I could fit a nap in.  How about a burger flipper?

I accept French fries, though, thanks to my pal Grandpa.

Too hot, and I don't like meat.  Punk rocker?  I gots the hair for it:

We'll see if she still thinks this is cute in fifteen years.

Mommy wouldn't take me seriously.  She kept saying that I was so cute with a mohawk, and I don't think that's the statement punk rockers are going for.  How about a zookeeper?

Eight months

Eh.  I prefer to have others clean up after my messes, not the other way around.  Maybe a professional napper would suit me better.

Besides, I have two teenage uncles to join me in that career any time.

Mommy says there's not much of a market for that (and besides, I'm not really all that good at it anyway).

*sigh*  Fortunately, it's not all bleak.  Grandma seems to be convinced that I would make an A+ model, and I got in a lot of practice in California.

What makes me smile?  Knowing that Uncle Dave is gonna give me a cousin close to my age!

So there you have it.  I'm all set on a career (although a fire truck sped by earlier and so I may change my mind again).   I went swimming and have even met six out of nine (!!!) great-grandparents!  I mean, how many eight-month-olds can claim that blessing?

I guess it was a pretty good month.  :)

*[Ed. note: just to clarify, the new cousin is a California cousin, not a sibling to the twin cousins.  Don't start rumors, please.]

I thought I wouldn't have to worry about it until junior high at least

Kekoa has discovered that he can suck his own tongue.  This is presumably to make up for his decided rejection of all four brands of pacifiers we desperately shoved into his face hoping for some peace and quiet.

I first noticed when I put him down for a nap.  Shortly after, I heard what sounded like two very bad kissers in his room.

Slurp.  Smack.  Pfffft.  Slurperty slurp slurp.

I poked my head in to find Kekoa, sucking away on his tongue and quite contentedly putting himself to sleep.

The sound is vaguely reminiscent of what you might hear when you surprise a pair of seventh graders in the bushes behind the McDonald's.

*twitch*

Happy Valentine's Day.