Vanity and the Shed

I know Ella has her new thing where we all post on our birthday number, and by those draconian rules, sure I'm late. But I'm not a draconian, and I loosely interpret it to mean that, because I was born, I should try to do one post at some point every month. So here it is:

This month, I have two items of business. Well first let me pitch you a couple of Ella's rejects. Ellajects. Also known as an artistic slap to my face. Or maybe it's a slap to my artistic face. The first implies the slap is artistic, the second, my face. Maybe it's an artistic slap to my artistic face. In any case, she rejected these:

Yes, my pretentious black and white strikes again. But I think she hated it for more than just that. It's grainy. It's very contrasty, with Jack's left eye nearly invisible. But I don't think it was those things either. No, she rejected it because of Jack's lonely stare. His solitude is at once unsettling and heart-rending. His plaintive eyes pull you in and threaten to paralyze you with a fear of that which we cannot change or evade--our own mortality. That's why Ella didn't like that picture. You should see this next one she rejected. Here, I'll show it to you:

Why in the world would she reject that picture? A tender moment between mother and daughter, making a smoothie. They both look cute. Why reject it? The answer is in the bottom right corner. It's Jack again! And with that same forlorn stare. It's as if he suddenly sees the absurdity of his daily routine: eat, cry, sprout a tooth, smile, eat, sleep, poop, pee, move a toy car around, sleep again. What is it all for, he would ask. And then he looks at us, and sees our routines are pretty much the same as his, with the exception of the sprouting a tooth part (sometimes I'll still move a toy car around). He's asking himself, is this really what humanity was made for? It's like he just stepped out of a Camus novel. Jack, lighten up little guy. You're too young for an existential crisis. So that's why Ella rejected that photo.

That was a very quick aside--back to my two items of business. First, Jack looks like me and I'm kind of happy about it. Check it:

Maybe you don't think he looks that much like me. Maybe you think I'm stupid for thinking he does. Maybe you just think I'm stupid. I don't have a problem with any of those opinions. My point is this, I think he looks like me, and the idea that my son might look like me makes me kind of happy. And that brings me to my main idea: why in the world would that make me happy? What's more I don't think I'm alone in my feeling. A lot of parents are kind of excited if their kid looks like them. And again, why? At least for most of us, that is the appropriate question. If I looked like Brad Pitt, and I saw that Jack was starting to look like me, I'd say, "fantastic, he'll be a ladykiller, he'll make a living with his face." And what's easier than making a living with your face. Don't cover your face. That's your job. Show your face, and here's money. But, of course, I don't look like Brad Pitt. I look like Matt. Why would I want Jack to look like Matt? I mean I'm not a dogface--at least I hope I'm not a dogface. But come on, there is plenty of room for improvement. Why would I be happy that my son inherited my middle-of-the-road face. It's crooked. The nose is big. I'm old enough now that I don't think or care too much about it, but I sure thought about it when I was a teenager. And Jack is a fresh slate. Tabula rasa. Why would I want his tabula to be ugula? What kind of self-absorbed punk would be excited that his son looked like him? Me.

Second item of business. We have a shed in our back yard and I hate its guts. Check it:

When the day began, all that stuff on the lawn was inside the shed. Why would you pull that stuff out of the shed and put it on your lawn, Matt? The answer is standing in the middle of the photo holding a Luv's box. Her name is Ella and she tells me what to do. So the night before all that stuff ended up on the lawn, she said, "I'm going to need your help with the shed tomorrow." I thought, "Damn it." You see, the shed is the bane of my existence. And I feel like I'm always making a "shed run" for this box or that box. And the box is always in some stupid, ungetatable corner of the shed. I said, "What do I need to get?" She said, "Nothing. I want to reorganize the shed." I thought, "Oh s--t." I said, "What does that entail." She said, "It entails taking everything out of the shed and putting it on the lawn, and then putting it back in the shed." There was only one word left to think, but I didn't even have a chance to think it. I couldn't think. I could only see red. I think I threw up inside my brain. When I came to, I was lying on my bed and Ella was talking to me. She was giving a discourse on the eternal nature of work and had just asked, "What do you think we're going to do in heaven? Do you think we all just sit around and relax?" "I sure hope so," I thought. "No. We have to work," she said. "Damn it," I thought. But then I said, "I don't think the Lord has to clean out his shed in heaven." And that is my belief. The next day at the Sabins' house, I said that if the Lord had to clean out a shed in heaven, I didn't want to go to heaven. I'd rather go to hell. That raised some of the kids' eyebrows. But I'm sticking to that. If the Lord has a shed and has to clean it, I want to go to hell.

Jane's just like her mommy: she hopes the Lord has a shed and has to clean it.