Cradle

Cradle: (n) a small bed for an infant, usually on rockers.

There is still a debate over whether my fourth son arrived early, or my wife didn’t know how to count months. I will not intrigue you further with that particular impasse, but he—that fourth guy of mine—was born on the road. funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Now, it wasn’t like we were gypsies traveling by oxcart, but we did not have a permanent home and we were touring as a family, doing music and imitating our version of creative diversion.

He came early. Or we were late. But suffice it to say, he ended up being birthed in a strange town with strange doctors in a strange hospital in a strange way.

After he was born and the shock of his arrival assimilated through our midst, we needed to find a way for him to travel with us and stay healthy, without later growing up and being so traumatized that he would require an expensive therapist.

At the time we were staying in larger motel rooms that would accommodate our family for a week at a time. Most of these establishments did not offer portable cribs. We considered purchasing one, but decided it was too difficult to tear down and put back together. I don’t know what stimulated that decision—perhaps it was the fact that my other two sons were teenagers and I was only adept at putting together sentences.

So we decided to consecrate—set aside in a holy way—one of the drawers from the bureau offered in the motel room, wherein there would be no socks, underwear or first-aid kit, but instead, it would be the sleeping domain for the new little one.

We had to agree among each other never to refer—at least in public—to this bed as “the drawer in our motel.” (We anticipated some horror or displeasure from the people who might hear such an explanation.) So going old-fashioned and feeling safe with the term, we referred to that drawer as his “cradle.”

It worked.

Most people, when they heard the word “cradle,” envisioned something from Charles Dickens, or maybe the Civil War era. Certainly something “rockable”—but warm, cozy, where the little young’un could snug away to sleeper land.

Amazingly enough, no one ever asked us to describe the cradle or where we placed the cradle in our trailer when we traveled from town to town. It was our secret, and the little one never knew he wasn’t in an expensive bassinet or overwrought crib.

The only important thing was for each family member to remember without question, and to never make the mistake of accidentally shutting the drawer.

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Analgesic

dictionary with letter A

Analgesic: (n) a drug which acts to relieve pain.

Quite honestly, I have a cave man’s philosophy concerning pain and pleasure.

“Pleasure. Much good.”

“Pain. Me no like.”

Although I do try to move away from this darkened cave of understanding, sometimes I feel silly being philosophical about a pain I can only discuss intelligently when it is not inflicting me.

Yes, it seems noble to put forth the theory that pain assists us in our journey to greater understanding of ourselves, both physically and spiritually, but since I believe in reaching for an analgesic whenever pain even peeks over the horizon, I do feel a little bit hypocritical trying to turn Socratic when discussing it in the abstract.

Here’s the truth. Pain means there’s something wrong.

Even in the case of childbirth, the baby is trying to make it clear that further occupancy is unacceptable.

Unfortunately, the reverse is not true. Not all pleasure lends itself to improvement.There is pleasure that is so temporary and brings such lasting pain that it is well worth avoiding the temporary jolt of satisfaction.

So is life about:

  • avoiding pain?
  • learning from pain?
  • healing pain?
  • or defining pain?

I don’t have the foggiest idea.

But I feel no shame in reaching for my favorite off-brand analgesic any time one of these aching situations pops into my life.

If pain is a teacher … it probably needs to find a better approach.

 

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Accouchement

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter A

Accouchement: (n.) the action of giving birth to a baby.

Here’s the scenario–a series of “if’s and then’s.” In other words, IF I got myself in the situation, THEN I would be able to do the following:

If I was invited into a room where a woman was about to give birth and I found her in distress then it might be a good idea to have this word, “accouchement” to throw into the mix, partly to make it clear that I was a well-educated and informative sort, but also as a distraction.

And of course, it would have to be timed perfectly. Just as she was about to have a contraction, I could blurt out, “I’m certainly delighted to be here at your accouchement!”

Surprised and probably a bit alarmed by the new word springing into the air, her mind would be removed from the pangs of childbirth as she looked at me, bewildered, and said, “What???”

I could then time my answer to coordinate with the length of the contraction, and relieve her of giving too much focus to the travail.

If I were successful, then later on, after the child was born–perhaps at the kid’s high school graduation–we could laugh about the incident, and she might make a nice, gentle remark, such as: “Mentioning that strange word was very helpful to me at that point in my life.”

I might sprout a tear in the corner of my right eye and be grateful for the power of the vernacular.

Other than that, I have no damn idea why that word exists.