Christmas Wrapping

I suck at gifts. I think because I'm an only child, and I pretty much got what I wanted as a kid. At some point, I started feeling guilty about that, and figured I had pretty much what I needed. Thus, to this day, if you ask me what I want for my birthday, Christmas, or Kwanza, I say, "Nothing. I don't need anything."

My Lovely Bride is the exact opposite. She loves gifts, and gets that it isn't about what you need, it is about what you want. I think this is because she didn't get nearly as much as me as a kid for birthday and Christmas.

Our marriage, like any other has it ups and downs. Ebb and flow. This gift issue though, is a continual challenge, one that I'm staring down yet again.

It's harder now too. Not only do I need to get a gift from me, I need to get gifts for her from the Boy(s).

One of the ways I try and gear up for this challenge, is to mentally review highs and lows from past gifts. Believe me, there have been many more lows, than highs, and truth be told, what I think is the biggest high (leather coat for her birthday many years ago,) only happened because I'm a dipshit.

The story. Sad, but true, happened at Nordstroms in the Galleria (which was new to Dallas at that point.) I had heard that Nordstroms was a great place for personal service, which I needed. Because not only do I suck, I realize that I suck. Nordstroms also had a pub in their men's department back then, where I figured I could drink a pint (or two) while my transaction was completed and the gift was wrapped.

When I entered the women's department the only thing I knew for sure was that I wanted to buy my Lovely Bride a leather coat for her birthday. From there. I was clueless. Had no idea on what style. Length. Size. At that point in our marriage, I hadn't realized that I could ask My Lovely Bride's Mother these questions. So, instead, I marched up to the first sales lady I saw and said, "Can you help me?"

"Yes sir." She replied.

"I need to get a coat for my wife." I said. "It's her birthday."

"A coat would make a lovely gift." She said.

"Today is literally her birthday," I continued. "I need to get something, nice, and get it wrapped, and then I need to go to a dinner thing at my in-laws for the birthday. Like in an hour."

"I understand sir." She said. "What style of coat are you thinking for your wife?"

"Leather." I said.

"We have an excellent selection of leather coats." She said, "What color were you thinking? And length? Are you looking for a classic style, something more modern?"

Nothing. I was a deer in headlights.

"Of..." I babbled, "Leather?"

"I understand sir. I think I can suggest something your wife will like?" She said.

"I'm not very good at this," I said. "I'm not really sure. I just want it to be nice. And gift wrapped. Oh, and I need to make sure she can exchange it in case I screw up."

"Yes sir, I understand. How about this coat." She said.

"I like it." I said. "How much?"

"What size of coat do we need to look at, sir?" She said.

"Of..." I babbled. Clueless.

"That's ok sir. Many men don't know their wife's size. Perhaps you can tell me more about her, or if she's comparable to anyone in the department?" She said, looking around.

"She's about your size." I said. "only her boobs are way bigger than yours."

It took a split second for my mind to catch up with my mouth. The sales lady just stared at me, with an uneasy smile on her face.

"I'm sorry." I said. "I suck."

"It's ok," she replied, as that uneasy smile morphed into a shrewd one, "Most men do," She put the original coat down and grabbed another off the rack, "what do you think of this coat?"

"Of..." I said.

That coat, was of course, the coat that I bought. It was much more expensive, thus nicer than the original coat shown, and truth be told, much nicer than I would have purchased on my own.

Most important though, the gift didn't suck. My Lovely Bride Loved it. And as I said, at the get go of this here BLOG entry, it probably is the best gift that I've ever purchased for her.

All because I'm a dipshit, who talked himself into a corner, by telling a complete stranger that my wife's boobs were way bigger than hers.

Until I BLOG again...Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Couldn't miss this one this year!

This is what I do

Life doesn't offer up many second chances, which is why I said, "Yes," when My Lovely Bride asked if I would read at E's storytime the following Monday.

No wait. Back up. Let me start earlier.

I thought it was funny, in a 'tis the season sort of a way, that the reason My Lovely Bride spaced out and forgot her guest reader spot at the Elder Boy's school storytime was because of elfa shelves.

In her defense, the PTA person in charge of booking guest readers, failed to email a reminder until an hour after My Lovely Bride was supposed to take the stage at storytime. That didn't assuage her guilt though. She needed me for that, which is why she asked, "Can you read at E's school next week? I can't, I'm substitute teaching there that Monday."

"Of..." I said, buying time to run my schedule through my monkey brain. It was still stuck on the elfa joke. She took my hesitancy as a sign that I didn't want to do it because I'd been so busy at work.

"That's ok," she said, "I'll tell her no."

"Wait." I said. "I have been busy at work, and that's my first week back to normal, but..." I thought more about my schedule, and how it would be tight, but, I could probably do it, "What if you tell her I'll do it if she can't find anyone else to do it?"

My Lovely Bride just stared at me, like the dipshit that I am.

"Oh. I guess if I say that, I'm pretty much doing it. Huh?" I said.

She nodded her head, slowly.

"It is important though." I said, more to myself than her, "Tell PTA Lady I'll do it. Oh, and when you do, be sure and cc: me on that email so I don't forget to add it to my calendar."

Later at work, I got an email from the PTA lady (addressed to my Lovely Bride, with me cc:'d) that said: Great! I've got him down for next Monday and I'll be getting in touch with you about the schedule for January and beyond. Thank you both for being willing volunteers!

Reading it, I thought about second chances, and decided to hit reply all (so My Lovely Bride would see) and wrote: No problem. I enjoyed it last time, and maybe this time the Boy will let me read Walter the Farting Dog to his class. He didn’t last time. He was afraid Mrs. Nowacki wouldn’t like it and that I’d end up on ‘red.’

Bam! I hit send. Five minutes later, maybe less, I had a reply from the PTA Lady that said: Very funny how their minds think! But good for him for having a healthy fear of being on red. Ms. Nowacki (the librarian) is usually open to whatever you want to read, so bring it a little early and ask her if it's okay. The only reason I could see for not reading it is that the class might get out of hand and Ms. Green would never hear the end of chatter about/imitation of the book.

After I stopped laughing, I hit reply all (again, so My Lovely Bride would realize how lucky she was to live with such a funny guy) and wrote: You misunderstood me. Not put the Boy on red. Put me on red. He's afraid that Mrs. Nowacki can do that to me. I assured him I'm an adult and I'm above her Homeland Security like behavioral chart. He doesn't believe me. The Boy thinks a teacher is above an adult. I disagree, plus I don't feel my material should have to be approved by Mrs. Nowacki. Because of Freedom of Speech, as well as the last time I read at storytime, Mrs. Nowacki told me she's a Tiger (LSU.) I'm a Sooner (OU.) I'm still upset that they get to play in the National Championship while my Sooners have to go to the Fiesta Bowl.

I held my finger over the Bam! button, and wondered if being funny and freaking the PTA Lady out for my own amusement was worth ruining the Boy's green (behavior chart, green=good) record?

It would be funny. Very funny. I'm sure that Mrs. Nowacki (as well as the PTA lady) wouldn't put the Boy on red because of me. They also couldn't put me on red. What teacher could? Right?

Wrong.

There was one.

Mrs. Tinsley.

She would only be a substitute that day, but still, if I pissed her off, red would seem like green when compared to what she could do to me.

Quickly and carefully I moved my finger away from the Bam button, closing the message (unsent) and went back to work.

Until I BLOG again...All of us have a albatross and this is my one.

Disappear into the sea

My unforgettable fire finally occurred the night of November 22nd, on a narrow and dirty spit of beach on Bolivar Peninsula that is wedged between North Jetty and Fort Travis. It happened on Thanksgiving. The moon was even full.

Not that I planned it that way. I'm a dipshit. Serendipity is more like it.

You see Dear Reader, I didn't intend to burn my bag of shit that night. I built that fire so we could make s'mores. A non-traditional dessert to cap our non-traditional Thanksgiving shrimp boil. It was only after we said so-long to Pops, and the Boy(s) said they wanted to go play Sorry!, that my Lovely Bride asked, "Are you going to do your thing?"

My thing.

At that point, I hadn't even thought about it, which I'm sure is hard to believe considering I've had the bag of shit I planned to burn in the back of my XTerra since September 16. I had thrown that bag into the van before we left for the trip. I had even added the Fuck Cancer t-shirt that a friend from work had made. I had forgot it in September.

I did plan to do my thing on our Thanksgiving trip, but not that night. I figured I'd do it Friday, or maybe even Saturday. Even though the forecast predicted rain. Strange isn't it. I think my tendency to postpone was more about the fear that the experience wouldn't live up to my expectation. Along with that fact that I have a hard time letting go, and the whole exercise was my own goofy version of closure to something that I had closed at that house back in September.

Yet that bag of shit was in the van. Ready. It was Thanksgiving. The moon was full.

How much more right can it get?

"I don't know," I replied, "don't you need help with the Boy(s)?"

"No. You should do it." Said My Lovely Bride.

Indeed.

My unforgettable fire occurred on Thanksgiving night, under a full moon. I burned the entire bag of shit, item by item, one at a time. In front of me, a few miles off the coast, I watched tankers and cargo ships enter (and leave) Galveston Bay. Behind me, up in Howe's House, I could see my Lovely Bride and the Boy(s), in their pajamas, playing a board game around the dining room table.

Later my Lovely Bride asked, "Was it everything you wanted?"

"Yes." I replied. "It was."

Until I BLOG again...Not a tear, no not I.

Splish Splash

As we were taking a bath, long about Saturday night, a week or so in the rearview, Ethan said, "Daddy do me first."

I turned the cold water up a bit and pointed at E who was shucking his clothes next to the toilet and said, "Please pee, and make sure you hit the water."

"NO," screamed Wy Wy, as he barreled into the bathroom and yanked his pants and underwear off, "DO ME FIRST!!!"

"Nice," I thought, "if only their Mom felt the same way."

"HELP!" Wy screamed. He was hobbling around the bathroom, sans pants, blind, with his shirt stuck on his head.

"Wait!" I said, "You're going to fall down, here, let me, pull it off,"

"Thanks Daddy." He said, as he started to climb into the bath.

"Wait!" I said, "Your socks are still on and you need to pee first."

Ethan rushed past Wy and jumped into what I guess is the pole position of the tub, upfront, near the facet.

"DO ME FIRST!!!" Wy screamed as I pulled off his socks and he ran over to the toilet.

"NO, DO ME FIRST!!!" Ethan screamed.

"Guys," I said, "I'll do you at the same time. Wy please pee and hit the water." He didn't. No wonder our bathroom smells like a truck stop.

A few minutes later, both Boy(s) were in the tub, playing, which allowed me a few moments to sit on the sink vanity and space about our busy day. It had been a whirlwind. E had his last soccer game of the season, followed by a picnic party trophy thing at a local park. Both Boy(s) were worn slick from all the activity. They were also jacked up from all the excitement. That's never a good combination.

"Daddy," Ethan said, bringing me back to the moment in order for me to turn off the water, and begin the bath.

"Ok guys," I said, "Ethan you stand up first and let me wash your upper body. Ok. Sit down. Wy Wy, stand up and let me wash your upper body. Ok. Sit down."

So on and so forth as I washed them at the same time.

When I was finished, I gave them the usual option of getting out, or staying in the tub and playing for a few minutes. They opted to play, which put me back on the vanity spacing out as they did their thing. I was also tired from the day and looking forward to the hour we would gain because of the daylight-saving thing. I was making a mental list of all the clocks I needed to set back, when Ethan screamed, "NO YOU DIDN'T."

"Excuse me." I said. A deer in the headlights if ever there was.

"I DID!" Screamed Wyatt.

Things had went 0 to 60 in less than a minute in the bathtub, and I was desperately trying to catch up to figure out what in the hell was going on, "Wait a minute guys," I pleaded, "slow down, what's the trouble?"

"You did not." Ethan hissed in his meanest voice at Wyatt.

"I DID!!! I DID!!!" Wy raged, slapping the water in front of E for emphasis.

"Guys slow down! What's the problem." I asked again, but at that point, they weren't listening to me. It was as if I wasn't even in the room.

"You did not," E hissed again, "you're a baby.

Sweet Mother of all that is good. That was the last thing E should have said to the Little Warrior after a long day. He freaked. Hard.

"I'M NOT A BABY!!!! I DID!!! I DID!!!" He screamed, and then he really did. Wyatt punched Ethan square in the mouth. Hard.

"Fuck me." I hope I thought, but I think I said as time stood still for a second.

Then all hell broke loose in the bath. It was a veritable hurricane. Ethan retaliated by shoving Wyatt, but then, realized his mouth was bleeding, which made him stop, and start crying. Wy, living up the Little Warrior billing, saw his chance and hit Ethan again in the chest, and then grabbed a chunk of hair and pulled hard enough to make E's face go into the bath water.

"Guys, Guys, Guys, Guys!!!!!!" I pleaded. "STOP!"

And they did.

Wy looked crazy. Rage. It might have been the maddest I've seen him. Ethan was in shock because of the blood, and also because he knew that Wy had hit him in the mouth where he had two loose baby teeth.

"My tooth..." Ethan cried. "My tooth."

"It's Ethan's fault!" Wy said. "I did."

"You did what?" I asked.

"My tooth...my tooth...my tooth..."

"I did sign the card." Wy continued.

"Excuse me?" I asked. "This is over if you signed a card."

"I did sign it." Wy said.

"My tooth...my tooth...my tooth..."

"No shit. I saw you sign it." I said. Then I realized what Ethan meant (as I've said before, I suck in real time.) "Oh shit, your teeth!" I thought, or might have said.

Who knows. It was chaos, which is when My Lovely Bride entered stage left and asked, "What's going on in here?"

That Dear Reader, is how the Little Warrior helped Ethan lose his first baby tooth. Since then, and probably because of the same punch, Ethan lost another baby tooth adjacent to the first one.

His two bottom middle teeth are gone, each one having been encased in a zip lock bag placed under his pillow (in case the Tooth Fairy is germ phobic.) He's netted $4 buckaroos ($2 per tooth.)

It wasn't exactly a Hallmark moment, then again, this is Team Tinsley, what else would you expect?

Until I BLOG again...A rub-a-dub, just relaxin' in the tub.

The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite

A few weeks in the rearview, I asked the Elder Boy how school had been that day. After the initial, 'I don't know' I got a story about some kid's Mom coming to the library for storytime and reading to his class. E thought that was super cool. But what was cooler, once storytime was over, the librarian, Mrs. Nowacki, gave the kid a Lego Bookmark and a Lego Magazine.

"Boy," I said, "I signed up to read to your class at meet the teacher night. I'm reading on October 23."

To say the Boy was excited would be a gross understatement. For the past two weeks he has continually asked, "Daddy, how many days? One or two."

This past Thursday, while getting ready for bath, E again asked, "Daddy, how many days? One or two?"

I'll be honest, at that point, I wasn't really paying attention to his question. I was busy looking at myself in the bathroom mirror for signs of hair loss. Not that it mattered, he didn't need my answer, he was already talking about the kickass Lego Bookmark and Lego Magazine that he was going to get from Mrs. Nowacki. I figured he'd tell me about it at least three times during his bath, which is why I was taken by surprise when he said, "Dad, you're just going to read?"

"Of course I'm going to read. What else would I do? That is why I'm going." I said.

"Dad," he said, "just read."

"Ethan," I said, "I don't understand, (I did of course) that's why I'm going. To read."

Frustrated by my denseness he commanded, "DAD. JUST READ!!!"

Calmly I said, "That is what I'm going to do, just read."

Silence.

The Elder Boy stared at me, trying to discern if I was messing with him or just dense. Finally he pleaded, "Dad, just read. No jokes. Ok?"

Sweetness.

The next night while we were doing the night night book thing I asked, "E, what are we going to bring to storytime at your school? What should I read on Tuedsay?"

I knew what he wanted me to read. He had selected it over a week ago. One book was a non-fiction whale book. I liked it. The second book though, I didn't like. It was this big pop-up type book with very small print. It would be hard for me to read and hold up in front of 40+ kids, so I said, "We should read Walter the Farting Dog."

Silence.

"It will be funny." I said.

Silence.

"The kids will love it." I said.

Silence.

I went back to reading the Star Wars book for nigh night time. Toward the end, E said, "Dad."

"Yes." I answered.

"You can't read Walter the Farting Dog." He said. "Ok?"

Only because it was Friday night, and he needed to go to bed, because I needed to go watch TV and drink beer I said, "Ok Bub. We'll pick something else to read. Don't worry. We'll find something."

We picked Tony's Hard Work Day.

October 23 started cold in Dallas, so cold that before school the Boy(s) and I were huddled together on the sofa watching Fairly Odd Parents. "E," I said, "Today is storytime. I'm reading at your school this afternoon."

Silence.

"So," I continued, "I"m bringing the whale book and Walter the Farting Dog."

"Dad," E said, "We're reading the whale book and Tony's Hard Work Day. You can't read Walter."

"Why?" I asked.

"DAD!" He screamed.

"Why not? It will be funny. Are you afraid Mrs. Nowacki will be mad at us if we read Walter?" I asked.

He gave me a stern look as if the answer was obvious.

"What's she going to do," I asked, "put me on red?"

Silence. (Sweet Mother of all that is good, I said it: Red.)

You see Dear Reader, E's class has a behavior chart that is akin to the Homeland Security Advisory System (I guess Bush and all his cronies really did Learn all they needed to know in Kindergarten.) The Elder Boy is obsessed with that chart and staying on green. So much so, one day, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time and got mixed up in some lunch room shenanigans. The lunch lady in a zero tolerance fit placed everyone in the area on yellow. E freaked. So much so, that Mrs. Green (seriously, that's her name, how awesome is that) gave E the opportunity to earn back his green status before the day ended.

Red is bad. Very bad. You go to the principal if you get on red.

"Dad." He said, gravely shaking his head, "You don't want to be on red."

"Why?" I said.

"Red is bad." He said.

"Come on E, Walter will be funny." I said.

"Mrs. Nowacki won't like it." He said.

"What is she going to do, I'm an adult." I said.

"Dad, she's a teacher." He said

Silence.

Yesterday afternoon I was the guest star parent at storytime at E's school. I read in front of 44 kids. Mrs. Nowacki set me up in a chair, next to a globe and a large atlas while all the kids sat on a large carpet in front of me. Many of them fought to get in front, close to me. Not E. He sat in the very back of the group. He looked nervous.

Once everyone was in their place, Mrs. Nowacki asked E to come up and introduce me to the group, and tell them what we read at home. What we liked. Nervously, E said, "This is...Dad."

Then, silence.

After a few seconds I realized E wasn't going to say anything else, so I jumped in and said, "We dig Star Wars at Casa Tinsley. Do you cats like Star Wars?"

The kids went apeshit.

Later My Lovely Bride, who has an early education degree said, "You really shouldn't ask two kindergarten classes a question like that. They are too young. They'll all talk at once. They don't do very good at question and answers in a large group at that age."

No shit. Thanks for letting me know, Dear.

Mrs. Nowacki and the two teachers saved me though, by clapping their hands and having the kids do this weird repeat chant thing while they all put their hands above their heads. For the rest of my show, whenever I'd get them stirred up (which was often,) that's how the adults brought back order. They would have the kids do weird little chant things while they did stuff with their hands. They did it in unison too. It was bizarre, and funny to me. Reminded me of a cult, which made me think of a particularly bad (read good) joke that I should tell the group.

Only, I didn't. I was an adult.

An adult afraid of being put on red.

Storytime was the last thing of the day so I took E home from school. Since we live so close (we usually walk the block to and fro) I decided to let him ride up front in the passenger seat. After I had him strapped in and secure, with his Lego Bookmark and Lego Magazine in his lap, I said, "So, Boy, How did I do?"

I figured my question would be be met with silence. He was engrossed with his prized Lego Bookmark and Lego Magazine. But it wasn't. Instead he looked over, with what I think was actually pride and said, "Good," giving me this half smile look that reminded me of his Granny, "you did good Dad."

"At least I didn't get put on red." I said as I started the car and drove us home.

Until I BLOG again...A candy bar, a falling star, or a reading of doctor seuss.

All This Time

Wednesday morning Ruby and I were walking Ethan to school, when he asked, "Daddy, is it one or two?"

"I don't know what you mean." I said.

"Is it ONE or TWO," he said.

"One or two what," I said.

"You don't understand." He said, as Ruby dropped on her haunches to take a crap.

"No, I don't. What are you talking about?" I said.

"Until you read," He said, as Ruby did her I just took a good shit dance.

"Oh. You mean when I read at your school, in front of your class, in the library." I said.

"Yes." He said, beat down by my denseness.

"Next week." I said, as I picked Ruby's shit out of a neighbor's yard.

He sighed, exasperated, "How many days? One or two."

"Five. Today is Wednesday, then we have Thursday, Friday and then Monday and Tuesday of next week. I do it next Tuesday." I said.

"Oh," he said, "Is that a long time?"

I laughed. "It's a week, Boy. It depends. Time is weird. When you are young, things take a long time. Time moves slow, or seems to move slow. It doesn't, but you only realize that when you get older."

"Oh." He said, not quite satisfied with my answer.

"Unless, something sucks, then it still takes a long time." I added.

He nodded his head, gave me a half smile, and turned and headed up the sidewalk toward school.

I paused in my neighbor's yard, a bag full of Ruby's shit in my hand. Fuck me. Tomorrow is October 18. One year. That is a long time.

"Hey Ethan," I said.

"Yeah?" He said.

"Tomorrow is..." I stopped short of saying what I was thinking. He didn't need to think about my shit.

"What?" He said.

"Tomorrow night is family night, we don't have to do anything." I said.

"I know Dad." He said.

"I know you know," I said, as Ruby and I jogged up the sidewalk to catch him.

Until I BLOG again...Endlessly like a silent tear.

Walk On

Déjà vu kicked me in the nuts, hard, the third week in September. I was planning a solo Galveston trip, to spend some time by myself, for myself, something I had not done since Mom died last October. With the one year anniversary looming on the horizon (as well as October 10, which was (is?) her birthday,) I wanted my own brand of closure. To get my head right before October began, and to say good-bye in my own strange way.

My way was going to involve fire. I was seriously ready steady go, having gathered up a bag of shit --- small mementos, photos and notes that meant something to me. The plan was to burn (or destroy) these things on the beach in Galveston on the night of September 18. I was then going to cast them into the sea. My goofy ceremony should have happened on the 11th month anniversary of her death. It didn't though. Life happened instead.

Which is why I found myself in Houston instead of Galveston on September 18. I had arrived on September 16 to help my Dad. He couldn't walk. Spinal stenosis was the diagnosis, with three weeks laid up in his house. He had tried to rehab his back, but that is tough when you are a widower, and your only child lives 250 miles away. A bad situation made worse by the fact that his only hope of walking was spinal surgery that was hastily scheduled because of his pain for September 18. Fuck me.

The day before his surgery, I was helping him run errands when I asked, "Dad, does it bother you, that you are having major spinal surgery on the 18th of September?!?!" It didn't, he said, which was a good thing, because a few minutes later, a black cat ran across our path. Dad didn't even notice.

I did of course, and it filled me with dread. I didn't want to be there in the first place. Sure, I wanted to help my Dad. I love my Dad. But I had other plans for that week, and times like these, well being an only child sucks.

That anger though, was really just a cover. Something to keep me warm, because I was nervous about having to stay in that fucking house by myself when Dad was in the hospital. In fact, and a testament to how much can change in a year, The Elder Boy and I discussed my fear the night before I left. We were reading books before he went to sleep, when he asked, with a sense of empathy that made me proud, "Daddy...are you scared?"

"Yeah."

"Really?!?"

"Sure. Everyone gets scared, Bub. Even Daddy. I don't want to go. Not because I don't want to help Pops, I do, which is why I'm going even though I don't want to go...that's what is important. Even though I'm scared, or nervous, I'm still doing what I need to do."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are your nervous."

"Well...I guess of the unknown. Seeing how bad Pops really is with my own eyes. And...I don't want to stay in that house, by myself...thinking about that freaks Daddy out. And then, I don't like to be away from you, or Wy Wy, or Mommy. I miss you guys when I'm away, and I don't know how long I'll be gone."

That dread turned into reality on September 18, after a brutally long day at the hospital. There I was in Houston, in that fucking house alone, instead of on a Galveston beach burning shit, playing déjà Stu in my monkey brain. A year before, nearly to the day, I had been in Houston with my Grandma. Only on that trip, Mom was the one who couldn't walk. The damn dog died too. It was the last time my Grandma saw her daughter alive (which she wasted.)

I ended up sleeping on the sofa in front of the TV that first night. The noise helped some, still I couldn't forget how the year before, I had shaved, what was left of Mom's hair, as she sat on the same sofa. How that sofa was pushed away, to make room for the hospital bed. I watched her die in that bed. In that spot. It was creepy, being alone there.

In fact, the day before Dad's surgery while cleaning up, I noticed that all the pictures of Mom in the house were turned over, face down. Was it her ghost? It wasn't of course, it was something far more frightening. It was Dad.

The thought of my Dad trapped there, for weeks, hobbling around on crutches, unable to walk well enough to leave, with the photos, the memories, sucked. Hard. I can't imagine what it must have been like to be trapped in that fucking house as the days counted down to so many painful anniversaries. I had wanted to deal with all of that by going to Galveston, but Dad didn't have that option. That made me sad. Which is why, then and there, I decided to make the most of my time alone. I was going to look for Mom's necklace and charm.

You see Dear Reader, the one thing of Mom's that I truly wanted, more than anything else, after she died, was this old gold necklace and charm. It had originally belonged to Juan Carols Munoz. Juan had been an AFS exchange student from Colombia who lived with us in 1983-84. Juan's original host family, didn't work. I think they signed up for an AFS student to help their son be more popular which is a sad reason to invite someone into your home and be part of the family. Which is what Juan was to us, part of our family. After 9 months, in June 1984, when it was time for Juan to return home, he removed his gold necklace and charm (which had his name on one side, and a Cross on the other) and gave it to Mom. She wore it the rest of her life. Over 20 years. At some point, when she got really sick, she removed it.

After Mom died, Dad told me to take anything of Mom's that I wanted. I asked for that necklace. Only, we couldn't find it. Dad searched for months. Nothing. Finally, last December, with the help of My Lovely Bride, we cleaned out all of Mom's things before her memorial. I was sure we'd find it when we cleared out the back bedroom, which was the guest room of their house, and where Mom kept most of her stuff. We didn't. I'd resigned myself to the fact that the necklace like Mom, and Juan, were gone.

I hadn't seen or spoken to Juan since the summer of 1988. He had visited us while attending Boston College. Shortly after, Juan went back to Cali,Colombia and Mom and Dad moved to El Paso, Texas. I was in Norman, Oklahoma. Mom and Dad moved three more times in the next four years, and at some point, Juan's contact info was lost. Juan of course, had no idea that we had moved from Sand Springs, and only had that contact info. I've searched for Juan over the years. When the internet came into my life, and email, I thought for sure that I'd be able to find him. I didn't. I trolled websites, like classmates.com, the AFS site, bulletin boards, Colombian directories, emailed strangers with the same last name --- you name it, I tried it. I even enlisted the help of a co-worker who hailed from Medellín, Colombia. Nothing. Juan was as lost to me, as his old necklace.

I awoke early the morning after Dad's surgery, and my first restless night alone in that fucking house. Not wanting to be there, I decided to go work out at 24 Hour Fitness. To do this, I needed to change my clothes, so I went to the back bedroom which had all of my stuff. The back bedroom is odd, a combination guest bedroom and dumping ground for Dad to put shit he didn't want to deal with since he never went into that room. Most of things in that room, the furniture and photos are touchstones from my youth. The only things that represent home for me in that fucking house.

After I dressed, I stood for awhile, spaced out, having only slept four hours the night before. At some point, I mindlessly walked over to an old credenza, to look at a picture of myself with an iguana. On the same shelf, was a small crystal golf ball tchotcke, a pair of Mom's clip-on sunglasses, and a broken Timex watch. I picked the watch up, and looked at the band. Then, for reasons I can't begin to explain, I dropped the watch, and grabbed the upper part of the golf ball tchotcke, which unbeknown to me was the top. Smiling, because I knew what I was going to find, I opened it up and found a safety pin, paper clip and the gold necklace and charm.

Strange, after I found the necklace, I didn't really freak out and celebrate. I didn't even put it on and wear it.

Instead, I put it on a table in that back bedroom which is where it stayed. A few days later, on a friend's advice, and after getting Dad's permission, I took all the photos of my Mom and shut them up in the closet of that back bedroom. Even though I know, in my heart, it was the right thing to do, it felt strange doing it. Stranger still, when I packed my things to leave, I ended up putting the necklace, unceremoniously in a pill container. Which is where it stayed for the next week.

I wasn't ready to wear the necklace. I know that sounds gay, but it is true. I actually felt like I lost something, not found it. It was an odd feeling, and since deep introspection ain't that easy at my pad, especially after being gone for a week, I decided to let it go, and not worry about it. Instead, for the next week, I fell back into the comfort of my day to day routine.

Only, the feeling didn't go away. If anything, it grew stronger. I eventually came to the conclusion that what I felt was different. Like I had walked around a corner or through a door. I'm not even sure what that means, because it is more a feeling than something concrete --- but the thing is, it doesn't really matter. What does matter is that on Sunday, September 30, after being home a week, I decided it was as good of a time as any to put the necklace on and start wearing it.

The very next day, I received an email from Juan.

Since then, Juan and I have traded emails and photos, and caught up with each other lives the past 20 years. In my first reply, the one where I told him Mom died, I told the strange story of the necklace.

Juan's reply:
"So you got your necklace story, I've got mine. I recently went to a family reunion, and we were drinking, and I got very sentimental. I was telling Pili (his wife) that I felt very bad because I couldn't find you, that I didn't know about you, and I started to cry. Mattias and Miranda (his children, who are 4 and 7) see me, and ask me why I'm crying and so upset, so I sat them down and told them all about you, and the year I lived in Sand Springs. The next day Mattias was walking around saying, STTUUAARRRRRRT, he was practicing the 'RRR' sound. Last Saturday, before he went to soccer practice, he came up to me and said, 'Papi, why don't you just call STTUUAARRRRRRT', so today I was thinking about it all day long, And I decided to go to this website and I saw your message with your contact info. Life moves and uses different channels. Bueno hermano mio, no te imaginas lo feliz que estoy de haberte encontrado nuevamente. Un gradne abrazo para Carter..."

I've had some bizarre shit happen this past year. Synchronistic things. Stuff that makes you appreciate how funny life truly is.

It's like Douglas Adams said: "I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be."

I thought I'd find closure on the beach in Galveston the third week in September. Instead, I found it in that fucking house in Houston. Life is funny.

Until I BLOG again...Leave it behind.

It's just a moment - Part 2

Read Part 1

---

Wy: "I hate Sea World!"
Me: "What? Why???"
Wy: "They don't have Transformers."
Me: "What? It's Sea World Boy. They aren't going to have Transformer toys here, they have Shamu toys and Shamu shirts. Stuff like that."
Wy: "I hate Shamu!"
Me and Wy in a gift shop at Sea World on my 40th birthday

---

Whoever designed Sea World is a genius. An evil genius.

Consider this. It is nearly impossible to leave Sea World without first exiting through a gift shop.

Dig if you will a picture, of Team Tinsley trying to leave Sea World after a long, tiring, and expensive day. All we (read me) want is to get out of the park, walk the mile to our car, and leave. If only. Sea World have is designed so you walk into a large gift shop on your way to the exit gate. We had to drag the Boy(s) through what amounts to a toy store full of overpriced crap to leave. It truly is genius. Evil yes. Genius never less.

You'd think that would be the end of it too. Right? Wrong.

Sea World had the brilliant idea of making each gift shop (and there are many) different. So, say you want to buy shark stuff, like the crap you saw earlier that day in the gift shop that was outside the shark area. Don't expect to buy it at the exit point gift shop of Sea World. No. The rat bastard planners are smarter than me. They'd rather we trek across the park to the shark gift shop. I guess they figure we'd (and you) will spend more money if you are stuck in their park.

I tell you that for this.

Our first planned stop on day two at Sea World (after the body cavity search and big brother ticket scan at the gate) was to visit the shark area of Sea World so the Boy(s) could visit the shark shop and buy crap that they couldn't find at the end of the line gift shop the night before.

Unbeknownst to me (I was probably busy playing pack mule) my Lovely Bride had made this deal with the Boy(s). She told them, after we visited shark city toys, we would go to the Anheuser-Busch hospitality building which is caddywampus from the shark shop. This was in honor of my 40th birthday.

Did you know that Anheuser-Busch owns Sea World? That in many ways, the entire park is nothing more than a giant, interactive advertisement, disguised as a family friendly vacation? Seriously. "Hey kids, let's take a picture in front of the statue of the world famous Anheuser-Busch clydesdale. Or better yet, in the stable with the little jackass from that famous Super Bowl ad."

Do the folks at A-B think that I'll by waxing down memory lane in the Buck Rogers future, stumble across the Sea World vacation pics, see the jackass photo, and have the urge to dust my ass down to piggly wiggly for a sixer of ice cold Busch beer?

The A-B hospitality building is nothing more than a shrine to A-B, with comfortable seats and two free beers. The plan was for us to enjoy our two free beers (next time I think I'm bringing a disguise or two, so I can cheat their system) and then go to the beluga whale show.

It was a sound plan, except for one thing. Both the Boy(s) couldn't find a toy they wanted at the shark shop, thus were in a foul mood as we entered the A-B hospitality building. Did I mention it was raining?

The A-B building was full of wet and frazzled parents trying to enjoy their beers (read me and my Lovely Bride) while their sullen children waited impatiently (read the Elder Boy) or ran amok (read The Little Warrior.)

Half way through my second beer (a surprisingly nice stout from A-B - who knew the even made a stout?) the Elder Boy, who was not happy to be in the A-B shrine for my birthday (If drinking beer made it my birthday, I'd be 8,000 years old by now) said, I shit you, not: "I wish it wasn't your birthday!"

Ouch.

I should have stood up and let him kick me in then nuts. We didn't have time though, the beluga show was starting in 10 minutes and we had to run to the other side of the park (in our pongos!)

Until I BLOG again...Don't say that later will be better.

I Rise, I Fall

I love Rick(y) Nelson. Always have. Even as a Boy named Stu, living in Oklahoma, I would watch The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet, and especially dig the episodes in which Rick(y) sang a song.

I tell you that for this.

My parents bought me Legacy, Rick(y) Nelson's box set for my 34 birthday. That was July 2001. My Lovely Bride was just out of her first trimester with the Elder Boy.

Naturally, I spent a lot of time listening to Legacy. It was my soundtrack of sorts, to impending fatherhood.

When Ethan was born, I didn't know any lullabies. Because of my ignorance, I decided to make a deep cut Rick(y) Nelson song my de facto lullaby for Ethan. I Rise, I Fall is that song. I can't begin to count the times I've sang it to him the past 5 1/2 years. Anytime I hear the song, I'm flooded with powerful memories of E as a baby, or toddler. Him in my arms, as I walked the floors, doing my patented baby dance/walk move. Always singing that song (Wy's song, for those playing along at home, You're Nobody Til Somebody Loves You by Dean Martin.)

Today, I Rise, I Fall is a poignant reminder of the passing of time.

This past week, as we prepared for Ethan's first day of kindergarten, I've been reading old BLOG entries as well as looking at old pictures on shutterfly. I'm amazed by how much things have changed. Almost as if overnight. When I wasn't paying attention.

All week, I've been trying to figure out a way to do a proper BLOG entry for this occasion. This BLOG by design is nothing more than my attempt to create a chronicle for the Boy(s) in that distant Buck Rogers future. Thus, today's entry is important.

The thing is --- I got nothing. Words escape me. All I got is this wistful feeling deep in my gut, and the closing narration from the TV show the Wonder Years stuck in my head. "Growing up happens in a heartbeat. One day you're in diapers, the next day you're gone."

I know Ethan is far from gone, it is after all, only kindergarten. Still, like another time when I had a hard time saying good bye to a turtle named Tula, I realize today is just one more step of many, away from me, and his Mom.

That is as it should be. That knowledge however, doesn't make it easier. Especially for me, a guy who has a hard time letting go.

So, today, in honor of that big step forward, I want to look back with wonder via the video below. Today, has proven yet again, that time passes so quick. Savor it. Blink your eyes, Dear Reader, growing up does happen in a heartbeat.

Until I BLOG again...Since I'm that much a part of you.

It's just a moment - Part 1

"Wow. It looks like we actually had a good time."
My Lovely Bride's reply upon viewing our vacation photos

---

Traveling with small Boy(s) is hard.

Those shiny happy people pics I posted, are only one side of the vacation coin, and a disservice to anyone crazy enough to compare their vacation to the pictorial presentation of ours. Sure, we had fun (the Boy(s) are still talking about the trip, which is huge considering their attention spans.) But on the flip flop and fly, there were many not so fun moments. Some were just plain shitty.

Like Wednesday, July 25th, at 5:50pm. It was 11 minutes before I turned 40 (Pop always told me that 6:01pm was my birth time so that was when I officially turned whatever age I was turning.) I was in New Braunfels, standing in the parking lot of the Heidelberg Lodges with the contents of our largest suitcase strewn around my feet.

"Man," said a guy on his lodge porch watching me unpack as he drank a Miller Lite, "That sucks."

I nodded in agreement as I stared incredulously at the empty suitcase that had, until a few second before, contained every stitch of clothing the Boy(s) and I had brought on vacation.

My disbelief quickly segued into anger and before I could stop myself I said, "Motherfucking Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!"

Now it was the guy's turn to nod and stare incredulously at me, a crazy man cursing Ninja Turtles in the parking lot, because he had dumped the contents of his suitcase in a wet and muddy parking lot.

"Happy Fucking Birthday." I added as an afterthought. The guy didn't hear me though. He had went into his lodge.

Can't say I blame him. He probably thought I was going to go postal. I didn't. Actually, I felt more like crying, as I stood there thinking about all the little things that had gone awry on my 40th birthday. Insult to injury I guess. Fortuna can be one sadistic bitch.

---

My day began innocently enough, 10 hours earlier in San Antonio. It was raining --- hard --- which was a problem. You see, Dear Reader, it was moving day for the Team. In my infinite wisdom, I had agreed that Wednesday (which was my birthday) could be the day we checked out of our San Antonio hotel, visited Sea World for Day 2, and then drove up to New Braunfels for the second half of our trip. I figured, based on the ride into San Antonio, we could easily leave Sea World by 3pm and by 6:01pm, I would be checked into the new hotel, unpacked, and relaxing with a cold beer on the cool Comal.

I should have known things weren't going to go as planned, when My Lovely Bride reminded Wy before breakfast that is was my birthday. His response: "I want it to be MY birthday!!!" At which point, he freaked out, hard.

After breakfast, and learning the weather report was not promising, we decided to augment our plan and head to Wal-Mart after we checked out of the hotel --- to buy warmer clothes, umbrellas and ponchos for Sea World.

Again, the problem with our great plan. Rain. We delayed our start as long as possible, hoping the rain would stop, or at least lighten. It didn't. We had to move, and as Dad, I was relegated to pack mule.

I don't know about you, but when the Team travels, we bring a lot of crap. I'm talking enough crap, that if you saw us, you might think we were moving. We had suit cases, bags full of reading books, coloring books, sticker books, with crayons and markers. Then each Boy had their own bag of toys they had brought on the trip. Then there were special pillows and blankets. Then there was the personal care bags (soap, shampoo, medicine, etc.,) my work-out bag, iBook bag, ice chest, food items, and then all the 'new' crap acquired while at the hotel and from Sea World Day 1.

That's a lot of crap, that I, the pack mule, had to move from our 3rd floor room to the van that was already full of Stage 2 crap for the stay in New Braunfels (fishing poles, tackle, swim towels, kick boards, swim goggles, lawn chairs, etc.) My job was to take all the crap from the room, to the van, and then organize and pack it in a way that would allow us to travel safely, and comfortably to Wal-Mart, Sea World and then, New Braunfels.

Did I mention it was raining?

Walking out of the lobby with my first load, I noted a crudely drawn sign taped to the front door that read: Sorry, we're full. Fuck me. The hotel was packed and crowded with everyone else checking out at the same time. Since it was raining, hard, their carport thing by the front door was full of vans, and SUV's trying to pack up their crap under it's shelter. The parking lot wasn't any better. Any space close to a hotel exit point was occupied. My options were to either wait for a space to open, delaying our start time even more, or suck it up and do what had to be done. Suck it did. Hard.

You see Dear Reader, the night before we had parked a considerable distance from the hotel doors. As luck would have it, in a spot that was the lowest point in the parking lot. Not only did I get to walk, with a lot of crap, in the rain, across a parking lot. When I arrived at the back of the van, I got to load while standing in a river of drainage water that came up well past my ankles.

I had hoped after my last trip (3 for those scoring at home) to the van, the carport would be open enough for me to move the van underneath it, so I could rearrange all the crap I had haphazardly thrown in before. However, when I finished, the carport thing was even busier than when I began. Again I decided to suck it up (and suck it did,) repacking the van in the driving rain, with a river of water running around my feet.

Drenched but done, the rest of the Team loaded in the van and we headed to Wal-Mart to get our day started. An hour later (can you believe finding warm clothing, ponchos, and umbrellas in a San Antonio Wal-Mart in late July isn't that easy?) we were finally on our way to Sea World for Day 2 of family fun.

Victory? Not even close.

Still raining, we decided it would be best to suit the Boy(s) in their new clothes and ponchos (which they called pong-o's) in the van. That way they wouldn't be drenched by the time we walked from the parking lot to the park's entrance gate. As my Lovely Bride went to work on getting their new stuff ready, I got out of the van and went around back to get a warmer shirt, that I had wisely placed in my work-out bag for easy access. Behind the van, with the back up (I was using it as protection from the rain) I was pulling my yellow pong-o on when I heard The Little Warrior start complaining about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

You see Dear Reader, Wy was adamant that his new Teenage Mutant Ninja Warm Up pants from Wal-Mart (they weren't really TMNT, but similar colors) must be worn with his TMNT T-Shirt. Otherwise he didn't want to go to Sea World. Since leaving him in the van wasn't a realistic option, I decided to suck it up yet again, and try and get his TMNT T-Shirt from his suitcase. That's when I realized I had a slight problem. Wy's suitcase was also E's suitcase as well as mine. We were sharing one large suitcase. The largest one we own. That meant, based on the way I pack mule, it was at the bottom of all the crap in the back of the van.

Fuck me. Did I mention it was my birthday?

I tried to reason with Wy. I even explained my packing methodology, and how the largest bag was at the bottom, and it was raining, and I'd have to remove most of our crap to get the bag and then open it in the rain, and then try and find the shirt, etc.

He wouldn't listen. He took my lengthy explanation as a NO and freaked out, hard. So bad in fact, that my first impulse was to get into the van and leave Sea World.

I'd like to say that I didn't do that because I'm a mature father, who realized that wouldn't be fair to the Elder Boy or my Lovely Bride. That I could work it out with Wy. That's not true. The real reason. I'm cheap. Seriously. We had prepaid for our tickets and I wasn't about to lose the money. We were going to have fun, dammit!

So, for the third time in as many hours, I decided to suck it up, and unpack the van in Sea World's parking lot in the rain. Then, for what seemed like 5 minutes, I dug through Wy's, E's and my crap trying to find his TMNT T-Shirt. After I found it, I figured Wy would think I was a 'good' Daddy.

Wrong.

Instead, when I gave it to him, he freaked out, because he realized that we expected him to wear his pong-o over the freaking TMNT shirt. Pissed, I hastily threw all of our crap into the van and got back into the drivers seat, and sat through 15 hellish minutes of Wy crying. Finally, with Wy in a good enough place, we decamped and headed to the front gate for family fun.

It lasted a minute. As soon as Wy hit the ground, and started walking, he realized his pong-o was to big (they came in two sizes, adult and child) and he freak out again!

At this point, I was done. I decided to walk it off to the front gate, with the Elder Boy in tow. Five minutes later, My Lovely Bride came walking up in her lovely yellow pong-o with a wailing Little Warrior 30 yards behind her.

On hindsight, I'm surprised they even let us in the park.

Until I BLOG again...This time will pass.

Read Part 2

This is "40"

My 40th lap around El Sol happened while I was on vacation. Depending on how you score, I either turned 40 in San Antonio, or New Braunfels, which is where I was at 6:01pm, which is when I was born on July 25, 1967. I was premature by at least a month. In a hurry then. In a hurry now.

40 was hard for me. On one level, it was this big, black, over the hill, round number, birthday. Then, on another level, I was dealing with it being my first birthday since Mom died. That's a hard one. When the person who gave you life, is no longer alive to acknowledge the day that commemorates the event.

The coup de grâce though was that my 40th birthday, which was on Wednesday, fell on the 40th week mark of Mom's death, which occurred on a Wednesday. Seriously.

So yet again, I ask myself, what does it mean, if anything? You'd think, at 40, 40! I would have some idea. I don't. Actually it is the exact opposite. The older I get, the less (I feel) I know.

I've been trying to put 40 in context the past week, spending a lot of time trying to remember what my parents were like when they were 40.

Jerr turned 40 in 1977, I was 10. Mom, turned 40 in 1981, I was 14. Looking back, I can't recall them well at 40. Since they were my parents, they always seemed so much older than me ---- 40 seems ancient when you are 10 or 14. I can't even imagine what it will seem like for my Boy(s) who are 5 1/2 and 3 1/2. Fuck me.

Looking back on my 40th, I have to say, it sucked. The thing I realize now, hindsight and all that, is that short of a resurrection my birthday had no chance of not sucking. It was what it was. Hard.

So, Happy Birthday to me, now that I'm officially middle age. That's not even true. Fuck, if I'm Mom, I have 25 years left. She died at 65. Her Mom, old granny, is 84, and going strong. If I get that, I'm not even there. The thing. I don't know.

You won't either Dear Reader.

So my advice is this: live.

Until I BLOG again...(Will I?) sing a new song.

Memories are made of this

For those that care, Team Tinsley Summer Vacation Photo action.

Until I BLOG again...These are the dreams you will savor.

I'm a 2,000 man

I turn 40 on July 25. Forty. Over the hill. Middle age. 40.

A week ago, which was the two weeks until I turn 40 mark, I found myself watching Thundarr the Barbarian with the Boy(s).

Thundarr rocks. Seriously. I loved that cartoon as a kid, and even though I hadn't seen it in over 20 years, I still dug it, hard. The Boy(s) too. They really got into Thundarr, which was icing on the birthday cake I didn't want.

In fact, we were so fired up about Thundarr that we decided to watch another episode after the first finished (we were watching it On Demand for those scoring at home.)

You see Dear Reader, I missed the intro on that first episode. The Boy(s), at that point were not yet familiar with Thundarr, thus complaining about my cartoon choice in a manner that kept my attention off of the tv, and on them.

By the second episode, they dug Thundarr (The Little Warrior pronounces it Dun-R the R-bear-ing) enough to sit back and watch the intro which goes like this (you can watch it for yourself HERE thanks to the magic of the Internets:)
The year: 1994. From out of space comes a runaway planet, hurtling between the Earth and the Moon, unleashing cosmic destruction! Man's civilization is cast in ruin! You can stop. The rest is unimportant.

What is: 1994. I was married in 1994?!?

As if turning 40 wasn't hard enough, now I had the realization that a cartoon from my childhood had used a date that was then, the future, which was now, my past.

Fuck me. It was as if Ookla the Mok kicked me in the nuts. Not even foxy Princess Ariel couldn't zap me out of my funk.

The next morning, still in my, I'm old funk, I decided to break our scheduled routine, and take the Boy(s) to drop off some library books and then hit the donut shop.

On the ride to get donuts, the Elder Boy was excited about the sugar, thus talkative.

"Daddy..."
"Yes..."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Please."
"What did you like when you were young?"

Nice. Pour some salt on the wound.

"Excuse me?"
"What did you like when you were a kid?"
"What do you mean?"
"What cartoons?"
"Oh. I liked Thundarr, like we watched last night. Thundarr is cool."
"Yeah. It was cool."
At which point the Little Warrior chimed in, "Thundarr the Barbarian (which sounds like: Dun-R the R-bear-ing) is cool!"
"I liked Woody Woodpecker. Droopy. Popeye. Scooby Doo. Hong Kong Phooey. Stuff like that. Oh, I like The Three Stooges, but they aren't cartoons, they are like old movies, just short."
"What else?"
"I don't know. There were a lot on Saturday mornings."
"Saturday mornings?"

That's when I realized (like one of those bad forwarded chain emails you get that list all the things that someone born in XXXX never experienced) the Boy(s) couldn't comprehend a world in which you only could watch cartoons on Saturday AM. They freak out at Old Granny's limited cable TV channel offerings. Imagine them trying to dial a pair of rabbit ears in, so they can get a UHF channel so they could watch something on TV.

"Yeah. When I was little, we only had three tv channels, and cartoons were mostly on Saturday mornings. Sometimes they were on after or before school. It depended on the station."
"REALLY?"
"Yes. When I was your age, actually until I was in high school, we didn't have VCRs. DVDs have only been around since Daddy was an adult. We had to go to the movies to see movies, or wait for them to come onto TV. Not cable tv either. Regular TV. Daddy got cable when he was a teenager."

Nothing. I'd lost him.

"Daddy also had to walk twenty miles to get to school, in the snow, uphill."
"What?"
"That's a joke."

Until I BLOG again...And my kids, they just don't understand me at all.

Won't pass me by

On my fifth father's day as a father I found myself on the phone with my father who was on his thirty ninth. I had just wished him a happy father's day, to which he had replied, same to you. I always find that odd, when he turns the happy father's day wish back at me.

As soon as our happy father's day circle jerk was over, the conversation turned to how his high school reunion was going in Tulsa. That quickly turned to a lady that he had hoped to see at said reunion.

"She's a feisty little thing. She reminds me of your Mom."
Nice, I thought, what every woman longs to hear on a date, you remind me of my dead wife.
"Jesus Dad, Don't tell her that."
"Oh, I won't...I'm not stupid."

Later in the day, watching Ninja Turtles with a feverish Little Warrior I did the math and realized that it took us about five years to have the first Boy. The memory that there had once been a time, when we feared that we'd never be able to have our own children, was, absurd. Two Boy(s) later, on that day, I could barely remember our trials and tribulations. It was long forgotten. Gone. Like Mom.

Pardon my cliche, but seriously, snap your fingers. We'll be in the Buck Rogers future and that version of the Boy(s) will be reading this maudlin shit.

I hope those future versions are happy. That's all I really want for either of you.

Until I BLOG again...Like the fool I am, and I'll always be.

Into a brand knew trip

The Little Warrior loves Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Being a second child, many of the things that Wy has, or likes, are what his big brother liked or had. Not Ninja Turtles. They are Wy's alone, even though he can't say 'ninja' --- Wy pronounces it 'jinjun.'

The other night found me in the front room trying to explain the plot of Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest to the Elder Boy when Wy hollered at me from the back of the house. My room to be exact. He was watching his beloved Ninja Turtles on DVD, and wanted me to operate the remote control and select another episode.

I was glad for an excuse to leave the front room and my explanation of Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest. You try explaining that movie to a five year old.

In the bedroom, Wy was standing in front of the TV (which sits on my dresser,) pointing at the screen and the episode he wanted me to select. Mind you, Wy can't read.

Following orders, I selected his chosen episode, and walked to my closet to change my clothes. Undressing, I watched Wy climb onto our bed to watch the opening credits. As soon as the song fired up, Wy started doing what looked like a 1970s era Elvis karate demonstration. He was punching, kicking, and bouncing. He also sang every fifth word.

Since I was laughing, I was caught off guard when Wy jumped off the bed and ran to the same position he had been when he selected the episode. At first I thought he was going to point something out to me on screen.

As usual, I was wrong.

Instead, Wy tucked into a ball, and did this crazy ass run and roll move, that stopped short when he crashed into the dresser. Hard. So hard that Ruby the dog poked her head out from under the bed (where she was more than likely eating the stuffing from the underside of the box springs) to see what the ruckus was all about. Wy was fine though. He popped right back up, as if it was all planned, and started doing the kung fu moves through the remainder of the opening.

22 minutes later deja stu. I was back in the front room still trying to explain the plot of Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest to the Elder Boy (what's worse, that I can't explain the plot or that I let him watch this movie in the first place?) when Wy hollered at me from the bedroom to operate the remote control.

After selecting the next episode, which Wy picked from the screen, I stuck around to watch his kung fu show. This time he stayed on the bed, and didn't do the crazy roll thing, which offered me the chance to see what was on screen when he had done it earlier.

You see Dear Reader, Wy Wy wasn't doing a karate move. It wasn't kung fu. No. What Wy did at the 46 second mark of the intro, which you can watch for yourself HERE, was try and breakdance. Seriously.

Until I BLOG again...Everybody was kung-fu fighting.

Alone in the modern world

Considering I only had drank a couple of beers, I was surprised that my monkey brain had a love monkey on it's back as it compared Rick Springfield to Nostradamus. But there I was, at the Old 97's show watching a guy dance with his cell phone, thinking to myself how prescient Rick Springfield had been way back in 1984.

At first I thought the guy, let's call him Rick, was trying to snap a picture of the Old 97's on stage. That's what most everyone else was doing with their phones. In fact, the House of Blues has a fan forum on their site where you can post photos.

After a few minutes, I realized Rick wasn't taking pictures. The tall guy in front of him, who I thought might be blocking his shot, causing Rick to dance around, left to get a beer. Rick's view to the stage was unobstructed, yet he continued to gyrate with his phone outstretched from his body, as he passed it back and forth between hands. He looked strange enough that my Lovely Bride took note. Strange enough that if I had had a camera on my cell phone, I would have taken a picture of Rick and posted it on the HOB's Fan Forum.

Trying to give Rick the benefit of the doubt, I next thought he must be sending text messages to friends. I could dig that. If I weren't so cheap, and hadn't asked Verizon to disable my text feature, I could see myself sending someone like DHdN a text message that read, 'I'm @ Old 97s show. I rock. U suck.'

Rick wasn't texting though. I watched his phone hand(s) through most of Designs on You, and he never once touched the keypad in a manner that would be required to text. It was more like Rick was caressing the phone as he danced to the music.

It was odd. One of the most bizarre things I've seen this year.

Rick was at the Old 97's show, on a Friday night, by himself, dancing with his phone.

Lest you think I'm making this all up for your BLOG pleasure dig this. Toward the end of the show, My Lovely Bride leaned back and said, "See that guy over there," as she pointed at Rick, "he loves that phone."

Until I BLOG again...Scared and isolated in the modern world.

Surrender

Mother's Day was a motherfucker.

I'm still reeling from it. No big surprise I guess. It was my first Mother's Day sans Mother. But still, I tried so hard to brace myself against all that. I didn't want to give in to it. I didn't want to take anything away from the other Mother's in my life. My Lovely Bride. My Mother-In-Law. My Grandma. I thought I could, I thought I would, be able to weather the storm.

I was wrong. I didn't realize how wrong until I walked Ruby the dog the Saturday evening before Mother's Day. That's when synchronicity jumped out of the bushes and kicked me in the nuts. Hard.

You see Dear Reader, I associate certain songs with the death of my Mom. Kite. Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own. One Step Closer. Those songs are my soundtrack.

The way it went down is like this. My weekend started off on a positive note, literally. On Friday, I took My Lovely Bride to see The Old 97's, play the new House of Blues Dallas. A day before the show, I set my iPod, which is how I listen to music in my car, at home, to an Old 97's/Rhett Miller playlist.

That is where it stayed until Saturday evening when I walked Ruby the dog. At that point, I'm not even sure why, I decided to switch the iPod to my U2 playlist. It contains (I recently purchased the Boy and October albums) 113 songs.

All of my playlists, actually anything that plays on my iPod, shuffles. That means songs play in a random order.

On that Saturday night, walking Ruby, song number 10 (out of 113) was Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own. That song always gets me, but the fact that it was song 10, when Mom's birthday was October 10th, and the night before Mother's Day, I cried. There I was, walking the mongrel around the block, crying. Fuck me.

I looked goofy. I certainly didn't want to return home in that state so I extended the walk. We went far enough to reach song 17. It was Kite. That was more than I could take. Half way through I turned my iPod off, dried my eyes, and went home.

Fast forward Sunday morning coming down. Mother's Day. My Lovely Bride took the Boy(s) to Sunday school to give me some space. Home alone with time to kill before 11am services, I decided to go to the health club.

As you've read, I listen to my iPod in the car. I also killed Kite, mid song the night before. Thus, when i fired up my iPod on my way to exercise it was in the middle of Kite. It being Mother's Day, I decided to listen to the song from the beginning.

I cried. Fuck me. Crying and driving as I made my way to 24Hour Fitness. In fact, I was crying hard enough that I didn't hear the low intro for song 18, which was none other than One Step Closer. I damn near wrecked my car.

On that day, Mother's Day, my first since Mom died on October 18th, One Step Closer was the 18th song.

A week later and well, I'm still reeling from it. Like someone ripped a scab off an old wound.

My distress was visible to the rest of the Team. At some point, on Mother's Day, the Elder Boy asked his Mom how to write something for a card he wanted to make me. He's just five, so his ability to read and write are just beginning. He can spell his name. He knows how to read and write Love. Other words, well you have to write them for him and he copies them when he makes a card, or draws a picture.

***********************

Monday morning coming down, as I was giving E a kiss good-bye, he handed me the card.

On the front were hearts that he had drawn. On the left inside panel there was a smiling face. I guess it might be a self portrait of him. I'm not sure, I wasn't able to ask him at the time because of what he'd written on the right inside panel.

Written there, in his tender, five year old style was this: Daddy, I'm sorry that Granny Died. Ethan.

Until I BLOG again...It's in the street getting under my feet, It's in the air, it's everywhere I look for you.

In my room I want you here

God bless Ruby the dog. I love her. The Boy(s) love her. I think My Lovely Bride even loves her, although she won't kiss Ruby. My point -- believe when I say, Ruby is loved at Casa Tinsley, even though she's crazy. Seriously. Ruby is nuts.

The dog is is a kleptomaniac mongrel who loves nothing more than to destroy items made of wood, plastic and rubber. Ruby has destroyed numerous flip flops and wrecked a $40 pair of Wy Wy's shoes. She mangles toys. Shreds pencils. Punctures balls. Mutilates stuffed animals. She eats stuffing from the underside of the box springs on our bed. Ruby even defiled a crucifix. A week after that incident, I was surprised that Pastor Jack's fingers didn't ignite when he blessed Ruby. Not that it took.

My Lovely Bride accuses me of being negative. That's what she said when I claimed the gonzo dog lady lost Ruby's papers on purpose. I figured Ruby's file was more a rap sheet than vet and shot records. I thought that was the reason Ruby was imprisoned in the first place. Why the gonzo dog lady had to save her. Why she ended up in the cavalcade of unwanted dogs. Because she was crazy. I surmised the dog lady felt if she didn't send the papers to us, we would become attached to Gretchen (that was her name then,) before we realized she was nuts.

On a recent Saturday morning, after Ruby peed on our red rug for the second time in a week, I wanted to ask my Lovely Bride if she still felt I was being negative with my theory on Ruby's missing paperwork.

I didn't though. I was scared. My Lovely Bride was livid. It being the second infraction that week she punished Ruby, hard. Then she banished her to the back yard. Ruby ended up in the garage. A few hours later, my Lovely Bride long gone on an errand, The Elder Boy, Ruby's biggest advocate, asked if she could come inside. I agreed to exonerate Ruby, and let her back in the house. Only one problem. Ruby was gone.

I freaked.

You see, Dear Reader, our fence is about to fall over. Multiple holes. Places to escape. I feared that Ruby, upset over her punishment, might have said, screw this family, I'm out of here. Ruby is obviously a survivor. In fact, she's been saved three times if you count the Pastor Jack blessing. Ruby or Gretchen could be a recidivist. Some sort of career criminal, or a dog version of one. Gone.

I searched the backyard, the front yard, the alley trying to find Ruby (she turned up in a far corner of our garage, sandwiched between the back wall and an old cafeteria style table.) As I searched, I realized that gonzo dog lady was correct. I was attached to the mongrel. Sure, I had been furious with her an hour ago, but now, which was then, walking through the muck in the alley, I was upset. How would I ever be able to tell E, Ruby was gone. He sleeps with her every night. Talks to her in that sing-song baby voice. Both Boy(s) play with her. They grab, pull, tug and chase her. She doesn't nip at them when they are rough. She doesn't growl. She puts up with whatever they dish out with aplomb.

Ruby might be crazy. No. Ruby is crazy. Normal dogs don't refuse to go outside, only to urinate on the rug five minutes later. Normal dogs don't hop around like a crazed goat, unprovoked, nearly every night around 8pm, barking. Normal dogs don't urinate on the cement patio instead of the grass. Normal dogs don't break into your closet, pilfer your flip flops, and then eat them. Ruby is the antithesis of normal.

The thing I realized in the alley that Saturday is this: Ruby has to be crazy to live with us.

Until I BLOG again...So messed up I want you here.

We got no class

"Bye Ethan," I said, "Give me a kiss."

"Bye Daddy."

"Have a good day at school." I said as I walked out of my bedroom where the Elder Boy was watching Avatar.

Remembering the date, and that his graduation from day school was next Friday (he goes to Kindergarten next year!), I stopped at the bedroom door and said, "You know Boy, you only have about a week of school left. Until summer. Did you know that?"

He stopped watching the cartoon, which is impressive in and of itself, and replied, "I know." Thought for a moment, and continued, "I'm going to miss it."

"I know son." I said, as I walked out of the bedroom, "One door closes and another opens."

Until I BLOG again...And we got no principles.

Shambala

Frank Sinatra was right. Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week. Or was, for me, wiping shit off a Boy in the parking lot of a dirty mingo store in Centerville.

I guess it isn't a totally awesome Mr. Mom trip unless we have urine, shit, or puke.

This misadventure, like most, came out of nowhere. We were enjoying a peaceful drive back home after a busy weekend in Houston. Even though it was around Wy's normal bedtime, he had been asleep for nearly an hour. Ever since we left Pops house. E wasn't asleep yet, but quietly watching Night at the Museum on my iBook. Me. I sat at the helm, listening to Coffee Break Spanish on my iPod, trying to get my Okie tongue to properly pronounce 'Soy de Málaga, pero ahora vivo en Madrid.'

It was peaceful. Not that it would last.

"ETHAN!!!!!!! Wy screamed from the seat directly behind me. "ETHAN!!!!!!!!!!! NO...NO...NO!!!!!!!!"

"Ethan, what did you do to your brother?"

"ETHAN!!!!!!!!!!!" Wy screamed.

I couldn't see Ethan in the rearview mirror thing that allows us to see the Boy(s) in their car seats without turning our head. It was dark.

"Ethan. What did you do." Like it mattered. Wy was awake now, and furious.

"ETHAN!!!!!" Wy screamed, one last time, and then started crying. Hard.

He cried the next ten miles. At one point, the Elder Boy had the audacity to ask me to make him stop crying - so he could hear his movie.

"Payback, Boy." I replied, "Payback," and went back to my lesson, "Éste es mi marido."

A few moments later, Wy abruptly quit crying, and said in a calm voice, as if he just remembered, "Dad, I need to poop."

"You need to poop?" You got to love my classic father-of-the-year move of repeating something as a question. I'm such an idiot. Like I'm going to get a different reply.

"Dad. I need to poop...now."

"Mierda." Mark and Kara would be so proud.

"Wy Wy, You need to hold it. There's no where for us to stop. As soon as I see an open mingo store, or gas station, Daddy will stop...it might be a few minutes though."

"I want to poop at home."

Perfect. You try explaining the concept of miles and drive time to a three year old who has just been rousted from golden slumbers, only to realize he has to crap.

"Wy. That won't be possible. We won't be home for two hours. I doubt you can hold it that long. Just try and hold it until we can get to a gas station."

"No. Poop at home."

"Son, that's not realistic." Maybe he's scared I thought. Big public toilet without the benefit of his Dora the Explorer seat. "Daddy, will help you."

"I need to poop."

"I know son. You need to hold it until we can stop at a gas station."

"It's coming out!"

"What!?!?

"My poop!"

"Wy. Do you want...need me to stop now? We can try to poop outside."

"It's dark."

"I know bub. Daddy would help you. Be with you. If you can't hold it. I could put a diaper on you?!?"

Looking back now, I believe he might have let me stop and help him crap outside. Or put a diaper on him, if the Elder Boy hadn't picked that moment to chime in and help.

"Wyatt. Poop outside," Ethan said, in a saccharine voice that was a set up for his finish, "LIKE A DOG!"

"I'M NOT A DOG!!!!!!" Wyatt erupted. "I'M NOT A DOG!!!!!!"

"Ethan, you're not helping. Be quiet. I mean it." To prove that I did in fact, mean it, I reached around and grabbed his left leg with my right hand and squeezed slightly as a warning. "I'm not kidding."

"I'M NOT A DOG ETHAN!!!!!!!!!"

"Wyatt. Settle down. It's ok. Do you need for Daddy to stop? Or can you hold it. I don't want you to poop in your pants. I can put a diaper on you..."

I love my Boy(s). Really. I get mad at them, angry at times, all the normal emotions, but I rarely get so upset by something they've done to say that I hate it. I hate what Ethan said next. "Wy poops in his pants like a baby."

Sweet Mother of all that is good - hell broke loose.

"I'M NOT A BABY! NOT A BABY! NOT BABY!!!!!!"

The Little Warrior was rabid, screaming, crying, and thrashing around his car seat, trying to get free to pummel his brother who was just out of his reach.

"Wy Wy settle down." I said. "Ethan, dammit, I want you to be quiet! You're not helping. Wy Wy, son, settled down...Wy Wy. Settle down..."

"NOT A BABY! NOT A BABY! NOT BABY!!!!!!"

"Wy Wy calm down."

And he did. The fight left him and he settled into his seat and cried, softly.

"Wy Wy," I said. "I can see the lights for Centerville on the horizon. Daddy will stop. Hold on."

Nothing. Wy just sat behind me, in the darkness, crying. At first it was soft, but it slowly built into full on sobbing. It was bad enough to transform the Elder Boy from asshole instigator into a concerned and sympathetic brother.

"Wy." Ethan said, in the same sweet voice he uses to baby talk Ruby the dog, "Daddy is going to stop. It's ok. It's alright"

As an only child, I'm amazed at how fast the Boy(s) can go from trying to kill each other, to moments such as this.

"Ethan's right, bub. Daddy is going to stop. I see the sign for the gas station now. Just a few more minutes. Hold on."

It was to late of course. When Wyatt exploded with rage, I think his bowels exploded too. The smell let Ethan and I know he hadn't made it before we came to a complete stop at the side of the mingo store. Wy was so upset at this point, he couldn't even talk well enough to tell us he didn't make it. "I...I...I...Po...Po...Po..."

"It's ok son. It isn't your fault. Settle down. Daddy is here. Ethan is here. We'll get you fixed up...I promise. You have nothing to be ashamed of...we love you."

"It's ok Wy." Ethan added, in that same Ruby the dog voice. "It's going to be ok."

Only thing. It wasn't ok. It was horrible. Wy was inconsolable. Shaking. It was heart wrenching. There was no way I'd ever get him and Ethan into the store. Even if I did manage I had no idea how I would clean him. Dip him in the toilet bowl? The sink? I actually wondered if they had a hose around back. I didn't have many options. On that Saturday night, that little Centerville mingo store was hopping like the Quicktrip used to hop in my youth. It was crazy. Cars and people cruising around. Talking.

Only thing I could do was get my baby boy, who is no longer a baby, out of his car seat and hold him while the kids of Centerville cruised the mingo store parking lot. I'm sure we were quite a sight. A few even laughed at us. Not that it mattered. I only wanted to comfort Wy. To let him know it was Ok. Not his fault.

After getting Wy calmed down, I took him around to the front of the van. The passenger side to be exact, which afforded more privacy since it was the side that wasn't facing the busiest part of the parking lot. Doing a quick wipe inventory, I realized I would be hard pressed to clean up all the shit with my limited supply. I'm not that good. I had to improvise, which I did, by stripping Wy's pants, underwear and socks and using the cleaner parts of each to wipe off the initial mess. When I was done, I dropped the filthy clothes on the ground, and used all the wipes to finish the job.

"Guys, I'll be right back." I said, as I locked them in the car.

I took the soiled pants, underwear, and socks and walked around the side of the store looking for a trash can. As luck would have it, the one I found was full, and right next to the front door of the busy store. A couple of teen-age cowboys were standing there, talking as I walked up and said, "Shit." as I tossed the clothing into the trash. They both looked at me as if I was nuts. I further cemented there initial impression by wiping some shit off of my hands onto my shorts. I wasn't abou to go into that busy store and leave the Boy(s) alone, and as I've said, I was out of wipes.

Twenty miles later, both Boy(s) were sound asleep leaving me alone with my thoughts. I tried to listen to Mark and Kara, but I couldn't get into it. I couldn't get the thought of how sad Wy had been out of my head. How ashamed he'd seemed with himself. Before we left the mingo store I had put a diaper on him. Not because of the accident. He still wears a diaper at night. I was afraid though, that he might think I was making him wear one, because of what happened.

"Wy Wy. I said. I'm going to put this diaper on you. It's night night time. It doesn't mean you're a baby. You're a big boy."

"Daddy..."

"Yes."

"I am a big boy." He said as he smiled, all traces of his shame and sadness gone.

"Yes, son, you are." I said, as I picked him up, giving him a big hug in that dirty mingo store parking lot in Centerville.

Thinking about that conversation, twenty miles up the road, in the dark, with the Boy(s) asleep, I felt sad. At first I didn't really understand why. Any regular reader of this here BLOG know it isn't a Mr. Mom trip unless we have some misadventure. At first I chalked it up to a long weekend, and being tired. The more I thought about, I realized the reason was I was having a delayed reaction from staying at Pops house. The previous Thursday and Friday nights were only the fifth and sixth time I've slept in that house since I watched Mom die there. Driving home I became acutely aware that most everything we had done that weekend, in that house, had been right where Mom died. The hospital bed is gone of course. The oxygen machine. The smell. My Mom. All gone. But my memory of it all. Lingers.

I'm not sure why that bothers me so much. Only that it does. If only I could wipe that pain away.

Until I BLOG again...Wash away my sorrow, wash away my shame.

Time knows your done

I'm an idiot. Seriously. Who else, but me, uses their fingers to count out six months? Most could do the math in their head. Not me. I am an idiot. Which is why I sat, hands under the table, and counted on my fingers the six months Mom had left to live.

March. That was the answer. Not that it mattered. Mom died in October, six weeks after she told me she had six months. Not that that matters. Six week. Six months. Only looking back do you get an understanding of what happened and why.

I certainly didn't have a clue then. I suck in real time.

Which is why I sat in awkward silence after Mom told me her dire prognosis. Life isn't like TV or the movies. There was no sad music. No fade to black. We didn't cut to commercial. I just sat there, at that table, which incredulously was the same from my youth.

I had seen Mom smoke countless cigarettes at that table. It was (and is) one of the few tangible things that remain from my childhood home. Physical proof of a place that no longer exists, except in memory. Since my childhood that table has been in El Paso, TX. Jackson, TN. Birmingham, AL. Kingwood, TX. Finally ending up in Humble, TX, as the setting where I learned that lung cancer was going to kill my Mom. Fuck me. Irony.

I don't think Mom was bothered by my silence. She was trying to get from the kitchen, where she had been looking through a myriad of pill bottles, to the table. At that point, the cancer was in her bones. Her ischium. That's a fancy way of saying ass bone. The lesion on her ischium was where her hamstring attached. That made walking painful, and limited her range of motion. It was so limited that she had to use a walker. A week or so later she'd be in a wheelchair. A few weeks after that, well, she was dead.

I didn't know any of that then though. I just wanted to help her, literally, get to the table. She didn't like help with the walker. It pissed her off. I guess it affirmed her worse fears, and she knew in her heart there would soon come a time when she couldn't refuse help. For now, which was then, she didn't want or need it.

You would think that her slow pace would give me enough time to figure out what to say. It did not. Even now, with hindsight, I'm not sure what you should say to that kind of news. I knew enough, even then, to not ask inane questions. What good was asking if she was sure, or had a second opinion. That would only cause her to try and reassure me, when she was the one living with the fact that she had six months left to live. I would not, I did not, do that to her. I just sat in silence, searching for the right thing to say.

It never came. Not that it mattered, Mom knew what she wanted to say, when she finally arrived at the table. She wanted to apologize. Seriously. She took my hand, and said she was sorry that she was putting me, Dad, all of us through this. She blamed herself for smoking so many years, not quitting sooner. She believed she had done this to herself, and in doing that, caused her family a great deal of pain, and possible hardship. Not only emotional, also financial. Dying of cancer in our fucked up medical system isn't cheap. Finally, fighting hard to hold back the tears that were welling in her eyes, she told me she was the most sorry that she would not be around to see the Boy(s) grow.

Then we cried.

Not for long though. Soon enough Pops, My Lovely Bride, and the Boy(s) returned from buying donuts which we all ate as a family at that damn table.

Last week, I was cleaning up my work email when I stumbled upon a ghost. An email from my Mom. I had to force myself not to hit reply. As if. The email, which I have posted below, unedited, was written six months to the day before her 65 birthday. She was dead a week later. Rereading it, I wonder if Mom had any idea that she truly had six months to live when she wrote it? Did she know? Even if, did it matter?
---------------------------------
From: Joyce Tinsley
Date: Mon, 10 Apr 2006 18:06:57 -0500
Subject: Hi...Ethan and Wyatt

Stuart, got you phone call yesterday, anyway, didn't return it figured you was busy, said you get back later. I have been doing OK, took chemo tues, after you guys left, did miss all the action and going on with the boys, was fun to have them for a few days, hope they had a good time and maybe we can do this in the summer when they get out of school. Love you guys and Happy Easter

Ethan & Wyatt;

Ethan granny loves you and Wyatt, was so fun to have you both stay with granny and pops while mom and daddy went on honeymoon, Granny and pops know you will have fun on Easter, hope you and Wyatt have fun hunting easter eags and seeing the easter bunny. E-mail granny, Lots of hugs and kisses and our love....granny and pops
---------------------------
Even though I'd like nothing better than to stick my foot up the ass of Kübler or Ross, I think she was correct. Nearly six months after Mom died, I've finally hit stage five. Not that it makes it any easier. Just different.

This, Dear Reader, is my last recount of your Granny's demise. I have other stories, but for now, they are mine alone. In the Buck Rogers future, if you want to hear them (God willing and knocking on wood,) I will tell you. Face to face.

Hopefully then, I won't be such an idiot. Or at least, not suck as hard in real time.

Until I BLOG again...And in the Satellite Rides a Star.