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.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Monday, May 14, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
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.
"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.
Friday, May 04, 2007
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.
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.
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