King For A Day

Finally, the final recapitulation ---- 2009 style. Click hard for the recaps of these years: 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007 and 2008.

This whole omphaloskepsis exercise has been interesting. The early years were relatively easy to recap. I think because more time has passed, which lends itself to more perspective. Then we have 2009, which was hard to recap, mainly because I'm still too close to most of what I wrote, which is a bit sad, because I think in many ways, 2009 is the strongest year on this here BLOG. Cumulative. I found a rhythm. A sense of style. Which I like. Which is ironic considering I'm about to shut it all down. Actually. I'm going to continue to BLOG once I finish here. But it won't be the family friendly Team Tinsley kind of a blog (which is somewhat frightening considering how un-family friendly this here BLOG can be at times, with my bad language, and dark subject matter.) But that comes later. For now, we got one final recap to recap.

2009

Let There Be Love
January 07, 2009
You never really get over the death of a loved one, best I can tell. It's always there. That wound. Or sense of what you lost and all the things you wish you would have said, or done. The platitude that it gets easier with the passage of time, is true, but the thing they fail to tell you is that you'll trade the acute pain for a dull ache that you'll often feel at the big moments of life. And for me, often the smallest ones.

I wonder what's gonna happen to you
January 15, 2009
This is a companion piece to Let There Be Love in a lot of ways. The flip side. Where I out myself about being creeped out by the thought of a departed loved one watching over me from beyond.

I was made for lovin' you
February 27, 2009
This is one for the Team Tinsley record book. The first documented case of my bad sense of humor biting me in the ass at the hands of The Little Warrior. Truly classic.

The ruins to the right of me
March 17, 2009
A powerfully honest POST. So honest in fact, that I sort of cringe when I re-read it. There is also some serious subtext going on, since it was here that I made the decision I was going to pull the plug on this here BLOG soon.

Stand Up Comedy
April 08, 2009
Another entry that I heart, hard. It is even funnier to me now, considering My Lovely Bride and the Boy(s) have been awol from church for most of the year. Perhaps this is when it all began.

Horseshoes and Handgrenades
May 27, 2009
Sweet Mother of all that is good. A crazy ass wheels off post that involves Me, The Elder Boy, two seed ticks, and a pocket knife in a campground shitter in Oklahoma. Another classic.

Mirror in the Bathroom
June 20, 2009
Another post where I out myself re: my fathering skills and how I innocently messed the Boy(s) up (one of them shit in the hallway they were so afraid to go into the bathroom!) by telling them how Bloody Mary worked.

Yakety Yak
August 13, 2009
Funny post about cleaning out the Elder Boy's room. Does a good job of capturing (for posterity) our personalities and household dynamics circa 2009.

42
August 27, 2009
The best example ever, of how bad I suck in real time. Some heavy shit in this post as I realize some startling truths. One, from September 12, 2009 is a half ass epilogue to 42.

The Emperor's New Clothes
September 02, 2009
A funny yet simple, day in the life kind of entry that chronicles Wy's curious tendencies in regard to clothing, and his hate for hard pants (a.k.a jeans.)

Until I BLOG again...So listen...

And the train conductor says

To recap the recaps: 2004, 2005, 2006 and 2007.

2008

I'm in the sky tonight
January 18, 2008
A historical (from a family point of view) entry that brings up the question of what those that remain behind should do with the remains of thier loved ones.

Barracuda
March 15, 2008
Another favorite of this here BLOG that I forgot even existed (that's what happens when you have 269 entries.) Brings back all the issues E had with kindergarten, as well me realizing that even though I want to be Crush the Turtle (from Finding Nemo.) I'm Marlin. It wasn't my intent at the time, but this post ended up being the first entry in what I'll dub my 'Sea Triology.' Swallowed in the Sea - May 13 is part 2. Such Great Heights - June 17 is the epilogue. Sadly, Molly the Dog who played a small part in these stories was put to sleep in late November 2009.

Story of my Life
May 01, 2008
Necessity is the mother of all invention, or so it seems with this Mr. Mom meets MacGyver smash-up where i fashion a band-aid out of a maxi-pad for the Younger Boy.

Boulder to Birmingham
June 21, 2008
Often for me, an entire entry will spring forth from a random sentence that comes to mind when I'm thinking about something that has happened recently. This entry came from this: Grief is funny. And apparently has no statue of limitations. Which is true. So true.

Roll with the changes
September 17, 2008
A simple story of how quickly kids grow up, and the beauty of this here BLOG in capturing those little moments.

20th Century Boy(s)
October 08, 2008
Mr. Mom + Tushka, Oklahoma mingo store + Rubber Machines + Diarrhea = 20th Century Boy(s).

I'm not running anymore - Part 1 and Part 2
October 27, 2008 & November 7, 2008
Another wheels off Mr. Mom adventure where we ask the question: Can you lose a lost dog?

I can't change the world
November 17, 2008
Brotherly love story that warms my heart more than a year later. It does a great job of capturing the Boy(s) complicated (or are all brothers like this? As an only child it is all voodoo to me) relationship.

Money Changes Everything
December 16, 2008
I like the comment this entry got so I'll sum it up with it: "The tooth fairy is feelin' the recession? OMg that is so funny! (you know you might be going to hell, right?)"

Until I BLOG again..."Take a break drive 8, driver 8 take a break, we've been on this shift too long."

Lost in the Milky Way

Sweet mother of all that is good, there is nothing more fascinating to me as a breeder, than the difference in the Boy(s) personalities. And the way certain personality traits mirror My Lovely Bride or my own.

Take the Younger Boy. He's a chopped down version of me. Both in appearance and personality. But the thing is Dear Reader, when I was his age, I was more like the Elder Boy. Quiet. Sensitive. Bashful. I'd rather blend into a crowd or be a wall flower than be the center of attention.

For reasons I'm not exactly sure of, that changed in the 5th or 6th grade. I got over the bashful thing and became much the way I am today (which is very much like Wyatt.) Mind you I didn't really change in the way I thought about stuff. What I found funny. Or how I felt about things. All that remained the same. The difference was how I acted to the greater world about it all.

My Dad often talks about the fact that his twin was very gregarious and ornery as a kid, while he was shy and quiet. At some point their roles reversed. Much the way my personality shifted. Which is my heavy-handed set-up for this BLOG entry about my first storytime with Wyatt's kindergarten class.

One of my favorite posts on this here BLOG (It made my 2007 recap) is the story of reading to Ethan's kindergarten class. If you have the time and inclination, read it, as it illustrates better than I could ever describe, how different these Tinsley Boy(s) truly are.

Before we get started I got to make one more point, to give you context.

I'm Mr. Mom a lot these days. My Lovely Bride, back to working full-time, at the very school were storytime goes down, cannot read to Wyatt's class this year. This was not the case for Ethan's kindergarten and 1st grade year. Both My Lovely Bride and myself read often. Not Wy. He doesn't have that luxury. He only gets me. And he had to wait until December to get me because of a mix-up in my schedule and storytime back in October. This upset the Boy. For the past month or more, he'd ask when I was going to read to his class. After I'd tell him, he'd tell me how some kids had already had four parents read to the class. I would then tell him that those were children of divorce and although it might sound good, divorce sucks, the same way it sucked that I hadn't got the chance to read to his class yet. But soon.

Soon happened on Thursday, December 3, 2009 which found me in the library talking to the librarian when Wy's class filed into the room.

As soon as Wy saw me, he beamed. So excited. Priceless.

The librarian stopped the class and asked Wy to come to the front of the line. Then she took me and him to the chair at the front of the area, while the rest of his class came in and sat on the floor in front of us.

"Class let's welcome Mr. Tinsley back to storytime." The librarian said.

"Mrs. Nowacki," I said to the librarian. "This is my first time with Wyatt's class. I've done storytime this year, but it was for Ethan's class."

"Oh," she said. "Well Wyatt, can you introduce your Dad then?"

"Yes." Wyatt said, and then he walked around in front of me, in front of his class, like a mini-emcee and shouted, "This is Mr. Tinsley! My Dad!!!"

On cue his class shouted back, "Hi Mr. Tinsley!!!"

I couldn't help but laugh, not only at the class' in unison shouted greeting but because in all the times Ethan has introduced me at storytime, he hid behind me when he introduced me. In fact, you could barely hear his mumbled intro which he would say and then promptly go and sit down with his class. Usually in the back row. As far from me as possible.

Not Wyatt.

After his introduction, he spun around and grabbed the books from my hand, climbed upon my lap, got settled, and then said, "Let's go, Dad."

"Ok, then." I said to Wyatt when I noticed a little girl in the second row had her hand raised.

"Yes." I said.

"Are you Wyatt's special dad?"

"Special?" I said confused at what she meant.

Wyatt wasted no time in answering her, "No!" he shouted in that loud, husky voice of his, "He's Captain Inappropriate. It's awesome."

Then he laughed. Actually cackled, at his own bad joke which made the class bust out in laughter.

It was while the librarian was trying to get the wheels back on, and the kids quiet that I figured out what the girl meant by special.

"You mean his Grandpa?" I asked her.

The little girl, looking sheepish, nodded her head, and then said, "Yes."

"Really," I said incredulously, "I look that old?"

"YEAH!!!!" screamed the entire class.

Fuck me, thankfully I thought.

"My Grandpa is dead." Wyatt said.

Sweet mother of all that is good, Wy turned uncomfortable up to 11 with that statement.

You could feel the tension rolling off the librarian and teachers in the back of the room.

"That's not true." I said to Wyatt.

"Oh yeah," Wyatt said.

I could see the adults in back relax, until Wy shouted, again in that husky over loud voice of his, "My Granny is dead!"

"That is true." I said to the class. "Wyatt's Granny is dead."

"She was his Mom." Wyatt told the class.

"That's true." I told the class. "She was my Mom."

You got to love kids. While the adults in back were stressing, the kids sat there watching the Captain Inappropriate and his trusty sidekick, The Little Warrior show, unfazed.

"Ok." I said finally. "Let's get started. But first I have to ask you all something. Something important."

They all looked at me. Intently.

"Really?!? I look like his Grandpa?"

They all nodded their heads, slowly, and said, "Yes."

"Awesome!"

Until I BLOG again...For the Life of Riley.

Mad World

"I wrote a story." The Elder Boy said, apropos of nothing, as he was getting ready for school a week or so in the rearview.

"Really? What about?" I asked.

Nothing. Just an ornery smile.

"What about?" I asked again. With his shit-eating grin I knew there had to be more to the story about his story.

"About Rudolph." He said. "We had to draw a Christmas picture and then write a story to go with it."

Then he laughed.

"Is there something about your story that is funny?" I asked.

"Yeah..."

"What?"

"Well, you know the story of Rudolph, right?"

Fuck me. Patronized by a 7 year old.

"Yes." I answered. "I know the story of Rudolph."

"Well you know how the other reindeer are mean to Rudolph...well in my story Rudolph goes into Santa's shop in the middle of the night and makes a gun and then..." He paused for dramatic effect. "...and kills the other reindeer."

"Excuse me?!?" I said.

"Because they make fun of him he sneaks into Santa's workshop..."

"I get it Boy. Rudolph goes postal." I said cutting him off.

"Postal?" He asked.

I cut him off again and said, "You didn't turn it in yet, did you?"

"No." He said with a puzzled look on his face.

"Thank God."

"Why?" He asked, confused.

"Dude, they'll think something is wrong with you if you turn that in...it would freak people out, bad."

"Really?"

"Really." I said. "They'll think you're crazy."

"It's just a story." He said defensively. "The other reindeer are mean to Rudolph..."

He started to explain the story again but I wasn't really listening at that point. I was busy wondering what I should do. I know my Boy. I know he's not crazy. Or at least not that kind of crazy. That he thinks too hard and has a dark sense of humor, which he more than likely gets from my demented ass.

After he was done explaining his story and drawing to me I said, "I get it son. I do. You have what they call a dark sense of humor. You get it from me. The more disturbing something is, the funnier I find it. But the thing is, in our world today, you can't do stuff like that."

"Why?" He asked.

How do you explain political correctness to a 2nd grader? And the horrible things he's never heard of that cause a certain amount of it, like the Columbine High School massacre? If I told him about that he'd never want to back to school, he'd worry so much.

"Why...it's just a story?" He said again looking for an answer.

"Son. I understand. I get it. But most people won't."

"Why?"

"Why." I said.

My go to move. Ever the dipshit. Answer a question with a question to buy time.

"Ok." I finally said. "I'm going to try and explain it to you but you need to let me get all my words out before you start asking me questions. OK?"

"Ok."

"I get that you are a sweet kid who has a dark sense of humor. I know you would never hurt anyone. You are tender hearted. Very tender hearted. You don't mean anything by the story. Well actually you do. You get the fact that the Rudolph story is sort of messed up...that the other reindeer basically drive him from his home and family because he's different. Which is disturbing. Rudolph should be pissed."

"Yeah," Ethan said. "He goes and lives with that elf and all those toys..."

"Yes," I said cutting him off. "I appreciate the fact that you look at the Rudolph story and see it for what it really is, a messed up story. I mean seriously, the other reindeer drive him away because he's different. And they only accept him when the thing they made fun of him about can help them get their job done. That's messed up. But the thing is Boy...most people don't look that deeply. They don't really think about it. Not like that. Not like you."

"Like that song about the muslins?" He said.

Fuck me. It's like I'm talking to a 7 year old version of me.

We have to back up a few days for the song about the muslims. It was a typical Mr. Mom on our way to school morn when Do They Know It's Christmas came on the radio.

"Dad." Ethan said.

"Yeah?"

"Why don't they know it's Christmas?" He asked.

"Probably because they are muslims." I said. "They lived in Ethiopia which is in Africa and many people over there are Islamic which is the same as muslims. They don't celebrate Christmas because they aren't Christians."

"Why." He asked seriously.

Not wanting to get into a full on comparative religion study on the extremely short drive to school I said, "I'll explain that later. Listen to the words of the song instead. Its a pretty song with nice voices and all, but listen to what they are saying..the words, 'There's a world outside your window, and it's a world of dread and fear, where the only water flowing is the bitter sting of tears, and the Christmas bells that ring there are the clanging chimes of doom, well tonight thank God it's them instead of you.' Pretty messed up, huh?"

"Yeah." He said. "Why?"

"Most people don't listen to it that closely." I said. "They just hear the melody and the basic message and know it's about Christmas so they don't really think about it."

"No. I meant why are they sad and it doom?" He asked.

"That song is from when I was in high school. Olden times. The 1980s. There was a famine, which means they didn't have any food, and water was hard to find in Ethiopia, which is in Africa. All these English guys formed this band and did this song and the money went to try and help the people in Ethiopia. Which is a good thing."

Fast forward to what was then, now, and I said, "Yeah, like that song about the muslims. It's the same with the story of Rudolph. Most people don't think about it that hard. At least not as hard as you."

"Why?"

"Just the way people are, Boy. Everyone is different. What makes the world go around. But the thing is if you turn your story in, more than likely you'll end up in the counselor's office having to talk about why you drew it. They might think you see yourself as Rudolph in the story. That you are going to do something violent. Or you are being picked on at school."

"Really?" He asked, completely shocked.

"Yeah. And you'd hate that wouldn't you?" I asked. "The last thing you want to do is to have to go and talk to them about a picture you drew cause you thought it was a funny twist in the Rudolph story. Violent. Yes. And bad. But funny. I'd laugh if you turned it into me, and knew you didn't really mean it. That your over-the-top violence was to draw attention to how messed up the story is..."

"What?" He asked, confused.

"That's just a fancy way of saying that you have Rudolph doing something extreme because you are commenting on, or wanting people to see certain things about the story that they might not have thought about."

"Huh?" He asked, again confused.

"You are a lot like me Boy, we think alike, and that's what I think you are doing, I'm just putting it in grown-up words," I explained. "But I think it's what is going on with your drawing and story."

At least I hope so. I thought.

"I don't think your teacher would feel the same way." I added. "Probably freak her out, bad."

"Yeah." He said.

"I have a way I think you can fix it though, if you want?"

"How?"

"Just change the gun to something not so violent. Or something that is silly violent, like they do in cartoons." I said. "I imagine reindeer would be proud of their antlers. Maybe Rudolph sneaks into the shop and gets a saw and cuts their antlers down short so they look funny. They'd all have antler envy."

"Yeah." He said laughing.

"Or he gets some paint from Santa's shop and paints the antlers funny colors so they look silly. Maybe pink. Since they are boy reindeer."

"That would be funny." He laughed.

"Or you can leave it the way you have it, I don't want to censor you, which means stop you from doing something creative, but as your Dad, I have to warn you, if you turn that in, I think it's going to have consequences you won't like. You'll get attention from it you don't want. And you'll hate that. I know you."

"But I already drew the picture." He said.

"I'm sure you can make the gun into a saw easily enough." I offered.

"Or I could start over." He said.

"Yeah. You could start over. If you want to start over. It's ultimately up to you Boy."

We were both quiet for awhile after that. I had expended more words in this one conversation than I'd probably said in the past week. Plus I couldn't help but wonder if I had handled the situation correctly.

Should I have said nothing and let him hand it in and face the consequences? To see the reaction. Maybe I was overreacting? All young boys, to some degree, go through a violent death fixated sort of stage. The again, maybe I wasn't reacting enough and should be worried about the Boy?

In the end Dear Reader, I simply don't know. I did what I thought was correct. And I hope, even pray, that time proves me right.

A day later while watching Santa Claus is Comin' to Town I asked the Boy what he ended up doing. I figured he'd censored himself to some degree since I hadn't been summoned to school for a parent teacher conference. But I wasn't sure what he actually did so I asked, "What did you end up doing. About Rudolph?"

"I did the saw." He said which sort of made me feel bad if I'm honest. I hate censoring anyone, especially my child.

"Where's Rudolph." He asked watching the part in Santa Claus is Comin' to Town when it explains why reindeer can fly.

"Keep watching." I said.

And sure enough a few moments later the show answered for me.

"Oh," he said. "Dad?"

"Yeah."

"I had another idea for a story. If I didn't do Rudolph. You know the elf guy in Rudolph? Who is different too."

"I think his name is Hermey." I said. "He wants to be a dentist instead of make toys."

"Yeah. Well I was going to have him break into Santa's shop in the middle of the night, get a tool and..."

"Dude." I said interrupting him.

"...pull out all the elves teeth."

"Nice." I said. "You and your Yuletide revenge stories."

"Yuletide?" He asked.

"That means Christmas." I answered. "But seriously Ethan. Should I be worried about you?"

"Dad." He said smiling that ornery smile.

"It's just a story."

Until I BLOG again...And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad.

I wonder

Another recap post, 2007 style (Click hard for the 2004 recap & 2005 recap & 2006 recap.)

The only way to explain 2007 is to lift some words someone wrote about me on their blog: "...and had my heart break as I read about the death of his mother and the waves of aftershocks he continues to feel."

Indeed.

2007

Save you from yourself
January 16, 2007
A 'kids eat free' rant morphs into a somber tale of how the Elder Boy thinks too hard. Wonder who he gets that from?

And liberty she pirouette
February 15, 2007
The story of how an un-wanted rescue dog named, Gretchen, became Ruby the Dog. Unexpected twist at the end as I realize, probably for the first time since I'm a dipshit, the true ramifications regarding the finality of death.

I have no more than I did before
March 20, 2007
Another wheels off Mr. Mom visit to Oklahoma resulting in the Younger Boy choking in law room conference room. Crazy. Funny. And a little sad. To this day if you offer the Younger Boy a Life Saver, he'll ask if it is spicy and then recount this story.

Time knows your done
April 05, 2007
This entry about my Mom telling me her cancer was terminal is painful for me to read. Even the one about watching her die doesn't hurt as much. I think it is because I have regret. On this, I'd like a do over please. If only.

Shambala
May 04, 2007
Mr. Mom trip = wheels off moment(s) followed by more post-Mom-death funk.

It's just a moment - Part 1 and Part 2
July 17, 2007 & September 19, 2007
A two-parter! Has the great opening quote from my Lovely Bride: "Wow. It looks like we actually had a good time." I also curse the Teenage Ninja Turtles in a rainy parking lot, frightening a fellow vacationer.

Walk On
October 05, 2007
The story behind my necklace. It is wonderfully trippy and synchronistic and hard to believe (even for me) that I didn't embellish it for dramatic effect.

The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite
October 24, 2007
Classic Team Tinsley story about me reading to E's kindergarten class and his fear of my material.

Splish Splash
November 12, 2007
This post is timely (Wy just lost his first tooth on December 4, 2009.) We had been teasing him all week about letting E have the honors based on this very anti-Ozzie and Harriet moment.

This is what I do
December 07, 2007
This is a companion entry to the The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite, and proof that My Lovely Bride deserves danger pay for putting up with my goofy ass.

Until I BLOG again...I keep on hoping for a new day, will I ever feel the same?

At the altar of the dark star

As promised in that end is nigh BLOG, these recap posts are self serving, and really nothing more than my dumb ass trying to make some sort of sense out of 265 entries on this here BLOG (Click hard for the 2004 recap & 2005 recap.) Which brings us to 2006.

If two words can define a year, my two words would be this: Fuck Me. 2006 sucked. Hard.

Looking back from the vantage of now, it is interesting to see how many of these posts deal with Mom dying of cancer. Even in the ones that never mention her or it specifically. It is there. Casting a powerful dark shadow over damn near anything and everything I touched.

If I learned anything from 2006, Dear Reader, it is this (lifted from The Little Prince, which you should read, if you haven't:) "It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

Our culture isn't one that prepares us to deal with death. We like to stay away from it. Hide it. Not talk about it. Which is well and good until that inevitable day you are forced to deal with it, head on. That was 2006. Fuck me, indeed.

2006

Pop!
January 09, 2006
The first time I trotted out my Fuck cancer mantra, and one of the first posts that deals specifically with Mom's illness, albeit in a very elliptical sort of way.

Dino-Mite!
January 16, 2006
I heart this post. Truly. It is quintessential Elder Boy. Perfectly capturing his cautiousness while still showing his inherent sweetness. It also does a good job of capturing my goofy ass, what with my bad stock jokes and healthy fear of germs.

Those are some great names
February 06, 2006
Another post chronicling my bad sense of humor. I mean really, who else but me, thinks about porn while shopping for Rescue Heroes at Toys 'R Us.

The truth is the truth
July 17, 2006
Without a doubt, and to date, the most upset I've ever been with The Elder Boy.

When you said to me
August 06, 2006
At first glance, this entry might seem a bit mundane until you consider this. It is the first time I explain myself in regard to typing Dear Reader. It is also the first time I provide an actual out link to the video of the song I'm referencing in the title of the post.

Who's to say where the wind will take you?
August 29, 2006
Of all the posts dealing with Mom's demise, this and this are the most painful for me to read.

Am I too late?
October 18, 2006
One of my favorite Little Warrior stories. A brief ray of light in an otherwise dark time for this Team of Tinsleys.

I have got to leave to find my way
October 20, 2006
Since this is omphaloskepsis, let me state my love of the opening line: "Anger is easy. If anyone knows that, it is me." The balance of the BLOG however tells the very real story of how doing the right thing can feel wrong.

Filled with imperfect thought
October 30, 2006
This entry, about watching my Mom die, along with The Revenge of Matt Pogue bring the most people to the Team Tinsley BLOG via search engines. God only knows what they must think when they read my thoughts on Gone From My Sight, The Dying Experience by Barbara Karnes (which as I wrote is a truncated inverse version of What to Expect When You are Expecting.)

Filled with imperfect thought
November 10, 2006
A Boy named Stu versus the five stages of grief. Grief wins of course, adding insult to injury with me breaking down to The Living Years. Which is kind of funny. What is not, is me sharing more details of Mom's final days and the fact that her mortal remains were carried away (as it rained) in the back of a Dodge Caravan. Fuck me.

Post hoc ergo propter hoc
December 29, 2006
Man, oh, man. How prescient my title was for the final post of 2006. After this, therefore because of this. I also got to love my lead, "Where's her head." Truth really is stranger than fiction.

Until I BLOG again...Counting down ’til the pain would stop.

I don't know where I'm going

Omphaloskepsis, 2005 style. I got away from the dear diary vibe of 2004. Experimented with content outside the realm of Team Tinsley. And penned what is probably one of the funniest things that has ever happened to me (Hope Springs Eternal.) Actually two (If you smile through...) I also started using the term Mr. Mom (something I still do.) And penned what I consider my first truly good blog post about a Turtle named Tula. Not bad for a dipshit from Oklahoma. I didn't know it then, but 2005 were my salad days on this here BLOG. Storm clouds were gathering though, and 2006 would end up being dark and hard for this Boy named Stu.

2005

Fear Factor
February 15, 2005
Four and half years later and I am actually allowed to teach Sunday School at our church. A post that shows anyone can change, and everyone should face their fears, if only to make them less scary, and take away their power.

Goodbye to All That
February 17, 2005
The plug. How I hated thee, yet, when it was time for you to leave the Elder Boy via the Plug Fairy, I lamented your inevitable passing as I'm apt to do.

Let me take a long last look, before we say good-bye
March 04, 2005
I recently (in my end is nigh post) referenced and linked to this entry. I'm extremely fond of it. Consider it my first good post. Probably because it moves me. It captures a time and place in a way that lets me remember when, fondly. And if that isn't enough to get you to chase the link. Dig this. I make a strip club lap dance joke while referencing a hand puppet named Tula.

220...221 Whatever it takes
April 08, 2005
The birth of me calling any time I'm with the Boy(s) solo, a Mr. Mom moment (after the great early 80's movie by John Hughes, the title being a line from that movie.) Lately I've been doing these little Mr. Mom snips on Facebook. Many don't get my true meaning. They think My Lovely Bride is AWOL. Or in rehab. Or I'm being bitter by posting these moments. None of the above Dear Reader. I cherish all Mr. Mom moments, even though the wheels often come off during them.

Hope Springs Eternal
May 17, 2005
The prequel to Beat It, and maybe the most infamous Team Tinsley post ever. The absurdity is such, you might think that I embellished the story for comic effect. Alas, the answer is no. Good read for anyone who is or has ever suffered infertility issues (or simply wants a good laugh at a guy who was asked to masturbate in a public restroom.)

If you smile through your fear and sorrow...
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
A post that has nothing to do with Team Tinsley, but instead tells a funny, and sick, story of me shitting in a public park. Early on I experimented somewhat with telling other stories on this here BLOG. Ultimately I decided it should only be about Team Tinsley. As I look toward the end, I'm considering starting another BLOG where I write whatever is on my mind (which is scary, actually.) Stay tuned (if you give a shit.)

How do you do this?
July 25, 2005
Mr. Mom moment at Braums as I struggle with how to wrangle two young Boy(s), made more poignant by the fact that the old Braums is now closed (in fact we ate at the new Braums last night. It is one of Wy's favorite places to eat.)

The freaks come out at night
August 24, 2005
Another post that isn't really about the Team (again, I was experimenting with content back in 2005.) I wish yelp would have been around when this went down. I could have given Floory an excellent rating. Five stars for anyone who leaves a digital camera full of compromising photos at my casa.

I'm wide awake
October 06, 2005
Father of the year might have been born here, Dear Reader. A story where my bad, or you might say, inappropriate sense of humor rears it's ugly head, troubling those around me.

Help Me
November 28, 2005
Expanding on the Mr. Mom concept, only this time with substantial dialogue thrown in to fully capture the moment. Might also be the first time I call a convenience store, a Mingo store, since I'm doing dialogue (and that is what E called them when he was younger.)

Until I BLOG again...But, I sure know where I've been.

Sick Of Myself

Omphaloskepsis. Better known as navel gazing. That's what I've been doing lately. Looking back over 263 entries on this here BLOG. Getting ready for that final post (I do have my final song selected for anyone out there that gives a shit.) But back to now, I'm sick of myself, quite literally, after reading so many Team Tinsley posts. Some are good. Many bad. Some funny. Others sad.

It's a copious amount of Team Tinsley. That is for sure. And in my efforts to make some sense of it all, I've compiled a Top of the Pops type of list (chronologically by year of course) with some of my favorite posts. I've even went as far as to note why they are my favorite posts (again, for anyone that gives a shit.)

Here's the 2004 list. The year the BLOG started. It's odd to read some of these posts, stylistically. They have a very dear diary sort of a vibe. Still, you can see the start of what was to become (as well as my proclivity for certain goofy sayings and cursing.) Navel gazing indeed.

2004

Holy Crap: Once, Twice, Three Times A Turd
March 17, 2004
Beware the ides of March, indeed, in this early, kid shits, hilarity ensues kind of a story.

Beat It
April 25, 2004
Honesty came earlier on this here BLOG in this here entry about how I quite literally beat it, which is why I know the exact day of the Elder Boy's conception and the beginning of what was to become Team Tinsley.

The Revenge of Matt Pogue
May 14, 2004
My first foray into my back story while talking about a sad event that was happening in what was then, now. Oddly enough this entry is one of the top ones to bring people to the Team Tinsley BLOG via search engines.

Stop that noise
June 11, 2004
A short entry that illustrates the raison d'être of this here BLOG, telling the story of a simple moment that I would without a doubt, forget, if not captured here. It is also one of the first times I use dialogue in a post (for those keeping score at home.)

Lionel Richie is full of shit
October 25, 2004
Best early BLOG title (before I started using song titles or lyrics) EVER.

They say it's your birthday
November 05, 2004
The story of how I met the women who would become My Lovely Bride, and how she thought I was funny (read gay.)

Incredibles
November 17, 2004
The simple story of my first movie with the Elder Boy and how amazed I was by how fast it was all going. Fast forward five years into what was then the future, but is now, now, and all I can say is this: amen.

This is it
December 26, 2004
An entry dealing with my feelings on corporal punishment. Which is something I still struggle with as well as my thoughts on the end of the first year of the Team Tinsley BlOG. The best part of the post is the great quote from William Martin's, The Parents Tao Te Ching. These would be apt final words for that final entry.

My words are over.
I wrote them for myself,
that I might hear them often enough
to begin to understand them.
And as I begin to understand them,
may I begin to live them.
If looking over my shoulder
has brought you some pleasure,
I am content.

Until I BLOG again...You don't know how you move me, Deconstruct me, And consume me.

Science and Progress

I've never enjoyed connect the dot games because my monkey brain does nothing but connect dots. Like the other night. My Lovely Bride had (D)runco at our casa which meant no penises on the premises. I took the Boy(s) to the dollar (fifty) movie to see Ice Age 3: Dawn of the Dinosaurs. Sitting across the aisle from our seats was a young mom and her small boy who laughed, hard, every time the Scrat did his thing.

Since we were pretty much the only ones in the theatre, after one outburst I pointed at the kid and said to the Boy(s), "Ethan loved the Scrat when he was that age. He called Ice Age the pecan movie because that is what he called the Scrat and his acorn."

"Really?" Ethan asked.

"Yeah. The only part you wanted to watch were the parts with the Scrat. You'd say, 'Where pecan?!?!' over and over and over. We had that movie on tape. The old VCR. I had to rewind and forward. You had no patience. I didn't either. It was funny. Not so much then. But now."

"Where was I at?" Wy asked.

"You weren't born yet."

"You were still in his junk," Ethan interjected.

"Nice." I was impressed with the Elder Boy's Simpsons reference.

The Younger Boy was feeling left out though so I said, "Actually Wy, you were born now that I think about it. But you were an infant. Really little."

"What's junk mean?" E asked.

"Penis and nuts." I answered. "It's slang."

"NUTS!" Wy shouted. "LIKE A PECAN!"

We all laughed at Wy's bad joke when the toddler across the aisle laughed at the Scrat again. Such a sweet sound. It made me wistful sitting there trading junk jokes with my two big Boy(s).

"You know what else Wy," I asked. "You saw your first movie theatre movie here. Chicken Little. You were the same age as that kid over there."

I got nothing. Both Boy(s) went back to eating their candy, so I said to myself, "That seems like yesterday."

The rest of the movie I sat there thinking about my recent decision to end this here BLOG and the weird coincidence that I had re-read the 'Where pecan?!?!' post about Ice Age a few days before.

Odder still was the realization that the first entry on this here BLOG, way back on January 11, 2004, was a goofy test post with a photo of Scott Baio and Erin Moran. Granted, my predilection for Joanie and Chachi is strange, but it pales in comparison to this. I made the decision to pull the plug at the same time that I saw Scott Baio on bad late night TV telling his celebrity ghost story.

This is where it gets tricky. Unless you are in my head.

At what was then, now, however, I had yet to look back at the Team Tinsley archives. I only realized that my first post was a photo of Scott Baio and Erin Moran when I looked back while writing the beginning of the end entry on Friday, October 16 and Saturday, October 17. That's an important detail. Even though I posted the beginning of the end post on Monday, I wrote it earlier.

Another important detail is that Ruby the Dog's plastic container of dog food we keep in the casa ran dry on Saturday, October 17. It happened when I was messing around with the beginning of the end entry that I posted on Monday. Which is when I realized that the first post on Team Tinsley was that Scott Baio and Erin Moran photo. Which made me think of that Scott Baio ghost story. I also re-read the 'Where pecan?!?!' post even though at that point I had no idea the Boy(s) and I would end up going to see the latest Ice Age movie on Wednesday, October 21. At that point in our story we were planning on seeing 9.

This is where it gets spooky, In a connect the dot orgy of coincidence.

Refilling Ruby the Dog's plastic food container is a beating. We buy her dog food at Sam's, which means the main bag we keep in the garage is colossal. It being Saturday, and that I was in the middle of BLOGGING the last thing I wanted to do was drag my ass out to the garage and wrestle with the ginormous bag of dog food. Which is why I ignored My Lovely Bride's subtle hint to fill it up (she sat the empty container on our bar which is tantamount to putting it in front of the front door) until Sunday Morning coming down (which if you've been paying attention and/or chasing the links you know was the very first thing I ever typed on the Team Tinsley BLOG.)

I was half way through the tedious job of filling up Ruby the Dog's plastic container, bent over and struggling with that colossal bag, when out of nowhere something hit me on the top of the head.

"SHIT!" I exclaimed, dropping the bag on the ground. I looked around, thinking it was the Boy(s) messing with me. But I was alone. After I realized that I was by myself in the garage, I looked around more closely to see what hit me.

I didn't see it at first, since it had ended up behind me. I only saw it out of the corner of my eye when I went back to grab the gargantuan bag of food.

"What the..." I said jumping back as if it were a snake.

I couldn't believe it.

After what felt like a minute I reached down and picked up the thing that had hit me on the head, one of the surfboards Mom had bought the Boy(s) in Galveston.

"Fuck me," was the only thing I could think to say since that surfboard had hit me on the third anniversary of Mom's death.

Later that morning I told the Team about my experience on the way to the Texas State Fair. I told the story as it happened and then went through things that could have caused it. Like the wind. I did have the garage door open, even though it wasn't really windy. It could also have been that My Lovely Bride had placed a few bottles of wine from Sam's on the shelf below the boards the previous day. And in doing that maybe she caused the surfboards to shift enough to fall on my head the following morning. That sounded plausible. Even though those boards haven't moved an inch to my knowledge since late August.

What I didn't tell the Team was the Scott Baio dead Dad ghost experience part of my story. Or my decision to end the blog. I didn't mention that first Scott Baio and Erin Moran post. All of that had played out in my head and I didn't want to influence their reactions since I was curious what they'd think.

Before I even finished telling all of the story, E let out this moan, which meant he was scared or freaked out which pissed me off.

"Dude!" I said. "If it were a ghost, it was the ghost of your Granny. Do you think she's going to do anything to hurt you?"

He shook his head no.

Wy on the other hand wasn't scared. He looked at me and started this little head shake thing he does these days and rattled off all the reasons why it wasn't Granny.

My Lovely Bride was split. More on Wy's side of the fence, thinking it was an odd coincidence. But that I was connecting dots that only existed in my mind. She must have been somewhat unnerved by it though, since she told a co-worker the story a few days later (that co-worker as an aside, had no doubt, she said it was Mom.)

After hearing Wy and My Lovely Bride's point of view, E opined that it was odd and probably a coincidence, but he didn't know one way or the other. He also still looked freaked out even though he was trying very hard not to.

As for me. It depends. Some days I sound exactly like Wyatt who sounded a lot like me when he rattled off the reasons why it wasn't Granny. Especially the, 'She's dead.' part. Then there are times when I'm more open like Ethan. Not quite sure what to believe and creeped out by it all.

Later that afternoon we all sat at a bench eating our respective Texas State Fair lunches. Quesadillas for my Lovely Bride. A Henry the VIII turkey leg for the Elder Boy. Wy had a caramel apple. And me with my overpriced cup of swill beer.

I was taking that final, slightly warm drink of beer when my phone went off in my pocket. Fishing it out I heard the customized ring tone I have for my Dad so I answered, "Hi Pop."

"Hi Bub. What do you know?"

"We're at the fair." I said.

"Oh, I don't want to keep you then, I'll talk to you..."

"It's ok. We're sitting around eating lunch."

"Oh," he replied.

There was a slight pause as he took a deep breath and in that instance I knew what he would say seconds before he said, "You know what today is..."

"Yes. I know what today is." I answered brusquely. "It happened three years ago at 1:26 which was just a few minutes ago."

"Oh. Yeah. That's right," he said. "I guess you'll probably never forget."

"Probably is about right." I thought.

A few minutes before that call Wy and I were walking back with his caramel apple to the Food Pavilion to meet My Lovely Bride and E.

"Is it good?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said as he took a toothy bite.

After a big drink of my over priced shit beer I said: "We're having an awesome lunch, you and me. I wonder what Mom and E are getting to eat?"

Nothing. Just a blank look as he took another toothy bite.

"You know what else?" I asked looking at the time on my cell phone.

"What?" Wy's curiosity was enough that he actually took his attention off of the caramel apple and looked me in the eye. I held the moment until finally he implored, "Dad!!! What?!?!?"

"It's 1:26 right about now."

"Oh." He said.

I smiled a sad smile at him. Sad enough to make him uncomfortable so he returned his gaze back to the caramel apple and took a small bite.

We walked a few more feet until Wy stopped and turned to me with a serious expression and said: "Dad. It wasn't her. It wasn't Granny."

"I know," I said.

"It just fell." He said.

"I know."

"It wasn't a ghost."

"I know."

"She's dead."

I know.

Three years ago I wrote about watching my Mom die in a post titled Living in Perfect Symmetry. Like most of my titles it comes from the lyrics of a song. That particular lyric, from Coldplay's Low, were stuck in my head because I kept coming back to the fact that I saw the person that give me life, die. And I was amazed and troubled by the symmetry of it all.

The same way I'm both amazed and troubled by the rambling orgy of coincidence written above.

It's weird. And like so many other coincidental experiences I've documented in this here BLOG over the years I still don't know what it means. That's the thing. You never have all the answers. Not when you are young. Not when you are old. But that's ok. Because often what you know isn't nearly as important as what you believe. And you Dear Reader can always believe in this: I love you.

Until I BLOG again...Must speak as loud as my heart.

Ain't necessarily so

The beginning of the end starts now Dear Reader. My first in a series of posts that will culminate in what will be the final Team Tinsley BLOG entry. It's hard for me to believe I've been at this since 2004. When I started the Elder Boy was just shy of the two year mark. And Wy Wy. He wasn't even two weeks old!

Back then this BLOG was intended to be a way to keep the growing Team Tinsley connected with family and friends that didn't live in the messoplex. A few months in, I had my a-ha moment and realized that what I was writing could serve a greater purpose. It could be saved for posterity. This goofy ass BLOG could be a chronicle for the Boy(s), who short of some serious therapy, wouldn't be able to remember these stories from when they were so young. Like Neil Gaiman said, "You forget the things you were certain you would always remember, especially the tiny things, and all too often they're the things that matter." That quote in many ways beget the Team Tinsley BLOG which is simply: my remember when, for then, then being the Buck Rogers future.

Since 2004 the style and format of this here BLOG has changed considerably, as have the readers. I'm amazed by everyone who has taken time out of their day(s) to read anything here. It's nice to hear you've touched people with what you've written. Especially when much of it is very personal. But that's the wild part for me. Even though I love that people have read this here BLOG, the two people who it has been written for have yet to read a single word. I most often refer to them simply as Dear Reader. Because I'm both goofy and supersticious. But make no mistake. Dear Reader has always been, Ethan and Wyatt.

So today, I sit here, staring down the endgame, and navel gazing as it were. Trying to make sense of it all. Only ending it is harder than I would have ever imagined. The Team Tinsley BLOG has taken on a life of it's own. Which is why I've been procrastinating the inevitable. Putting off this post. Because it makes me sad. Partly because I enjoy writing. It is cathartic. Then there is my ego. I love the fact that I've touched readers with our stories.

But those reasons are small in comparison to the real reason that it makes me sad. That can be traced back to what I consider my first good post. For those that don't want to chase that link, let me cut to the chase. Change. And the cold hard fact that my pulling the plug is a tangible admission that the Boy(s) are growing up fast.

It is time. Wy will be six soon. Ethan will be eight. They are old enough to remember their own stories, and have their own memories, and the last thing I want of this BLOG is for it to turn into some crazy-ass Rashoman sort of a thing. For my memories to overwrite their memories. I also don't want to write anything that would embarrass them as they get older. Which with me, is a very real possibility.

Which brings us to the end.

I'm not exactly sure when it will come. I have a few more stories I'd like to tell. And I'm toying with listing some of my favorite entries as a way of organizing the glut of posts (261 to be exact.)

And then there's the greater issue of that final post. What I'll write. How I will end all of this (picture me gesturing toward the archives on the right of your screen?) Not to mention what song I'll end it with in my goofy Until I BLOG again...link thing I always do. Navel gazing I know. But when you've invested as much time as I have, and recorded the kind of stories I've put down here, it has to be a fitting ending. Which is why I'm writing this entry. Laying it out there. I hope those that follow us will stick around for the final posts. I welcome anyone (including those that lurk) to shout out, in comments, which are on and ready. You can also email me if you are shy. Have a favorite post? Want to say something? Don't be bashful. Now is the time, for the end is nigh.

Until I BLOG again...I laugh when I can and I live with the rest, I've learned that holding on means letting go.

One

Another half-ass epilogue. It might help to read 42 first.

"Never apologize for showing feeling. When you do so you apologize for truth." Benjamin Disraeli

Death smells like curry.

That was literally the first thing I thought as I walked into my parents house for what ended up being Mom's death watch.

The scent of multiple Reunzit Adjustable Air Fresheners mixed with the smell of decay.

Pungent. Spicy. Floral. Curry.

Those air fresheners were everywhere. All part of Dad's vain attempt to cover up the smell of death. Which stinks. Literally and figuratively.

Three years later and the slightest whiff of a Renuzit Air Freshener produces a flashback akin to Proust jumping out of a bush and kicking me in the nuts, hard.

After my epiphany I contacted Dad to see if he could corroborate my theory about Mom. That she knew (or thought) she was dying when she bought the Boy(s) those surfboards.

The question, out of the blue as it were, got one of Dad's typical forthright answers.

Dad said, "I believe your mom had a feeling she wasn't doing very well in early 2005. She tried to keep her cancer as private as she could, even from me sometimes. We scheduled the cruise in the summer of 2005 and the minute we got back she went to the hospital for surgery on her lungs for the second time. So your time line is about right, but also your mom did things that had far reaching aspects to them. So if Wyatt is enjoying the gift from your mother that's great, and somewhere up there she is probably watching and enjoying both of your sons. Knowing they are enjoying the gifts. With a smile!"

Five minutes before the conversation that would lead to the epiphany Wyatt said, "Ethan and me are different. I like to surf. He likes to play in the sand."

"You guys are flip side of the same coin," I said.

"Coin?" Wyatt asked, arching his eyebrows in a way that made him look even more like me. "Can I get a gum ball?"

I laughed. "Not that kind of coin."

"Oh," he said.

"I mean that you guys are basically the same, even though you are different. Your essence. Because you both come from Mommy and Daddy."

Wyatt gave me a strange look, probably thinking, what is he talking about, grabbed his board and ran out into the surf. Five minutes later he asked, "Why did Granny buy me this?" which is where this all began.

Labor Day weekend marked the third anniversary of Mom telling me she was dying. Granted I suck in real time, but the fact that it took me nearly three years to realize she knew she was dying long before she told me has had a profound effect on how I remember her final months. Things culminated that Labor Day weekend because the outcome was no longer in question. Before that weekend, Dad would always call me after Mom had a treatment or doctor appointment. Giving me his version of what happened (or was happening.) After he finished he almost always passed the phone over to Mom who would give me her interpretation of the same events.

Their stories never matched. At times it even appeared that they were talking about completely different events.

There were common themes in the stories.

Dad was always positive and upbeat. His glass was half full.

Mom's glass was missing. She would give a perfunctory recap at best, and then commandeer the conversation toward the Boy(s) and me and My Lovely Bride. The last thing she wanted to talk about was cancer which makes sense considering she knew she was dying.

On the occasions when I would press her for more information, trying to get a sense of what was really going on, because their stories didn't jive, she would grow angry. Not at me. At Dad. She'd go off on what she called his dream world interpretations of what was happening. Usually peppering her language with some strategically placed "F" bombs which always bothered Dad when they came out of her mouth.

As she got sicker, and her body failed her in the most basic of ways, her attacks on Dad grew more vicious. Even then I got that her attacks were an outlet for her frustration and anger. At the time I thought it was of being sick. Not getting that it was because she knew she was dying.

As for Dad. He took it all in stride. And although he never fought back or defended himself, he did keep his positive attitude up until the bitter end. He didn't even bring in a hospice nurse until Mom had roughly two weeks to live. Taking care of her as he took her fury over dying a horrible death.

Yes. I am king of the dipshits. And I do suck in real time. But really? Three years to realize Mom wasn't honest with me about her cancer and how long she had left to live. Three years to realize that my personality is a curious amalgam between my parents and that I am the flip side of their coin which means the traits I deplore in myself are often the ones I like the least in them. Three years to realize that those same traits are often the ones that frustrate and anger me the the most in the Boy(s). Three years to finally admit for the very first time that I thought that death smells like curry.

Three years. Fuck me.

Until I BLOG again...but we're not the same.

Big Me

I read this on a friend's blog on September 1st: Someone recently told me that their blog was compromised by it readership. OMG! Yes! Yes! Yes! I know exactly what you mean. I mean, we want readers, but then when we have invited our friends, family, co-workers, the occasional student, and an internet full of strangers into our house that is our brain, how it is not compromised? It is all compromised.

On September 6th I was standing in the kitchen when My Lovely Bride returned from a meeting at church. Clearly annoyed. She then proceeded to tell me about a conversation with the associate pastor. Best I can tell he had been seeing my infamous Mr. Mom Facebook updates. And possibly posts on this here BLOG. Factor in that My Lovely Bride had requested he put someone in drug rehab on the church prayer list, as well as her not having been to church in weeks if not months and he assumed she had been in drug rehab.

Seriously.

So I ask myself is this here BLOG compromised. Or more than likely, not compromised enough.

I got my answer on Wednesday. A friend emailed me about The Little Warrior's broken arm. She wanted to know more details and had asked if I had blogged about it yet.

Seriously.

I told her no. And the reason was that on Sunday night, the Boy(s) and I were laying in our den on the pull out sofa watching TV and waiting for My Lovely Bride to get back with kid dope for Wy when I made an offhand comment about how our ordeal of that day made a good story.

Wy looked at me. Hard.

And said evenly, "It's not a good story."

"It's a mean story."

"Because I got hurt!"

Wy is right, of course.

Which is why I finished my note to my friend by saying, again, offhandedly, that maybe this here story could be the broken arm BLOG entry. Which it is.

At first this BLOG was a way for me to tell our stories for those that didn't live near us. So they would be a part of our lives. Soon after it morphed into what it still is, my remember when, for then, then being the Buck Rogers future. I know for a fact that if I didn't capture these type of stories here, we'd surely forget them. Then again if people are thinking that My Lovely Bride is in rehab and or anticipating what crazy shit I'll tell when my baby breaks his arm (not that my friend was being a voyeur, She was genuinely concerned for Wy,) well, maybe it is time to compromise. Or pull the plug. Or get off my lazy ass and try and write something people would pay good money to read. At least then I could buy The Little Warrior something nice for telling his mean story to friends, family, co-workers, the occasional student, and an internet full of strangers.

Until I BLOG again...When I talked about it, carried on, reasons only knew.

The Emperor's New Clothes

If we needed to discipline Wyatt. I mean really teach him a lesson. We wouldn't bust his ass. Or put him in time-out. We wouldn't even take away one of his favorite toys. What we would do is this. Make him wear jeans.

Seriously.

Only he doesn't call them jeans. He calls them hard pants. Which goes to show you how damn right freakish he is when it comes to tactile sensations from his clothing. In fact, I've never seen anything like it. Ever.

Which is why this very Mr. Mom morning we were having it out over socks.

"ARRRRRRRRGGGGGG!" Wy raged.

"What?" I asked.

"I hate these socks!!!! You always give me these socks!!!!"

"Dude. Those socks are from your drawer. Mom put them in there. They are your socks. They are the only kind of socks we have. They are the same brand. Bought at the same place."

"ARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGG!"

"Put them on. We need to leave. I have to get dressed."

I could hear Wy all the way from the back of the house. He was in the front room, huffing and puffing, getting more and more mad. Finally he screamed in anger which sent me flying out of the bedroom, down the hall shouting, "WYATT! PUT ON YOUR CLOTHES AND GET DRESSED, NOW!"

By my now, I was in front of him, where he was semi-dressed and doing this Three Stooges sort of run around the floor in a circle type move trying to get on one of his shoes sans sock.

It was funny. Seriously funny. Enough to make me not so mad.

So I calmly said, "Wyatt. Can I help you? We need to leave soon. I need to get dressed, and you need to get dressed. You are frustrating me."

At that his face turned bright red. Flush with fury, as he stood up with a shoe in each hand (except for one sock on his right foot he was naked from the waist down) and said in a controlled, but extremely pissed off voice, "You are frustrating me!"

I lost it.

Seriously. I couldn't help it. I laughed. Hard.

And there's one thing you should know about the Younger Boy.

He doesn't like it when you laugh.

"STOP LAUGHING AT ME!" he shrieked. "OR WITH ME."

"I'm sorry, son," I said laughing. "I'm sorry."

"Do you want me to throw my shoes at you?"

"Dude. If you do that, you'll get in trouble. Don't go there. I'll stop laughing. I apologize. It's funny though."

"IT IS NOT FUNNY! STOP IT OR I'LL THROW MY SHOES AT YOU!"

"Ok. I'll stop. But if you throw your shoes at me you'll be in big trouble."

"You'll take a toy away from me?"

I could see his mind spinning, trying to figure out if the consequence was worth braining me for laughing with one of his new shoes.

"No."

I smiled as I paused for full dramatic effect.

"I'll make you wear hard pants."

Until I BLOG again...Maybe it sounds mean, but I really don't think so.

42

Long ago, when I was a young man, my father said to me, "Norman, you like to write stories." And I said "Yes, I do." Then he said, "Someday, when you're ready you might tell our family story. Only then will you understand what happened and why."
A River Runs Through It



"Why did Granny buy me this?" Wy asked.

Such a simple question. One that would lead to a powerful epiphany. But that came seven days later. Remember. I'm king of the dipshits. I suck in real time.

"Why did Granny buy you what?" I asked turning around to see what Wyatt meant. This being our Mr. Mom vacation, at the time of his question I was in the Gulf of Mexico off Crystal Beach with my back turned to him. Not that I wasn't on point. In fact, I was positioned in what I considered the middle ground between Wy playing in the surf and E who was back on the beach putting the finishing touches on an elaborate sand castle complex.

"Oh. You mean your surfboard." I said since he was holding up his boogie board (which he calls a surfboard.)

"Yeah." Wy said. "Why did Granny buy me this?"

"She bought that for you, and one for your brother when we came to Galveston." I said. "We went to Stewart Beach. That place we drove by earlier today on our way to the ferry. She bought it at that place I pointed out to you and Ethan that was destroyed. That they are rebuilding."

"I didn't like Stewart Beach." Wy said.

"Really? I'm amazed you even remember that. You were really little." I said.

"Yeah." He said with a serious look on his face. "But why did she buy it for me?"

"She liked to buy you guys stuff." I explained. "And I guess she wanted to get you something from the beach."

"Yeah," he said again, "But why did she buy it for me?"

Again, let me remind you that I am a dipshit in real time. Which is why I didn't get Wy's point so I snippily said, "I just told you why she bought it for you."

"Yeah." Wy said dejectedly, giving up.

"She'd be happy you..." I said stopping mid-sentence because the proverbially light bulb went off over my king of the dipshits crown.

"You want to know why she bought you your surfboard when you were so little? Is that what you mean?"

"Yeah." He said smiling. Happy that I had caught up.

"I'm not sure. Like I said, she liked to buy you guys stuff. And if we went somewhere she would usually buy you guys a souvenir or something. She usually got t-shirts though. But I remember on this trip she walked up and down the beach with you a lot. You were in your stroller. I have photos of that."

"Yeah." He said.

"On this trip though she really wanted to get you guys a surfboard or something so you could play in the ocean. I remember her walking around and looking for a place to buy it. It was kind of odd. You were still in a stroller on that trip. You couldn't play in the ocean with a surfboard. You couldn't swim."

Then almost to myself I said, "You guys were really little then. That was July 2005. Four years ago."

"Yeah." Wy said looking as if he was still not satisfied with my half ass thinking out loud answer.

"You know what?" I asked.

"What?"

"Even though I'm not exactly sure why Granny bought it for you, I do know one thing."

"What" Wy asked.

"It would make her very happy that you've enjoyed it as much as you have, and that we still have the surfboards four years later."

"Yeah." Wy said smiling.

"And she'd love the fact that you are out here riding the waves like you've been doing today. Using the surfboard she got for you. She'd have loved to see to you do that. You're a good surfer."

"I know." Wy said.

I wanted to tell Wy that Granny was up in heaven looking down and watching him surf. But I couldn''t do that. I don't know if that is true. And my lack of faith would make me preface it with a big nasty if there is a heaven, which would have sullied our moment. So Instead I said what I know is true, not what I hoped was true.

"She loved you son."

"I know." He said.

I didn't know the real answer though. Or what I'm pretty certain the real answer is. Took me seven days to get it. Finally hitting me while I was viewing photos of our Mr. Mom trip online and replaying our conversation in my head.

"Why did Granny buy me this?"

Because she knew she was dying.

That is why she was so hell-bent on getting two surfboards that were not age appropriate for the Boy(s.) She knew her cancer was terminal. And that her time was limited.

She was right.

A year later we tried to get her to come to Galveston for the day to watch the Boy(s) play in the surf. She couldn't. By then she could barely walk. A month after that, over Labor Day weekend, she told me she had six months to live.

This time she was wrong.

She had six weeks.

Until I BLOG again...Those that are dead are not dead, they're just living in my head.

Read the epilogue to 42 here.

Just like Rock and Roll

E: We didn't have dinner?!?!
Me: Are you hungry?
E & Wy: No.
Me: Then what's your point?
Wy: Mom feeds us dinner.
Me: I'm not Mom.
----------------
Wy: I don't want to go. If I go with you he won't play with me.
Me: He will. He'll forget.
Wy: No. He won't.
Me: Yes. He will.
Wy: No. He keeps a list so he won't forget.
----------------
E: I'll take a shower. But I don't want to use soap.
Me: You need to use soap.
E: No.
Me: Yes.
E: NO!!!
Me: Yes.
E: But it's supposed to be vacation!?!?!
----------------
Wy: Email Mom.
Me: Ok. What do you want me to say?
Wy: Say, I'm so annoyed with these boys.
Me: You think Mom will believe that?
Wy: Be sure and sign your name so she knows it's from you.
----------------
E: I see the rainbow flag over there on that building.
Me: Like I explained yesterday. That means it's a gay friendly establishment. That's a gay bar.
Wy: Really?!?!
Me: Yes.
Wy: I'm going to go in and say, I'm gay. And I don't mean happy.
E: Laughs.
Me: What do you think they would do if you did that?
Wy: (Few seconds pause as he considers the question.) Probably kick me out.
----------------
Wy: E and me are different. I like to surf. He likes to play in the sand.
Me: You guys are flip sides of the same coin.
Wy: Coin?!?! Can I get a gum ball?
----------------
A few sound bites from our Galveston Beach vacation (a.k.a. Mr. Mom Trip.) If you are hungry for more. You can see photos from our trip by clicking here (you can view as a set or slide show.) Or check out this video.

Until I BLOG again...Well it's plain to see you were meant for me.

No Line on the Horizon

I'm a fucking hypocrite. I had just called the Elder Boy out for playing the blame game when less than 24 hours later I was playing the same fucking game in my feeble ass attempt to ascribe blame for my mid July melancholy funk. The contenders? A. Farrah Fawcett, B. Otitis media, and C. My birthday (which is more about the person who gave me life no longer being around.)

Seriously.

God knows I've posted enough my poor Mom, the original Granny, was eaten up by fucking cancer, on this here BLOG.

The original Granny. That's what E called her. It made me laugh. Hard. Which made him look at me like I was nuts, trying to discern that age old question. Is he laughing with me. Or at me.

For the record, I was laughing with him. Like Fat Tony said: "It's funny because it's true."

What wasn't funny because it's true was watching a special on Farrah Fawcett with clips from Farrah's Story while I lay in bed feeling like shit because of a nasty ear infection. I'm not even sure how I ended up on the channel (read Lifetime.) Probably trying to escape the frenzy that was (is) Michael Jackson's death.

Watching that special was disturbing. I was transfixed by the juxtaposition of old photos and clips of the young, healthy Farrah with the clips, interviews and stories of those that were with her during her long battle with cancer. And at the end. Their descriptions of her last days a mirror for me to see the reflection of my own grief. A grief that can amazingly still rear its ugly head. I'm left wondering yet again, is there a limit of statutation on grief. Or does it depend on the way in which you lost your loved one? Perhaps a better question is this. Can you reset memory. Erase the final days of a loved one's life when you lose them in such a slow and debilitating way? And if you can. Would you?

Alas, even I, ever the dipshit, realize to eradicate the cancer riddled deathbed version of my Mom that I see when grief jumps out of the bushes and kicks me in the nuts would be to miss the point. Even if said point is a self created illusion on my part.

“You see this goblet?” asks Achaan Chaa, the Thai meditation master. “For me this glass is already broken. I enjoy it; I drink out of it. It holds my water admirably, sometimes even reflecting the sun in beautiful patterns. If I should tap it, it has a lovely ring to it. But when I put this glass on the shelf and the wind knocks it over or my elbow brushes it off the table and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ When I understand that the glass is already broken, every moment with it is precious.”

The Boy(s) and I stayed at Pops and Janie's house on a recent trip to Tulsa, which reminded me of a mashup song, only with furniture and household items.

We were sitting in the living room when all of a sudden Wy jumped up and took off down the hall calling out, "Granny..."

The empathetic expression on E's face as he turned to look at me, to gage my reaction was something I'll never forget. He said nothing so I said, "It's Ok, son. You guys can call Janie whatever you want to call Janie. She's Pops' wife. Your Grandma. Or Granny. Or Mimi. I'm sure it would make her feel really good if you guys called her one of those instead of Janie and Daddy is OK with that. I promise."

The answer was D.

All of the above.

Which is usually the case in this life.

Until I BLOG again...The songs in your head are now on my mind, you put me on pause, I try to rewind, love, and replay.

Yakety Yak

"Do you trust me?"

Nothing.

Just a stressed look on the Elder Boy's face followed by jerky nervous foot to foot action as he hopped from pile to pile of detritus strewn all over his bedroom floor.

"Boy," I said much more forcibly than I had intended. "Do you trust me?"

Nothing.

"What are these?" I asked holding up a ziplock bag full of cardboard pieces. "Did you cut these out of a toy box?"

Nothing.

"Why would you keep these?" I asked shaking my head in amazement.

"I need them."

"You need them?"

"Yeah."

"They were buried under all this gimme toy crap from Adventure Landing. You probably didn't even know they were in this drawer. What do you need them for?"

"Need what?" Wyatt said as he jumped over two large trash bags full of shit in the doorway into E's room.

"Get out of here!" Ethan screamed.

"Wy," I said. "Go play video games. Leave us alone. Please."

Oblivious to our requests Wy asked, "Where's Mom?"

"She's not here. She couldn't take this. She'd lose it." I said.

"Why does Ethan keep all this stuff?" Wy asked.

"WYATT!" Ethan raged.

"Good question." I said. "But I did ask you to leave. So go. NOW."

"Ah man," Wy said as he jumped across the piles of crap and ran down the hall.

"So, Boy, why do you need this?" I asked again holding up the bag of cut-out cardboard pieces.

"You're making me angry!" He shouted.

"Dude," I started. "If we're going to reorganize and decorate your room so you can have these Lego areas you keep talking about, we have to get rid of all this shit you have rat holed in your room. This is nuts. It's just stuff."

"I like it."

"I know you do son. But I think you think you have to keep every little thing because it reminds you of stuff. But it's just stuff. The memories are in you. In your heart. In your head. You don't need all of this to keep them. Does that make sense?"

Nothing.

"I feel like I'm trapped in a freaking Clean House episode."

"So, let me ask you again. Do you trust me?"

Nothing.

"Ok then. I'm going to throw what I think should be thrown away, away. If I question something, or think we should save it, I'll ask you."

"Got it?"

"Yeah." He said.

"Good," I said as I grabbed a handful of gimme toy crap from a particularly large cache in his upper right dresser drawer which exposed six rolls of scotch tape.

"Fuck me." I'm afraid to say, I said. "There's six roles of tape in this drawer? Mom is always asking where the tape went. Now we know!?!?"

"Don't throw that away." He said ignoring my tape complaint.

"What? This gimme toy crap from Adventure Landing?"

"Don't throw that away. I want to keep it."

"What could you possible need these for?" I asked. "It's junk son. Half of it is broke."

"I like it." He said.

And so it went.

For four grueling hours.

Our very own special episode of Clean House featuring Raymond Babbitt, playing a crazy ass don't touch that, cat-and-mouse game, over each cache of shit.

When it was all over we had seven (four trash, three going to Goodwill) large bags of shit piled in the hallway.

Surveying his room I said, "Your room looks good. Your Mom is going to freak out when she sees it."

"Yeah." He said smiling.

"She won't believe it."

"Yeah." He said. "Let me show her, OK?"

"Sure." I said. "You can show her."

"Let's keep my door closed so I can surprise her. OK?"

"Ok." I answered.

"You know what son?"

"What?"

"I'm proud of you. This wasn't easy for you to do. But you did it anyway. Good job."

Nothing.

Just a sweet and proud smile on his face.

Until I BLOG again...Your father's hip; he knows what cooks.

Last Night on Earth

Although I often bemoan my birthday, and play my goofy age games, my 42nd lap around El Sol on Mother Earth last week hasn't really made me feel all that old. Today however, does. It is my (our) 15th wedding anniversary. Seriously. 15 years. Our love is old enough to get a learner's permit. Amazing. Especially considering that My Lovey Bride thought I was gay when we first met. And I don't mean happy.

In honor of our big day I offer up the story of how we met from the Team Tinsley vault.

Until I BLOG again...I'm sending all my love to you.

Over the Cliff

We were watching the Simpsons one night when Ethan saw a scene with Bart and Rod Flanders climbing down a tall building. As they are starting down, Bart tells Rod a lie about what gay means so Rod shouts down to his Dad that Mrs. Simpson made him gay.

"What does gay really mean, Dad?" Ethan asked.

"Gay is when boys like other boys." I explained.

"Really?!?!" Wy asked incredulously.

"Yep. Women too, but they usually are called lesbians."

"Gay can also mean cheerful or carefree." I continued. "Kind of like happy. That is what it meant back in olden times. For the most part though, if you say gay now you mean boys who like other boys instead of liking girls."

Fast forward a few weeks and we're sitting around the dinner table talking about Vacation Bible School at our church. The Boy(s) both went and My Lovely Bride volunteered and did some sort of story time thing where she rotated through each age group or class. She was telling me about how Wyatt wasn't very good for her on Day 1, not listening and messing around in class. More than likely trying to be funny.

"Oh," I said and then turning my attention to Wyatt, "You know what you should say the next time they try to stop you from having fun, Bub?"

"What?" He asked.

"Say, 'This Bible School is NO vacation.'"

It's a dumb joke. But I found it funny.

You know who did not?

My Lovely Bride.

She glared at me giving me her, I do not approve, and question why I even procreated with you in the first place look. She's convinced, probably rightfully, that Wyatt is going to be the first kid ever expelled from kindergarten because of my inappropriateness.

Fast forward another day or so, and I asked Wy, "Did you do the joke yet?"

"What?"

"The joke, Boy." I said. "This Bible School is NO vacation."

"Yeah." He said, looking sheepish which meant he wasn't telling me the truth.

"He's lying!" Ethan said at which point all hell broke loose.

Fast forward another day and my disapproving Lovely Bride is at (D)runco with a number of volunteers from VBS which is funny in and of itself considering how liquored up and hung over they all were the following day at VBS. But I digress.

At some point, I asked Wyatt if he had again, done the joke.

"What?" He asked.

"The joke."

"What?"

"The joke." I said annoyed that we were again having a crazy ass version of Who's on First.

"Oh," he said smiling.

"Dad," he said.

"Yeah."

"I'm gay."

I stared at him trying to figure out where he was heading since he had a shit eating grin on his face.

A few seconds later he added, "And I don't mean happy."

I've said it before. I'll say it again. The apples doesn't fall far from the tree.

Until I BLOG again...Forgive me or forget me everybody, Well I guess I always had this honest streak.