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.