I'm not running anymore - Part 1

While My Lovely Bride was in Georgia for her Uncle Jimmy's funeral, I played Mr. Mom for four whole days. As regular readers of this here BLOG know, me solo with the Boy(s) equals hilarity in some shape or form. I'm not sure what it is, but seriously, they need to strap a video camera to my head and make a freaking sitcom. Hollywood. I'm ready.

Here's a scene. Me and Boy(s) driving back from helping Uncle Beau Beau fix a leak in his radiator. As we approached a stop sign near our house, we all noted, simultaneously, that a small dog was about to get hit by a car.

"Daddy!!!" the Boy(s) screamed in unison.

"I see!" I said as I slammed My Lovely Bride's minivan into park, leaving it on, and jumped out the door, running, with my arms waving madly in the air, toward the oncoming car.

The driver must have thought I was nuts, but nonetheless the ploy worked, and he slowed down enough to miss the dog who turned and ran toward me on the sidewalk.

"Daddy. Daddy. Daddy." the Boy(s) yelled from inside the van.

"What?" I replied.

"That dog is wearing a bandana." Ethan said.

"No shit." I thought, annoyed as always when anyone, including my firstborn, states the obvious.

I looked at the dog, who as Ethan pointed out, was wearing a stupid fall print bandana, and noted that it had two tags on it's collar. When I reached for them, the dog bolted back into the street where our van, sat idling, with the front driver's side door open.

"Daddy. Daddy. Daddy." the Boy(s) yelled from inside the van. "He's going to get hit by a car!"

Realizing that they were probably right, I chased the bandana wearing dog, who ran away from me. After our third lap around the van I realized that me and the dumbass dog with the fall print bandana were doing what amounted to a Chinese fire drill.

"Fuck me!" I thought, "Someone cue the Benny Hill theme song."

After the sixth lap, I gave up, stopping in front of the van's front passenger door. The bandana wearing dog stopped too, noted that the front driver's door was open and promptly hopped up into our van.

The crowd, and by crowd I mean Boy(s) went wild.

A couple of seconds later, the bandana wearing dog hopped over the console thingy and perched itself in the front passenger seat where it sat, staring at me through the window.

"Fuck me." I said, walking around the van.

I guess if my life were really a sitcom, the bandana wearing dog would have closed the door when it jumped in and locked me out of my idling van.

As soon as I climbed into the driver's seat and closed the door, the Boy(s) hit me, hard. "Daddy. Daddy!! Daddy!!!" they screamed.

"Yes." I said.

"He wants to go home with us." Ethan said.

"He can sleep in my room." Wy said.

"Is he a boy or a girl?" Ethan asked.

"He can sleep in my room" Wy said.

"Is he lost?" Ethan asked.

"He can sleep in my room." Wy said.

"What kind of dog is he?" Ethan asked.

"He can sleep in my room." Wy said.

"Wait. Wait. Wait. WAIT! W A I T!!!" I shouted. "SLOW DOWN! This dog belongs to someone."

"He can sleep in my room." Wy said.

"Look at the nice haircut. The goofy-ass bandana." I explained, "This dog belongs to someone. We need to find it's owner. I'm sure they are looking for it. It was running around like it was confused. Like it was lost."

The bandana wearing dog was oblivious. It sat there looking from me to the Boy(s) and back again. It didn't even flinch when I grabbed it's collar to get a better look at the two tags. It just licked my hand.

"He likes you Daddy." Ethan said.

"He can sleep in my room." Wy said.

"Who does he belong too?" Ethan asked.

"He can sleep in my room." Wy said.

"I don't know bub, these are just rabies tags," I said.

"He can sleep in my room." Wy said.

"What do we do?" Ethan asked.

"He can sleep in my room." Wy said.

"I'm not sure," I said. "I guess we take it home for now. We can't leave it out here. It will get hit by a car or something." I said.

"Yeah!" the Boy(s) screamed.

"Daddy," Wy asked.

"Yes Wy Wy." I answered, putting the van into drive.

"He can sleep in my room."

Next: Can you lose a lost dog?

Until I BLOG again...But I'm on my way.

Hurt

"Are they going to burn him?"

Not a question you'd expect from your garden variety 6.5 year old boy about his Mimi's (My Lovely Bride's Mom for those playing along at home) brother's funeral arrangements. But for the Elder Boy, who's first question to me after my Mom died was, "Where's her head?" not so unusual.

"No" I said. "They aren't going to burn, errr...cremate your Uncle Jimmy. They're going to bury him."

"Oh." Ethan said, looking thoughtful. "I think I want to be buried."

"Really...? What about all the bugs and ants?" I said, proving yet again why I'm father of the year. My certificate must have got lost in the mail.

"Oh." he said looking nervous. "I didn't think about that."

"Your Uncle Jimmy is going to have a military burial." I said trying to steer the conversation away from my asinine comment about bugs.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Uncle Jimmy was in the military. I think he was in the Air Force." I explained. "When you serve your country, you earn the right of having a military funeral. They bury you in a special place. Put a flag on the coffin that they give to the family during the ceremony. They have an honor guard there."

"Oh." he said. "What's a honor guard?"

"It's a special group of military guys that come to the graveside and do special things for people who were in the military." I said. "People who request or want a military burial."

"Oh." he said.

Life is funny.

Which is why I found myself standing at the stove making macaroni and cheese while thinking about the conversation Ethan and I had the day before about his Uncle Jimmy and the rituals surrounding death. What people want when they die. As the clock hit 1:26pm on Saturday, October 18, 2008 I realized that on the 2nd anniversary of my Mom's death My Lovely Bride and her Mom were at Jim's memorial knee deep in their own grief while 750 miles away I was knee deep mine. Two years removed of course. But still hurts. Bad enough for me to shed a tear, which rolled down my cheek and into the macaroni and cheese.

"Daddy?" Ethan asked the day before.

"Yes son." I said.

"Mommy wants to be burned." he said.

"Yes," I answered. "Mommy wants to be cremated."

"Daddy." he said.

"Yes, Bub." I said.

"What do you want to be?" he asked.

Death like life is funny. Even though we all know we're going to die, it's not something we like to think about. Consider. It's messy. We want to sweep it away. Change the proverbial channel.

"What Daddy?" he asked again. Confused by my silence.

"I'm not sure son." I answered truthfully.

"I guess what ever is the the least expensive."

Until I BLOG again...But I remember everything.

Learning To Fly

Does it bother you?" My Lovely Bride asked.

You being me. It being talking about my Mom who died on October 18, 2006.

"No. Not really." I said as I took a sip of beer and stabbed a sugar coated Wing Stop french fry into a side of atomic sauce.

"We're going to see the other Granny, not Old Granny" Wy said. "The one who didn't die."

"Yes...when we go to Oklahoma, we'll see Old Granny, not your Granny. She was my Mom. "Do you remember her?" I asked.

"Yes." he said. Although I'm not 100% sure Wy Wy was telling the truth. He has this little half smile thing he does when he is being what I call windy (less than truthful, though not fully lying.) If he does that, along with this little head shake thing, he's usually embellishing the truth.

My Lovely Bride smiled at me. A sad, knowing smile since she was the one who had started the conversation about Mom over lunch at Wing Stop and said to no one in particular, "She was a lot of fun."

Fast forward to what is now and My Lovely Bride is working which put me on Boy(s) patrol. For the first time ever, I walked Ethan to school with both Ruby and Wy Wy. As usual, The Little Warrior brought a whole new perspective to this simple act. From running ahead and grabbing a neighbor's newspaper and putting it on their front porch, to trying to sneak up on Mr. Chambers our crossing guard. In fact, I once wrote on this here BLOG that I had never seen Mr. Chambers smile until the day Molly the Dog returned. Yet today, with Wyatt, who Mr. Chambers clearly likes, I think I saw him smile more than I have the entirety of my walking Ethan to school career.

Wy Wy is a cool little guy which is why on days like today, I'm especially sad that my Mom missed getting to know him. This older version of him. Ethan too. She's missing (missed) so much. Which sucks, hard, because she was the one that enjoyed this type of stuff the most. She realized this of course. In fact when she told me she was terminal, she said missing seeing the Boy(s) grow up was one of her biggest regrets for a life of smoking. That would make a sexy smoking advert, don't you think. A wasted 64 year old women telling the camera she wouldn't live to see her youngest grandson turn 3 fucking years old.

Today would have been (or is, I'm still unclear on what is the correct way to state this) my Mom's 67th birthday. And next Saturday will be the two year anniversary of her death.

Two years.

Fuck me. And Fuck Cancer, hard.

Until I BLOG again...I guess I'll know when I get there.

20th Century Boy(s)

"It's diarrhea poop, Dad." Wy yelled from the fetid stall at the Tushka truck stop and casino.

"Don't touch anything." I said.

"I'm touching my penis." Wy answered.

"Don't touch anything else, son, this bathroom is filthy." I said.

"Can I go out into the mingo store?" Ethan asked.

"No." I said, "I want you in here with me."

"Dad." Wy yelled.

"Yes." I said as a trucker walked into the bathroom giving us a wary eye.

"My poop is orange." Wy yelled.

Smiling at the trucker, who was not smiling back, I said, "Nice."

"It's because of the Dr. Pepper." Wy said.

"Ok." I said. "Are you done yet?"

"No. I still got more poop." Wy said.

"Daddy, is he an indian." Ethan asked as he pointed at the trucker at the urinal.

"I don't know son, just because this is an Indian mingo store, doesn't mean that everyone who comes in is an Indian." I said.

"Oh." he said.

Thankfully the trucker was ignoring us, but not for long, because Ethan then asked, "Daddy, what's that."

"What's what son," I said, as I followed his pointing finger to the wall by the door which housed a gargantuan condom machine. Not just any condom machine either. One that has pictures of foxy women in lingerie looking excited about the french tickler and glow in the dark rubbers that are inside.

"Oh." I said. "Never mind that. Wy are you done?"

Ethan sensing something was amiss, pounced on my refusal to answer.

"What is it Daddy?" He said. "What is it?"

The trucker was now smiling at me in the mirror as he washed his hands. Only now I didn't smile back.

"Son, just forget about that. It's nothing. Wy are you done yet!?!" I said.

"No." Wy yelled. "I still have poop."

"What is it Daddy. What's it for?" Ethan asked again.

"Nothing." I said.

"What is it Ethan?" Wy yelled from the stall.

The trucker walked by me, chuckling to himself, as he exited the bathroom.

"I don't know Wyatt." Ethan called back.

"It's a condom machine." I said.

"Condom machine!?!?!" Ethan repeated.

"Yes. It is a condom machine." I said.

"What's a condom?" Ethan asked.

"Forget it son, not now. I'll explain later," I pleaded.

"Dad." Wy yelled from the stall.

"Yes." I said.

"What's a comma-done?" he asked.

"Guys," I shouted, "Let's forget it for now."

"Why." Ethan asked. "Is it bad?"

Is it bad, I thought, Yes, it's bad ---- being forced to have a birds and bees type conversation in a gross shitter in Tushka fucking Oklahoma.

But instead I lied, and said, "No. It's not bad."

"What is it for, Daddy?" Ethan asked.

"It's for men, son." I said. "You put a condom on your penis."

"Oh..." he said, "Why?"

"It's for safety." I said, praying this would answer his question enough for him to stop this line of questioning.

"Oh." he said. "Why are there girls on it if it's for boys?"

"Because the boys that buy condoms at a Tushka mingo store think that these condoms will impress those type of girls. I guess. It's advertising." I said. "It's all bullshit."

"Oh." he said.

"Wy are you done yet?" I asked.

"Daddy." Ethan asked. "It's kind of like the gumball and toy machines at Chuck's."

"Kind of, son, I guess." I said.

"It takes quarters." Ethan said.

"Yes. It takes quarters." I said.

"Like the gumball and toy machines at Chuck's." he pronounced.

"Dad." Wy yelled from the stall.

"Yes." I said.

"My poop is green now." he said.

Until I BLOG again...Ev'rybody says it's just like rock'n'roll.