Honea Express

Archive for the ‘Family’ Category

His face is pale against the flush of his cheeks. The red is rosy and perfect, like it was painted on. His eyelashes are long and fluttering. His hair is full of fever sweat and tussle. He takes no notice of me in the doorway. He notices only the nothingness and whatever dances upon the edge of distance. He is a few feet and a million miles away. He coughs. He sleeps. He is burning.

There are waking hours on the couch and the meeting of needs. Start the movie. Stir the soup. More fluids. Thermometers. Medicine. Tissue. Blankets. The movie is over. Start the movie. There are other things that I must do, and they are all ignored in equal fashion.

He escapes through sleep to sweet relief. This is when I should attend to matters that should be done, but I do not. I clean the room. I play soft music. I dump the tissues and restock accordingly. I hit reset and then I lean against the doorway and watch him breathe.

They say don’t get too close. They say that germs are best kept at bay. But I am a parent. I cannot sit on the dock armed with life preservers and gentle whistles. I wade chest-deep and let him float against me. His burn becomes my burn and I try to take it all. I want nothing more than to soak it all in and open my arms to a bay gone dry. I want to watch him run across rocks and starfish and so many sponges, free of fever and free of pain. The only sounds should be waves retreating and the lingerings of health and laughter.

But there is a difference between giving and sharing, and fevers read the fine print. I fear we will float out to sea upon a brown pleather raft, a foolish father and his somber son, with rosy red brushstrokes like stains on our faces.

The music is soft and the dance in the distance.

Morning is a game they play. It is the crossroads of grumpy and hijinks, and there are shoes to be tied, teeth to be brushed, and a number of things that really should have been done the night before. It is the kind of chaos that lends itself to immediate cursing and a lifetime of fond, sweet memories. It starts too early and ends on a dime.

Sometimes there are too many metaphors to bother.

The boys are sleeping now, between mornings and the shadow of them, and the world is quiet save the sound of frogs in the stream outside. The stream was dry just days ago and the frogs were dehydrated and forgotten like so many sea-monkeys on the cusp of greatness — covered in leaves, dust, warts and all. Now the frogs are awake and alive and they want us to know it.

We know. We know.

And the boys sleep on while the world spins constant around them. There are late night projects, glasses of whiskey, promises kept and those unfulfilled. Their breath is a bass line beneath the songs of the night and my keyboard types out like a broken-down piano. Every sound is clear and haunting, every breath a melody. The notes between are soft and silent. They linger until the moon fades, then the sounds are soon to follow.

Morning is a game they play. They will win every single time.

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Illustration by Arnold Lobel

He was dressed all in green, cute and quite tiny. But he’s six, they do that. The agenda of the day was on repeat and by the third time through, between bites of oatmeal and large gulps of orange juice, I believe I had the gist of what he was saying. First, they were doing a flash mob on the school playground, and then they were walking to the park for a leprechaun hunt.

“You’re hunting leprechauns?” I asked.

“Mr. Magic Leprechaun lives in the park,” he said. “My teacher saw him.”

“Is this a catch and release thing or do you plan to eat him?”

“We’re not going to eat a leprechaun!” he said. He seemed insulted.

“Then what are you going to do? Make a rug?”

“A what? They don’t make leprechaun rugs!”

“They should,” I told him. “Although I’m not sure how big of a rug you can get from a leprechaun hide. Maybe we can make a doormat.”

“Daddy! We’re not making a leprechaun doormat!”

“That’s a good idea. If a rainbow ended on our porch we’d get all kinds of crazies. Maybe we could have him mounted, like a trophy. We could hang lucky charms from his antlers.”

“Leprechauns don’t have antlers.”

“Are you sure about that one?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure they have antlers.”

“Leprechauns aren’t animals.”

“Then why are you hunting them?”

“We’re LOOKING for Mr. Magic Leprechaun,” he said. “We just want to say hello.”

“Oh,” I said. “So tell me about the flash mob. Do you need to borrow a trench coat?”

Photo

It was four hours past the the day I turned 41, and I stumbled into a dark hotel room covered in the smells of whiskey, Texas, and things best forgotten. The night had grown stale and suddenly quiet. I threw my clothes on the floor and I fell asleep immediately.

The morning found me relatively fresh and thankful for it. I was at the Dad 2.0 Summit in Austin, Texas, and I had a reputation to live up to — the drinking was only part of it.

The other part was crying in public, which is something of a running joke among those that have seen me speak on the topic of parenting. Turns out I’m a freaking sap. (Also a sap, Robert Candelino of Dove Men+Care, a sponsor and speaker that lost it on stage. I’m only bringing it up because a) it was quite touching, and b) hello? When Doves Cry). Luckily, I managed to forgo my own tears this round (barely), much to the chagrin of those that enjoy such things. Rest assured, I didn’t let them down on the drinking.

But it wasn’t all beer and bourbon.

The Dad 2.0 Summit was an amazing meeting of parent bloggers and brands — a public place for parent relations, which sounds weird now that I typed it, but I’m leaving it in. Somewhere in the distance that’s what she said.

Blogging conferences seem to appear at just the right moment. I have been in this space for a long time by most standards, and I find that my passion for it tends to wax and wane like so many moons and other things that cows jump over. It is safe to say that recent events and the lack thereof had me on the wane. There was thought of turning away.

I am as unemployed as I have ever been, leaving me embarrassed, stressed, and flirting with depression. I thought about skipping the conference. It was only due to a series of phone calls with an impassioned Doug French, one of the founders of Dad 2.0 (also, John Pacini), that I somewhat reluctantly decided to make the trip despite the funds involved and the lack of them coming in. I’m glad I did.

I was greeted by familiar faces (lots of the DadCentric team!) too numerous to mention here (plus I know I would forget someone and subsequently feel like a jerk), and many new faces that became fast friends. What can I say, I’m a people person.

There were engaging conversations about parenting, dads, writing, media, brands, and peanut brittle. Who decided it was a holiday thing? Peanut brittle is awesome all year.

There were things to do, things to learn, and things that I will never forget. There were also plenty of things that didn’t apply to me at all, which is fantastic, because they were presented in an open and honest manner, allowing for curiosity and contemplation when needed, or judgmental silence where warranted.  And sometimes I was just looking toward the distance and thinking about my family.

I managed to find room in my bag for a big box of Legos and pinned my newfound focus next to the heart on my sleeve. I had gone to Austin in hopes of finding what I wanted, a job, which didn’t happen, but I came home with something equally important (though less help financially) — I came home with what I needed, and that feels pretty damn good.

No, it wasn’t peanut brittle.

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This is the only picture I took. It is the only picture I needed.

(My roommates Muskrat & Chad performing Unchained Melody Remix: Ghost in the Machine)

And a couple of photos that Charlie took so that he could enjoy me at his leisure:

Here I am blowing (save it) out the candle on my birthday cake thing which I then shared with the 10 other bloggers at the table. Yes, I’m eating soup and salad. I believe I have already established that I am sensitive like that. Special thanks to Bruce and Charlie for buying my birthday lunch!

And this is what Andy (Betadad), Charlie (How to be a Dad), and I do when we sit outside a gas station for two hours waiting on a cab. Yes, we were posing for album covers. So what? The band is called DadShart. We’ll be touring this spring. Mostly smooth jazz.

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UPDATED:

For the purpose of total transparency, let me say that I stole the following thank you list of sponsors from John Cave Osborne. Literally, I broke into his blog when he was out grilling eggs or whatever the hell they do in Tennessee and just took it. He had it coming.

Much thanks to  the sponsors of Dad 2.0: Johnson & Johnson, Kinect for Xbox 360, Honda, LG, Zatarain’s, CLR, Dove, Lego, Philips Norelco, ScottsMiracle Grow, Shot@life.org, SpareOne, and Tide.

I didn’t steal this part (but I would have): I would also like to thank my fellow panel members: Andy, Jason, and Mike.

Also, I got shot. Thanks to Stacy for reminding me of what was, obviously, a very dark time for me.

Don’t worry, I’m okay. Relatively.

Photo by Caleb, who was, as always, exceptional.

It is warmer here, and there is a time difference. I have a headache and a suit in the closet. The room is free of pets and children, along with their respective dander and infectious laughter. It is a quiet, white room with white, sun-faded curtains. The suit is black and it is time to put it on.

The next room is bright and full of color. There is music in the background and stains of steam clinging to windows still wet with morning. There is a mirror deep with reflection and in it stands a man with a tie in his hands, wondering which one she would have preferred. He will make a steady knot with shaking hands, and he will take several deep breathes. Then he will drive a mile to bury his wife.

I understand there will be bagpipes. I think she would have liked that.