I have many shortcomings that I am aware of, and many more that are pointed out to me daily. In spite of these, I have managed to attract a mate and procreate. My progeny are eight and five, girl and boy respectively. I have had many experiences in the last nine years that have humbled me as a member of humanity and as a man. None so much as my experience today.
When my daughter was six months old I took her to open a bank account in her name at the local bank. I'm at a credit union that has an office for such transactions. While I sit in the office with five other customers, my daughter across my lap, she needs to move and when I say move, I mean bowels. A pink flush runs up her face and I am aware of what is to come. Like clockwork, a grunt is followed by audible flatulence which makes me the center of attention. I affect a grim rictus and with aplomb and timing, ask the receptionist if there isn't a bathroom that we can avail ourselves of to affect a change of clothes for my daughter. All pretense of masculinity is stripped from my facade at that moment, and forever.
Four years later I am at the Tragic Kingdom with my year old son and my four year old daughter. We commence our trip with an E ticket ride in a cab to LaGuardia that culminates with my son demonstrating explicitly how projectile vomiting manifests. We experienc the joy of public opinion when we strip James on the curb in 30 degree weather while we try to minimize the collateral damage of projectile vomiting. We go through an entire pack of baby wipes in hopes of cleaning up the car seat and our son. Vomit clothes stowed in lawn and leaf bags, car seat cleaned, as well as possible, stuffed into a plastic bag, we dutifully make our way through TSA and flew to Orlando.
Have you ever gotten just a whiff of something rank? You move, right, to be a few more feet away from the offending object. Imagine yourself in an International airport, like Orlando, and getting that whiff. Then you realize that the whiff of stank is from the baggage claim thirty five feet away. Then imagine the horror when you realize that whiff is your car seat. What would you do?
If you are me, you get that garbage bag and throw that $70 car seat away, even if you know it is going to cost you $12 a day to rent one from Hertz. So, stash that bag on a garbage can, rent the car seat and eat that $80 charge and head to Didney. Then, find out that the projectile vomiting wasn't from the drunk cab driver's lurching driving but was actually a stomach flu.
Sitting in the Tragic Kingdom with your 2 year old son stretched across your lap, uncomfortable in the heat and apparently suffering from a stomach issue. The familiar flush of face, the ubiquitous grunt and flatulence as runny diarrhea warms your leg through his clothes, then yours. Make a quick break for the stroller...diapers and wipes not in that stroller, but the other one, one hundred yards away at "It's a Small World." Hold your kid out in front of you, a talisman, and watch the sea of people part.
In retrospect, all great experiences for me. I have enjoyed them. I'm sure there are several more in my future. But, I read two books to my son's Kindergarten class today. It was his week. he brought his favorite toys on Tuesday, a poster of his family on Wednesday, and a family member to read today. I was that family member.
His teacher directed them all to the carpet and gave me the seat of honor. I read two books. It really doesn't matter what I read. He didn't care. He was proud of me. He sat, eyes azure and bright, locked on mine while I read, but always checking his classmates. His looks aside spoke volumes. "That's my Dad. Don't you love him?" Every time I looked at him, the joy, admiration and pride were evident. "That's my Dad. Don't you love him?"
It went fast. I was nervous, but it was over before I knew it. I learned that I know, "That's my son. I love him?"
Friday, January 27, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Brothers
Had an epiphany today. Actually, had it shoved in my face. My friend Steve did it, Held it up in my face, rubbed my nose in it and pointed out the obvious. It wasn't obvious to me, but it was to him. Been having some issues with my parents. Normal stuff. Normal, unless you lost a brother...or a child, which means us, which means not normal, unless you lost a brother...or a child.
See, it was my brother. When I was five and that kid hit me and I let go of my balloon, Jon found me a new balloon. Then he found that kid. When I was five and fell on that hammer and had my tooth ripped from my upper jaw, I was with Jon. When it didn't grow back until I was seven and I had to go to speech therapy, Jon went with me. When I went to the Vanderkins to be babysat as a four year old, who walked me there, kissed me on the lips and told me he loved me? Yep, it was Jon. On the first day of school at Sabin, when Michael West made fun of me for putting on lipstick (chap stick), and I started crying. Who bashed his head against the wall? It was Jon. When I was placed in a gifted class with 2nd and 3rd graders and Mrs. Hooper grilled me about the stolen pencils, who led the rebellion? It was Jon. With whom did I pack a lunch and freeze Kon Tiki soda cans so we could go pick berries at Jim Fuji Farms at four in the morning. Jeans, boots, tee shirt, shirt, flannel, coat- layered against the cold, to make four dollars, for me, fifteen dollars, for him. Jon.
When I struggled in college, who sent me my own postcards and blackmailed me for a quarter about things that had long passed, just to get a smile, never seen or realized by the writer. It was Jon. "If you don't send me a quarter, I'll tell Mom about the time you shoplifted a Snickers." Ironic in its inception, the postcards given me by our grandmother, ludicrous in its execution - pretty sure my mom wasn't concerned with my light fingered habits of youth. It was a perfect recipe to defunkify my collegiate life. Me, struggling with the academics at the local state college, him thriving at Stanford. Jon.
A lonely evening at the hospital, I roll in. "Jon's brother, hold on." I'm regal, royalty at this hospital. Jon joins me shortly. We go to the cafeteria together, brothers, and eat Thanksgiving dinner, commercial turkey, stuffing and gravy, three thousand miles from our family. We talk. We know. This is kin, brothers.
Six months later, I have dinner with him again, at the hospital cafeteria. He seems tired, has been travelling. It doesn't matter. We are kids again, giggling about mom and dad, laughing about the adventures. We tell jokes. We are seven again, my brother Jon and I. He grills me, I question him. My big brother, Jon, who is four inches shorter and 40 pounds lighter, looking out for me. He travels a lot and when he is gone, I fill his fridge with designer hot dogs and import beers. When he gets home, we try the dogs and drink the beers. Sabretts with Spaten, Boar's Head with Budweiser, Nathan's with Heineken. I have recently turned him on to 7/11's hot dogs - $1.29 but add all the chili and cheese you can. He tells me, laughingly, about sitting on the curb at 7/11 and wolfing down a dog with chili and cheese after swimming 3000 meters, his daily exercise. He is fit, 5'9" about 145. He swims two miles five times a week, but he looks tired. I blame it on the travel.
The ER is separated into two sides and he sees me out from the left side. There are two big double doors there. He stands, watching me, as the doors close. He is not in his white jacket, just wearing a button down and a tie, out of uniform. I know that I will see him tomorrow. We have no plans, but we see each other every day, so I know I will see him tomorrow. Most likely, it will be for a beer and a Camel Light, we keep a pack in his green mailbox on the porch. I fully expect to be on his porch tomorrow, drinking a Heineken, smoking a Camel Light from his mailbox. I know this, but I still tell him I love him. It's a habit I have adopted.
"Love you!"
"Love you too."
And the next time I see Jon, he is laying on the floor, in his kitchen, his right arm across his face, a Stouffers Beef and Tomato in the microwave above him.
It looked like he just layed down, all peaceful like, to take a nap. My brother Jon. Asleep, forever, on the floor of his kitchen, waiting for a Stouffers frozen dinner.
Wonder why I am pissed?
See, it was my brother. When I was five and that kid hit me and I let go of my balloon, Jon found me a new balloon. Then he found that kid. When I was five and fell on that hammer and had my tooth ripped from my upper jaw, I was with Jon. When it didn't grow back until I was seven and I had to go to speech therapy, Jon went with me. When I went to the Vanderkins to be babysat as a four year old, who walked me there, kissed me on the lips and told me he loved me? Yep, it was Jon. On the first day of school at Sabin, when Michael West made fun of me for putting on lipstick (chap stick), and I started crying. Who bashed his head against the wall? It was Jon. When I was placed in a gifted class with 2nd and 3rd graders and Mrs. Hooper grilled me about the stolen pencils, who led the rebellion? It was Jon. With whom did I pack a lunch and freeze Kon Tiki soda cans so we could go pick berries at Jim Fuji Farms at four in the morning. Jeans, boots, tee shirt, shirt, flannel, coat- layered against the cold, to make four dollars, for me, fifteen dollars, for him. Jon.
When I struggled in college, who sent me my own postcards and blackmailed me for a quarter about things that had long passed, just to get a smile, never seen or realized by the writer. It was Jon. "If you don't send me a quarter, I'll tell Mom about the time you shoplifted a Snickers." Ironic in its inception, the postcards given me by our grandmother, ludicrous in its execution - pretty sure my mom wasn't concerned with my light fingered habits of youth. It was a perfect recipe to defunkify my collegiate life. Me, struggling with the academics at the local state college, him thriving at Stanford. Jon.
A lonely evening at the hospital, I roll in. "Jon's brother, hold on." I'm regal, royalty at this hospital. Jon joins me shortly. We go to the cafeteria together, brothers, and eat Thanksgiving dinner, commercial turkey, stuffing and gravy, three thousand miles from our family. We talk. We know. This is kin, brothers.
Six months later, I have dinner with him again, at the hospital cafeteria. He seems tired, has been travelling. It doesn't matter. We are kids again, giggling about mom and dad, laughing about the adventures. We tell jokes. We are seven again, my brother Jon and I. He grills me, I question him. My big brother, Jon, who is four inches shorter and 40 pounds lighter, looking out for me. He travels a lot and when he is gone, I fill his fridge with designer hot dogs and import beers. When he gets home, we try the dogs and drink the beers. Sabretts with Spaten, Boar's Head with Budweiser, Nathan's with Heineken. I have recently turned him on to 7/11's hot dogs - $1.29 but add all the chili and cheese you can. He tells me, laughingly, about sitting on the curb at 7/11 and wolfing down a dog with chili and cheese after swimming 3000 meters, his daily exercise. He is fit, 5'9" about 145. He swims two miles five times a week, but he looks tired. I blame it on the travel.
The ER is separated into two sides and he sees me out from the left side. There are two big double doors there. He stands, watching me, as the doors close. He is not in his white jacket, just wearing a button down and a tie, out of uniform. I know that I will see him tomorrow. We have no plans, but we see each other every day, so I know I will see him tomorrow. Most likely, it will be for a beer and a Camel Light, we keep a pack in his green mailbox on the porch. I fully expect to be on his porch tomorrow, drinking a Heineken, smoking a Camel Light from his mailbox. I know this, but I still tell him I love him. It's a habit I have adopted.
"Love you!"
"Love you too."
And the next time I see Jon, he is laying on the floor, in his kitchen, his right arm across his face, a Stouffers Beef and Tomato in the microwave above him.
It looked like he just layed down, all peaceful like, to take a nap. My brother Jon. Asleep, forever, on the floor of his kitchen, waiting for a Stouffers frozen dinner.
Wonder why I am pissed?
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