Rough night. Kid wouldn't sleep. Justine pulled the old "bait and switch," sticking me with Holden in the spare bed while she went to "brush her teeth," never to return. (The way our new house is set up, the guest bedroom is on the bottom floor, with the master upstairs and well ensconced from screams of "Hey! What the hell?!") The mattress in the spare room is too soft for my bad broken back, so can't say I slept much until 3 a.m., when I put the kid back in his crib and dozed off to sleep immediately, only to wake up (with a soiled diaper) at 6 a.m., which is where you now find me, having navigated the mine field that is my kitchen (it's in the middle of being painted by Pete French) to get my coffee, finding the microwave to heat said coffee (I like my coffee to taste like melted coffee ice cream [i.e., lots o' cream]), and retreating to my writing office (where the magic happens [except that I normally do my morning routine upstairs 'cause getting down here with Holden is hard. And pointless. Since all the boy wants to do is chew on my computer cords ("No, son, take daddy's iTouch charger out of your mouth")].
So here's to those of you who wanted me to write a Daddy Blog.
There does seems to be a revolving door of topics we cover here on C & C. Neurosis being number one, I guess. Since anxiety tends to get the best of me (had a great session with the shrink yesterday; maybe tomorrow we'll cover why I feel so guilty about my mom dying; that sounds like fun). Then we have boxing and blasting my pecs, because fitness is sorta my life after "the Accident" that left me battered, bruised, and in need of a new hip at the tender age of 40. We have the past relationships that have left me a shell of a man. We also have writing and rock 'n' roll, 'y'know, the arts. And why that makes me want to link this, who knows...
(I think it's because in the A3 original, they do this spoken intro about "getting on in the world" and being 41, "41 stoney grey steps toward the grave, y'know, the box"--and I just wrote "y'know, art," which triggered the association, in case you were wondering how the artistic mind--or at least my mind--works. Or doesn't.)
Then we write about domestic life, Justine and the kid. This last set up of topics fall under the "crowd pleaser" section, the feel-good comedies. It's Reese Witherspoon and monkeys dressed as butlers, because everyone loves a family man. And if you don't believe me, just ask these guys:
Which of course would make me have to put up the Simpsons and the world's second greatest band (with Oates, Mussina, Garfunkal, and Andrew Ridgley, I think), but I can't find it on You Tube.
Of course the rub with the daddy blog stuff is that it is usually inspired by whatever Holden has done lately. This usually involves putting things he shouldn't into his mouth (like yesterday when he calmly cruised over as I was writing my moving tribute to Springsteen saxophonist Clarence "the Big Man" Clemons, who died this past Saturday, and decided at nine months he was ready to try coffee for the first time. And, no, for some strange reason, he didn't want to nap yesterday. Go figure). Such is the case today, when he didn't sleep last night, climbed all over me like I was a jungle gym, and squawked like a pterodactyl (his latest trick).
Which you think would drive one crazy, and it sort of does, except for the part where the little thing actually falls asleep, and as tired as you are, as much as your bad back is barking on this marshmallow mattress, you look down at this boy, your son, and he's all nestled against you, baby snoring and (finally) peaceful, the hot pink cheeks and his tiny monkey fingers curled around your 17-inch biceps (well, I mean if you're me), and you're, like, "Holy shit."
Now there are a lot of good feelings you get in this life, from the raucous to the rock 'n' roll. I've done the drugs, had the girls, and as a fan of the most successful franchise in all of professional sports celebrated many a championship. But there ain't nothing that compares to having a family, a beautiful wife and big 'ol house, and most of all this kid. This kid, man, who'd have thunk it? He can drive me nuts, get in the way when I want to get shit done, and Lord knows I'd love to have an off switch on the buggger. But lying in bed last night at 2 a.m., cool breeze blowing down the mountain, deer hoofing outside my window, and my boy sleeping next to me, I've never had it better.
OK. I have to take my son out of his jumper now. That's where I put him as I am going in to the home stretch, in lockdown for a few so I can finish my writing, and it lasts about fifteen minutes. And those fifteen minutes are...just...about...up.