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Here’s this post again: my kids were here for the past nine days and at this very moment they’re in the air, jetting to JFK and—give or take an hour with Friday night traffic—home soon thereafter.
It would be pointless to say we had a “nice time,” but fuck you I’ll say it anyway. We had a nice time.
We had a mission this visit too; take my eldest for college tours that amounted, at their furthest, to a five-hour, one-way drive from home base. But we did it, damnit, and I had one giant-jumpin’-jeezus-help-me helluva’ time sitting next to a sixteen year old who was driving my car on I-fucking-95, America’s Most Populated Deathtrap.
He did an admirable job behind the wheel, especially with his old man having stroke after stroke after balls-out conniption fit in the passenger seat beside him. After this kind of training the kid could land the fucking Space Shuttle with no wheels and an unbalanced chimpanzee trying to bit his ankles off.
And for that, I am a Great Father.
Best part about your first baby driving? That little, wittle, pookie poo whose diapers you changed and whose wails you comforted with a gentle, rocking motion now drives half way. Maybe more if he’s in the mood.
Cool.
Weird, but cool.
It’s tough, and you know it is so I won’t blow much space on it but…
It’s tough to hope they’re happy while they’re here and tougher still to wave goodbye at the airport. If I could I’d wave my arm and make everything all right. But it’s not. It’s not all right and, for them, I can only dance, shuffle, waffle and when pressed apologize for being a failure. A failure in ways both real and imaginary.
They pretty much buy it.
They’re pretty cool kids.
And like all children, each of them deserves “alone time:” some portion of moments, no matter how small, that the parent devotes exclusively to them. And I know from experience that this isn’t any easier to pull off when one is a full-time, living-at-home-parent than it is now, as an absentee.
Whatever. You don’t give a shit. I’ll try to be funny from now on, okay?
We shared a hotel room in Saint Petersburg. It was really, uh…something. Two of mine are still at that [male] age wherein farts are about the most amusing thing to happen to mankind since Fire. And even back then the second thing mankind did [after roasting dinner] was to use that fire to light farts. More recently…
It got so bad I instituted a “fart on the balcony only” rule, only to see them taking much joy in sprinting across the room to poke their butts out the sliding glass doors every five minutes or so.
Who has to be a volunteer football coach to inspire athleticism in his children?
Not me. That’s who.
That balcony on St. Pete's Beach had an excellent view of the Gulf of Mexico and my children, my pride and joy, came very close to getting their nation embroiled in an “Acts of Hostility” situation with our neighbors to the south, depending on the prevailing winds.
I can’t help it. They fucking LOVE chicken wings and Diet Coke and according to their physician-prescribed diet plan that’s about all they’re allowed to eat.
What bugs me at this moment is the silence.
No farts with giggles immediately after. No sudden blaring of music from a distant corner or even a random “Dad?” from one of them who is, after all, just checking on my presence, just making sure I’m there.
Because most of the time I’m not.
I’m not.
There.
Most of the time.
Was I There while they where Here? Fuck I hope so.
I hope so.
Who can understand this feeling? When they’re here they make me crazy and when they’re gone it feels like my heart has been plucked out of my chest.
“We have to find a way to get you comfortable in your own skin, Mr. Illuminaught” a very highly regarded, Park Avenue physiatrist once told me. The better part of a million bucks later and that therapy has clearly born little fruit.
All relationships are flawed because all participants are flawed. Some of us are just a tad more flawed than others.
I got to spend ten days with my boys. And that’s awesome. And they’ve taught me one rather important thing: if you don’t think this spew was funny enough? Well then…
Your FACE is funny.
That’s right. Your FACE.
Powned.
Yo.
They've just texted that they've arrived in NYC. Safe babies. Home babies.
MY babies.