The Eve of Distraction

Twas the night before Christmas.

When all through my house.

There are some damn excited kids.

Ok, that’s not exactly how the poem goes.

But that’s how it goes in my house.

Three kids.

At three very different stages in their young lives.

All looking forward to Christmas morning.

When they wake up to a house full of presents.

For my 14-year-old daughter.

She is somewhere between High School.

And Med School.

She’s always been sharper than her age.

If you look close enough, you can actually see her wheels turning when you ask her a question.

And if you wait four or five seconds, she’ll usually respond with the right answer.

This Christmas is a new one for her.

Probably a confusing one.

I think she’s trying to figure out how old she really is.

When it comes to presents, she’s still all kid.

But when it comes to everything else, she’s all grown up.

High school can do that to you.

My son is two years younger.

And he too is growing up.

Way too quickly.

But he usually acts the age of the people around him.

In school, he’s a 7th grader.

Around me, he’s a lot more polished.

But put him with his eight-year-old sister.

And let the games begin.

He’s definitely a candidate to work at NASA.

Because when it comes to getting under her skin, he knows all of the right buttons to push.

The eight-year-old is our last piece of innocence.

The last one who actually wants a hug.

The last one who does what we tell her.

And the first one to express herself.

At our Christmas Eve dinner, she decided to perform the National Anthem.

Oh, not sing it.

That happens in the morning.

At dinner, she decided to pit fart the National Anthem.

Talented, that kid is.

When that was over, she started singing the words to "Santa Claus is coming to Town".


He sees you when you're sleeping.   He knows when you're awake.

Then suddenly she stopped.

"Santa kinda sounds like a stalker," she quietly mumbled.

"But he's a nice stalker," with a big smile on her face.

I asked her what she wanted Santa to bring her this year.

“Three things,” she said.

Without any hesitation.

“A baby brother.”

“A little dog, like a chihuahua.”

“And a magic wand.”

Well if I were her, I’d ask for the wand first.

That’s her best shot at getting the other two.

I love that little girl.

Love her sense of humor.

Love her kindness.

Love her innocence.

I love looking into her eyes.

As much now as I did the first time.

Eight years, two months and two weeks ago.

She is something special.

And she’s not afraid to show it.

Tonight before bedtime, there were six of us hanging out in my son’s room.

Me, the three kids and a pair of books.

A pair of Christmas books.

What else.

One of those books was “Twas the Night Before Christmas.”

But reading the book wasn’t good enough for her.

She had to perform it.

From the first line, through the last.

She was living on her own center stage.

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

She did that one from memory, not once taking even a glance at the book.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter

She tapped her fingers on the wood door, as quickly as possible, to provide her own version of a clattering noise.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf

She tried to inflate her frame as big as possible.  But sixty pounds only go so far.

Now Dasher!

Pause.

now, Dancer! 

Longer pause.

now, Prancer

Drama Building.

and Vixen!

Silence.

On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!

Those she flew right through.

Picking up the pace to recapture the energy of the story.

She flipped each page, like it was the script of a play.

Each line more theatrical than the one before.

Finally closing with...

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!

And with that came a bow.

A bow she held for seconds, but felt like minutes.

A bow that signaled the end of Christmas Eve.

And the beginning of the longest night of the year.

Waiting for hours.

That feel like days.

For morning to arrive.

When we all learn what Santa delivered.

I'm hoping for the Chihuahua.

The Parent Trap

Friday night was date night in my part of the world.

It started off with a little dinner.

Carls Jr.

Then we moved across the parking lot to the movie theater.

Tangled.

And that was followed up by some dessert.

Dairy Queen.

During the movie we held hands.

Exchanged a kiss or two.

On the cheek, of course.

What kind of weirdo do you think I am?

And I held her drink whenever she was thirsty.

It was a perfect night for dad and daughter.

The seven-year old.

With my son at a sleepover and my wife and oldest daughter at a dance recital, this was the opening I was looking for.

My youngest and I have a great relationship, but it’s not everyday that we get to hang out.

As a couple.

There’s a lot of love between us, but it doesn’t take very long to see that she’s a momma’s girl.

And I have no problem with that.

My daughter confirmed the other day that I am not at the top of her list.

But it wasn’t my wife who was taking the prize.

“I love God more than I love you,” she told me.

“Well, I love you, but in a different way,” she added.

Considering our touristy trip to the St. Patrick’s Cathedral was her first footstep inside a church.

And she can’t remember the last time she was in a synagogue.

And she thinks a mosque is the way a New Englander pronounces what you wear on your face on Halloween.

I’m really not sure where this sudden burst of religion came from.

My wife and I contemplated having another child.

If contemplated meant trying without success.

We tried for quite a while, but unfortunately it didn’t work out.

So the little one is our final chance to get this right.

We are so thankful for what we have.

A 13-year old girl.

An 11-year old boy.

And that seven-year old gift.

All healthy.

All amazing.

All the reason I need to get up in the morning.

I can remember being a dad for the first time and having absolutely no clue.

And I can remember being a little better the second time around.

But it was the third time that I was expecting perfection.

From me.

And guess what, I didn’t get it.

All-in-all, I would say I’m a pretty good dad.

Sometimes spectacular.

But perfect, I am not.

I really try hard to be patient.

I really try hard to be loving.

I really try hard to be... perfect.

But there is rarely an hour that goes by with the kids that I don’t say to myself -- “why in the world did you just do that?”

Take this morning for example.

My son was pushing my buttons like it was a game of Battleship.

And unfortunately for him -- and unfortunately for me -- he hit the wrong button.

As a 43-year old man, I’m pretty sure I was once an 11-year old boy.

And I’m guessing when I was 11-year old boy I was NO different than this 11-year old boy.

So I would be The Time Magazine Hypocritical Man of the Year to say that my 11-year old should act different than I did when I was his age.

But somehow all of that analysis didn’t amount to anything when I lost my temper.

Sure, I can blame my lack of patience on a wide variety of stressful ingredients in my pantry of life.

But the bottom line is I should know better.

And I should’ve acted better.

But I didn’t.

And it ruined a good portion of my day.

And it ruined a good portion of his day too.

Being a parent is the toughest job I’ve ever held.

But unlike my last two real jobs, I’m hoping my kids won’t ever tell me that my services are no longer needed.

The nice thing about my kids -- probably most kids -- is that tomorrow is a brand new day.

If I can have a bowl of Cocoa Krispies waiting for them when they get up, we’ll be off and running.

Like Paul and John, I believe in yesterday.

But that’s only so I can make tomorrow a little better.

Next!

Hello Friends...

Sorry for the few days off from blogging.   

It might make a little more sense in 686 words.   The good news is, I’ve got plenty of time now to share the new stories of my life.

Sir Bacon

I’ve seen a lot of wild days come and go.

The day I threw my five iron after my tee shot and hit a friend in the head.

The day I witnessed a bank robbery.

The day I made seven errors in one high school baseball game.

And then wrote the article in the school newspaper. 

Of course, with no mention of the seven errors.

But Friday could be the weirdest of them all.

I woke up in my new home of Manhattan.

Checked my email, as I always did, before heading to work.

And it is a good thing I did.

There was a bunch of junk mail, as there always is.

But there was one email that stood out.

It was from my work.

Telling me to come in for a meeting.

Four hours later I was on a plane headed home to be with my family.

I probably left out a few details.

Sorry.

As you might imagine, the story is A LOT more complex than that, but in the spirit of the blog, that’s all you are going to get.

Suffice to say, plans to move to the big apple have hit a detour.

Actually, a roadblock.

A New York sized pot hole.

Take your pick.

Life is nothing if not complicated... and confusing.

But the news is not all bad and in many ways it is not bad at all.

Regrets are a giant waste of time and I have none.

Or at least none to share.

The last two plus months have been amazing.   

I never realized just how great New York is.

But I do now.

I have absolutely no idea what the future holds and I probably won’t know until my head stops spinning.

Whenever that is.

But as I sat on a plane writing the latest chapter of my life, there were at least 4,398,729 thoughts going through my skull.

Most of which surrounded my family.

They had just finished up an 11-day trip to Manhattan preparing for their new life.

So much for those plans.

But hey, we still got plans.

Big plans.

We got some incredible news just a few days ago when my 13-year old daughter was invited to be part of a dance troop.

A dance troop that will be dancing in EUROPE.

Yes, that Europe.

Only eight girls were invited.

That trip will take place the same time my 11-year old son is playing in a week-long baseball tournament.

A tournament in Cooperstown, New York.

Yes, that Cooperstown.

My life has certainly been a roller-coaster ride for the last few years.

But that ride keeps landing in the same place.

Family.

No matter how many twists and turns life has provided, and there have been MANY, my wife and kids have always been my rock.

My rock, even while living in a hard place.

I can’t say -- both literally and figuratively -- what’s next in my life.

But I can say, without ANY hesitation, that celebrating the accomplishments of my children is where I plan on using my energy.

That and band practice.

Me and the boys played for four hours on Sunday.

We are back in the garage tonight.

I think somebody is telling me that’s where I need to be.

How do I know?

Well, during my flight home I was listening to the airline’s music channel.

And so far four of the nine songs our band plays have come on the channel.

And we don’t dare cover The Beatles.

I’m talking Marshall Crenshaw’s Someday Someway.

Not exactly the Billboard 1000.

I’m not trying to say that just because we are 30,000 feet in the air the signal to the big decider in the sky is more clear.

I’m just sayin.

I’ve spent most of my life under the guidelines of... things happen for a reason.

So don’t stop now.

Come on --- I’m sitting on a plane and Marshall Crenshaw’s Someday, Someway comes on.

28 years after it his #36 on the charts.

Really?

I think I’m in good hands.

Next.

P.S.   Thanks to all for your wonderful comments.   

As you might imagine, there are a lot of emotions attached to the latest chapter of my life, but as the t-shirt says, Life is Good.

As always, I welcome your correspondence.   If you feel the urge, please feel free to contact me via email at sirbacon123@yahoo.com.

Have a great day.

it's all in the text

good morning....

Those two little words have been exchanged by my son and I every morning for as long as I can remember.

But today those words had a different meaning.

Today those words were not exchanged in his bedroom.

Or at the kitchen table.

Or in the living room, above the roar of the MLB Network recap show he watches EVERY morning.

Today those words were exchanged, via text.

From across the country.

From his little fingers to my little phone.

The fact that he is still thinking about me first thing in the morning is a great thing.

But I fully recognize that my sudden departure has brought a void in his life and the life of his mom and two sisters.

I can hear it in their voice and hear it in their texts.

And it makes me hurt knowing that they are hurting.

But like Jerry Lewis always says, this is for a good cause.

This was supposed to be a great fall for my son, instead it has been a great fall.

He was supposed to be playing tackle football and off-season baseball, all with his dad living one hallway away.

Two weeks ago he broke his hand in a football practice which ended his busy schedule, before it even started.

This came just a few days after I informed the kids that I was leaving.

That broke his heart.

Sadly, thousands of families inform their kids every day that dad is leaving.

Or mom is leaving.

But they are not coming back.

As a child of a divorced family, I can still remember that discussion like it was 31 years, seven months and 13 days ago.

For me, I think hearing that news was a relief.

The loud noises in our home had nothing to do with the MLB Network.

Rodney King did not invent, “can’t we all just get along”.

I did.

The good news for me and my family is that I am coming back.

Or actually they are coming back to me.

It’s just going to take some time.

Living apart, across the country, is not easy for any of us.

But knowing that there is a bright light shining, off in the distance, is what we are all focused on.

Deep down I know the kids are genuinely excited about what lies ahead for all of us.

But at 11-years old words like unemployment and mortgage and dad is not here anymore are words on a spelling test.

Not words in a test of real life.

I don’t expect the kids to know how I am feeling, but I definitely understand how they are feeling.

Growing up, we moved from one city to another after second grade and after fourth grade.

We moved from one state to another during tenth grade and after tenth grade.

During high school, I went to four different schools, in three different cities.

Amazingly it had nothing to do with bad grades or a bad attitude.

It had to do with work.

My dad’s work.

I didn’t understand it at the time.

But I can see clearly now that my dad is gone.