First of all, I’ve been here a total of 8 hours and I already have a best friend, and got lost twice because these nurses keep leaving me in wheel chairs after tests in hallways for way too long but in retrospect, ditching wheelchairs and meandering about to find my room is a poor choice and I will not be doing it again.
So this specialty GI hospital is like a palace compared to Boblingen, with their dirty, lazy hospital and nasty attitude staff. I sacrificed my children having foreskin for life to avoid that hospital, I should have never gone last week. Back to this place of decency, where everyone is nice to me, this never happens. I saw the head doctor, she confirms I have a fever and infection and so we begin 6 rounds of blood, some informal ECG and I signed some paperwork for my stay.
Unfortunately, but to be expected, today is only soup and water from the time I arrived until 10am tomorrow. The 2 large water paper cups brought to me have to be gone in 30 min for my CT scan this afternoon.
I have two roommates — Elke and Ursula. Private rooms only for COVID positive bastards. Ursula is worthless and like 90 and can’t move and she has be helped everywhere. She has said nothing, I assumed she was dead but her breathing tube is very loud and she’s gone now for some test.
Elke is in her 60s and Jesus can she talk. I’ve been in this room for two hours and she hasn’t taken a damned breath once. Now shes showing me pictures of when her mother’s feet needed to be amputated, god knows how it happened but her feet were black and about to go under the knife. Just in time, though, an amazing doctor treated her with special caterpillars who live in bags wrapped around her feet and eat all the black away and I cannot tell you how scarred I am by these before and after photos she’s showing me. I cannot stop this train wreck show and tell because we are already best friends due to us conversing in English and that we have shared views of all of our tattoos.
Elke and I have also had an unfortunate incident in my first two hours where she saw me full frontal and did NOT stop talking or looking straight at me as I had to lay with my underwear off while laying ON MY SIDE FACING HER for an unannounced rectal exam. I was not expecting a rectal exam so early in the visit (but is the reason I showered this morning) and in walks this innocent looking nurse who just swings by with water I asked for and then after asking consent I suppose, swept my rectum with her pointer finger THREE TIMES with no real consideration except to ask are you ok? DURING SAID EXAM and then I said “yes, I’m not shy, and pretty experienced” WHICH WAS NOT THE RIGHT THING TO SAY W HER FINGER UP MY ASS and also Elke was just staring and looking like she’s checking to make sure my exam is going well and also jabbering on about how some bus she drove for a living burned to the ground.
I meant experienced like I’ve been to a GI before.
No one warned me that having sons in Germany would bring a lifetime of issues involving foreskin. Foreskin, and further dealing with it on an uncircumcised penis unfortunately is not, and has never been, in any American girl’s vocabulary or life tool box, mine included, and I’ve always meant to write a High School Nurses Association to request that the handling of hooded penis be added to the sexual education portion of Health class, if that still exists, AND that it include a tutorial of sorts. To not have American girls fathom the vision and of a hooded penis, a bell end as the UK refers to it, and instructions on what to expect, and how to proceed, is not only setting them up for shock and trauma, but downright irresponsible of the educational system.
Now I was aware there’d be a choice at birth and the husband, of course, wanted everyone’s penis in the house to look the same. That I never saw coming or considered, nor even considered there would be some male ego and pride piece I’d have to deal with. But there always is, isn’t there?
During my 20th week checkup when pregnant with Sawyer, I was seeing this very progressive doctor who ran the maternity unit training team at the Tubingen hospital, a fantastically quirky and brilliant man who worse converse sneakers and Dan Levitt glasses and had a sense of humor only 2% of Germans possess. I thought I’d ask him about the potential for circumcision early, as I heard only one doctor performed it, and that doctor was obviously at the hospital closest to the American bases, and I had chosen to deliver elsewhere, at a wellness holistic hospital, as I was going to be a Labor Warrior who needed no medicine, I would birth like a peasant and use it to prove my superiority over my husband and most of the birthing population. I am an idiot.
And so I informed Trendy Doctor of my situation, and of how that the American supporting Doctor doesn’t take appointments outside his own patients, and asked for solutions. Trendy Doctor jumped right in to inform me that hood cutting had not been a common practice in over fifty years, until they brought back the clamps and cutters again just very recently. I assume the fifty year ban on hood cutting was some ridiculous German law, perhaps law 2,381,423, Section A, Reference D, in that master book of German laws I still can’t get my hands on, but he didn’t get into why they stopped doing it, he only said that I had the following three options:
Fly him home at a later date, which I considered inhumane, especially after hearing a German friend detail one drunken night tell me he had to be cut at the age of eight and the trauma that ensued, and so NO, option denied.
Find a Muslim doctor in the area willing to take on new patients, and for this task I pictured myself carrying a baby, going mosque to mosque, so that was out as well.
Find a Jewish doctor over the age of seventy, one who would still be well versed in penis cutting, and it was clear that new German doctors would just not do. He explained that while younger doctors may have received the training and have enthusiasm and be that of a progressive nature, their skill or lack thereof, may lead to an unfortunate incident. So young German doctors were out, and I’m quite positive the Germans killed all old Jewish doctors in that unfortunate war they lost, and so I was fucked.
Chris struggled with the concept of hooded sons, and I took on a relaxed hippie approach. My son would be raised with European flair, and I had heard in great detail about the extreme bliss of screwing an uncut man, from a few friends who had spent semesters or summers abroad. I suppose if my parents had given me the option to travel abroad in high school or college I would have been face deep in a French or Spanish gentleman and this would be a non-issue, but our finances in my young years clearly prohibited me from personal knowledge I could have gained and needed to support my unborn son. Now this was my parent’s fault.
My relaxed approach also came with medical considerations, as my sister once told me in America they do not sedate or numb the baby anyway, and it was the detailing of the trash bucket in the nursing station that ruined me, a bin filled with cut penises, a whole collection of what closely resembled unfried calamari rings. I would be keeping the foreskin on, and so it would be.
It was never a problem until ages five or six, now two sons involved in my nightmare, when I was told this was the timeframe we would need to handle the washing situation, but like the good parent I am, I pushed away the guilt and allowed my boys to just soak in the tub until ages six and seven and a half, hoping for the best, until I became fearful Sawyer was hitting an age with his seven year old penis which was surely going to fall off or be useless in the future if I couldn’t get in there and see what was going on. So one fateful night, I made the terrible mistake of sitting calmly outside the tub on the floor, and after a bit of playtime and some lavender oil in the bath to support the situation, I slowly and quietly approached the fact that we were going to check in on our penises. Both boys seemed confused and smacked said penises back and forth as if to prove they still had penises, and that they worked fine.
“No,” I explained, “your penis is INSIDE that skin you pull on”, and I pointed to the wrinkled anteater, Snuffleupagus zoo bit, and said we had to just quickly peel it back like a banana and starting today, using a washcloth, just give it a quick sweep, and all would be good with the penis and we would be done with it. And this is the very moment I was given another highlight as to how very different my children are.
Both standing, Swayer became visibly nervous, terror began to fill his eyes, and he began to shake slowly but getting worse by the second to the point of flailing around. I redirected. “Ok, ok,” I said, “we’ll start with Sully,”who gave zero fucks about anything , already put his hands on his hips and thrust out his pelvis, awaiting instruction. Jesus, that kid was five and had big dick, Chris Helmsworth confidence that I could only imagine would have us in trouble or jail one day.
“Ok Sully, I just need you to pull back the skin all the way back so Mommy can make sure your penis is clean.”
“What do you mean my penis,” he spat, “it’s right here,” and then he flicked it at me.
“No honey, your penis is INSIDE that skin, and we need to check it out.” And just like that, he whipped the skin back faster than I would have liked, and then wouldn’t stop, it was like watching a child play with a Chinese finger trap toy, so I had to stop him and tell him, ok, job well done, please stop, and that’s when he shouted boldly, “WELL THAT WAS A GREAT SURPRISE, MOM!
Jesus Christ.
Now I look to Sawyer, expecting him to be relieved and willing to follow suit and holy shit, while I had become distracted with Sully, Sawyer had launched himself into a full blown panic attack at the age of seven. He was shaking like he was having a seizure, hysterically sobbing, and when I moved toward him to console him, NOT to pull the damned thing back myself, he backed up in the tub like a cornered, feral animal, started shrieking NO NO NO NO NO NO and that’s when I saw him simultaneously gag and start to throw up, his eyes began to roll to the back of his head, and my normally rational child almost passed the fuck out in the tub.
I immediately put a stop to the drama, as now I was in shock, and I begged him to calm down, assured him I wouldn’t come near it, we could try another day. Meanwhile Sully is splashing around with his pointer finger jammed in his foreskin filled with glee, smiling like a creep and reassuring Sawyer, it’s ok, it feels nice and funny. Now Sawyer is yelling again and has launched himself up on top of the sides of the tub looking for an escape route. I tell him I’ll leave the room now, they can go back to playing, and I slowly removed myself backwards from the nightmare I had created and went downstairs to report back to Chris. Chris found this all very horrifying and his punishment for his reaction to my work would be punished by involving him the next attempt. He does, afterall, have the only other fucking penis in the house.
As a sidenote, Sawyer has never trusted me since, and if I ever even say the word penis, he gets PTSD like a solider who has returned from war and I just can’t say I saw any of this fuckery coming in parenthood or life in general.
Five more bath attempts between Chris and myself and Sawyer’s disposition and steadfast determination to not see or clean his penis remained. I bribed him with toys, sneakers, candy, playdates – anything a bad parent would do it my circumstance, yet the screaming and meltdowns continued, most so ridiculous and aggressive that I had to step outside the bathroom to laugh. I was going to hell and now I would surely be paying for Sawyer’s therapy much earlier in life than I had expected.
We dropped the issue mostly out of sheer exhaustion, and if he didn’t care about a clean penis, neither did I. At least I’d have one son with a normal penis and quite honestly, a child’s reaction to finding out his penis lived inside some extra skin was something I was not willing to add to the list of things that worsened my daily mental health. Keep your hidden penis, Sawyer, Mommy has fucking life to deal with.
Months later after our last failed penis check attempt, Sawyer came home with what we perceived to be a cut or tiny pimple on his upper left cheek. I didn’t see it as a big deal, applied Neosporin on it while he slept because God forbid I apply anything medicinal to that child’s body when he’s coherent, and I let it go, forgetting about it until a week ago, when Chris had too much time on his hands and brought out his monthly list of how we’re failing at parenthood, and on it was Sawyer’s face issue.
I made the appointment with the Pediatrician immediately, and volunteered to go because Dr. Maier is a real piece of eye candy, floppy curly hair, a boyish charm and smile, and relaxed, non-German disposition, and while ideally I’d like him to park his slippers under my bed, I’d settle for a check wellness visit with him.
I made the appointment through email, stated the face issues and it was set. Thirty minutes later, I got the brilliant idea to loop in Sexy Doctor to my household penis issues, and so I sent this email back to the reception staff, knowing full well I sounded both insane, American, and irresponsible as a parent.
This is a weird request but can you please put notes about talking to Sawyer about being uncircumcised and how to deal with cleaning and pulling back his skin. Last time I made him try at home he started almost throwing up and passing out. I’ve never seen a male so dramatic about his penis and he’s getting to be 8 years old and I don’t know how to address the situation. In the US, boys are circumcised, I am not good with this and he has a complete breakdown when I even mention it.
You’d have a good laugh if you saw what a scene it was, you would have thought I tried to remove a leg, but I really need the Dr’s help on this one. Please add this weird request to the doctor’s notes so he isn’t surprised when I bring it up.
I received no response.
A few days later, I took Sawyer in determined to get both issues sorted, and I made no mention to him about the penis surprise, as it would result in behavior like trying to get a dog in a car to see the Vet. Upon arriving and seeing Dr. Maier, I lit up with far too much excitement, his floppy curls were Covid long and unkept, and like a predator, I told him he had great hair, which did not seem to faze or entice him during the cheek check examination. After a quick face check, it was explained that the mark was one of those common spider spots, the red mark ones gets on the face or hands that is harmless and goes away without treatment, and so the doctor quickly rolled backward to his desk as a sign we were almost done.
I panicked immediately and stalled him asking, “You saw the email I sent to your nurses?” He looked at me blankly, and so I grabbed his notepad and pen without asking and furiously began to summarize the situation and hand it to him while saying, “You know, the one about yearly health checkups for sports and school?” He read the post it, gave me an interesting side eye and said, “Oh yes, well we can do Sawyer’s today.” Well I had no idea what was about to happen, and so like any good mother, I pressed record on the video on the phone that was waiting for this exact purpose in my purse. Part of me was hoping Sawyer would melt down to prove to the doctor why I had to make such a ridiculous request, and part of me just wanted the damned penis revealed and for it to be confirmed it was still functional for the sake of my sanity.
He turned Sawyer slightly away from me, out of consideration I suppose, even though I needed proof of a healthy penis, and pretended to do an ear check, a tonsil check, checked his belly for God knows what reason, checked his spine and then said, “Ok, now we pull down your pants to check your penis.” Sawyer looked at me with death wishes in his eye. I just played dumb, shrugged my shoulders and gave him a thumbs up. Weird placemat for a thumbs up, but really it was reactionary and came out of nowhere.
As the doctor pulled down his sweats he expressed, “Oh! No underwear?” and Sawyer shrugged and I only responded with, “Today is vacation day, we don’t wear underwear on vacation days,” which I instantly regretted by the look on his face and because it wasn’t an actual rule in our family, but honestly underwear wearing is optional at our house always, and now it has been confirmed that this is DEFINITELY not a German thing.
The doctor’s explanation to Sawyer was brief, explaining we needed to pull back our skin, and I had serious issues trying not to gag, especially when the doctor said, BACK BACK BACK, and while I had just thought I wanted to be part of the visualization, I was fine with no BACK BACK BACK, I could fully imagine what was occuring. I checked to see if Sawyer’s eyes were rolling in the back of his head, they were not, but he was completely still. His responses to questions about how does it feel, do you understand, are you ok, were kept to one word, and I knew he was both nervous and bullshit at me.
“Ok then, you’re all set Sawyer, good job. Now remember, every shower and bath, ok?,” and then he slapped his knees, and gave him a gummy bear to end our session. Sawyer just nodded his head like a liar. I knew this war would never be over until Phase Jerking Off arrived, and with a pull up of our sweats, we were out the door.
“Thank you, Dr. Maier,” I said, “I know this must seem very odd and very American, but thank you.” Thank you for checking my son’s penis was intact, an event we waited eight years as parents to complete. Sawyer was gone from sight, likely bolting down the street in the hopes to find a new mother.
“Well,” he said, with a look of awkwardness, humor, and slight disbelief, “there’s a first time for everything when you’re a doctor.” So now Dr. Maier had completed his first American hoodie check, and I was as proud of him as I was Sawyer.
We got into the car and rode in silence until I asked Sawyer, “Are you ok?”
“Yes.” He refused to look at me.
“Good thing that thing on your face will just go away soon.”
“Yes.” Oh, he was pissed.
“Well and your penis is now fine and it wasn’t so bad, right?” My voice had hope in it like never before to try to smooth over the issue.
“MOOOOOOOOOOM. WE ARE NOT DISCUSSING THIS THE WHOLE RIDE HOME AND YOU BETTER NOT TELL ANYONE.” Except the world, I absolutely couldn’t wait to tell the world.
“Ok, Sawyer, ok, but you’re ok, right? And we’ll be ok now during shower time?”
“One shower a week,” he stated flatly, staring straight at me, “and you owe me more than one stupid toy.”
And for those of you that are interested in a blacked out, verbal only replay of part of the visit, you’re welcome.
This. This is the only reason that old woman is alive and so I will forever see this boat and remember the day I was a super hero, but also almost broke my ankle and dislocated an old woman’s shoulder.
Also, he declared, look! It has a flag from England! No idea why this statement so proud, he’s never even been to England.
Also his flag looks nothing like the real one. This whole project was too much.
So today I wake up, happy to know that it’s a Military late arrival, due to the Super Bowl. I can’t decide if I care or not that the Bucs won the Super Bowl because let’s be honest, Brady won the Super Bowl and I want to feel like well, it’s better than nothing, but he’s also a supporter of white supremacy and a whole lot of bullshit so I’m also like fuck yourself, Brady, and so really the football game meant dick to me. I was happy for the late arrival, though.
Happiness, though, disappeared shortly after finding out today’s latest bit of home school fuckery included my son making a boat out of whatever he chooses, a boat that floats and holds change in place of people, a boat that had to be made, documented on video, and uploaded by 3pm, and now I’m annoyed.
Sawyer picks wood as his material of choice so I’m like great, go get the pile of sticks you made me drive back from last week’s hike for your lean-to, get out the saw and grab the glue, off you go, upload it by 3pm and Mommy can leave for work. But no. He wants to make a boat out of Popsicle sticks and we don’t have those no hand this week or ever, nor do we have the pops to eat, and so I leave to hit the German store, knowing full fucking well those fuckers don’t sell Popsicle sticks in the craft section but I’m still optimistic and fueled by iced coffee and the notion that I’m still out of the office, life could be worse.
I grab a parking spot at REAL, the Walmart-esque shop one town over, knowing that I still have to drive back the supplies, so now I’m in fast walking mode, all business, in and out, this is going to be quick. So I’m inside, and I’ll have you know REAL is massive, like Walmart, but there are two floors, and to get to the second, it has one of those massive escalators, but the slide kind, the kind that allows you to put a cart on it and it clicks or whatever event happens my brain doesn’t understand to keep the cart locked in while you slide on up the magic moving hill.
So I’m approaching said escalator hill thing and all four lanes of moving hills are empty except this one old woman nearing the top of the middle hill, pushing her little walker with a shopping basket, a walker I’ll inform you is NOT the store provided heavy cart that has wheels that are built to lock that fucker into the grates. This is her lightweight old lady pusher to help her stand and collect items to buy. Well she’s I’d say 50 yards from me, I’m just trying to get to the thing to go up to find something wooden for Sawyer to glue together, and that’s when I witness her trip or get stuck on something and OH MY FUCKING GOD this woman who is my height and much less than my weight but also well over 80 years old falls BACKWARD, feet over her head, and by the time I snap out of my shock, she’s somersaulted BACKWARDS 2.5 times and the momentum is launching her back fast into the third flip and I’m afraid she’s going to break her damned neck and die. I look both ways and it’s like the one time in life that this damned store doesn’t have 80 people in my way having ZERO spacial awareness and I thought to shout but I had no idea what to even shout so I was like FUCK IT and threw my purse down, did a 50 year dash to and up the escalator hill and just as I was about to reach her, keep in mind we’re halfway up the hill, I realize I went into this rescue mission with ZERO game plan. So now I’m nearly touching her and no idea what is the best course of action is but she’s about to flip again so I just do what comes first and naturally.
I body slammed her while she was mid air. I literally had no idea what else to do. So I slam her on the still moving escalator, then when her motion stops, I push my chubby self under her like some human wedge to make sure she’s stuck and then her stupid walker flies backwards like it’s still intent on flipping but her leg is caught in it, and when I go to grab it with my free hand, the fucking thing gets stuck in my hair, all the groceries fall out onto my head, onto the ramp in a downward race, and that’s when I realized we’re almost at the top of the hill, ALMOST TO THE GRATES KIDS ARE AFRAID OF, and I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do because STILL no one has seen us, I assume because we are wiggling around like a bunch of slugs on a moving escalator hill and the guardrail things are up to where your damned arms would be if you were standing upright blocking the show.
So no one sees us, and we’re about to be shot out of the escalator as a surprise but I am positive we’ll get stuck in that grate and so I start to panic and throw my body weight into her back from under her to get us upright quick. At the same time, I forget she’s 80 something and decide to rip her arm towards me from the armpit to pull her up, and she shrieks because it must have felt like I was trying to rip her arm off, but thank god because it was the only thing that prompted four grown sized adults to appear out of nowhere just as we hit the top of the hill and the scary grates to offer us last minute help.
So the walker that’s attached to her leg and my head hit the grate first, which does not go smoothly because it pulls me with it causing me to roll off the moving hill like some slow motion pudgy cannon ball, and these adult helpers that magically appeared jump out of the way of my body, OVER ME AND MY SHAKING BODY, only concerned with grabbing her before she hit the grate, which they did. So they pull her up and crowd around her to make sure she’s ok, meanwhile I’m still laying on the floor because it’s hard to get up effortlessly after all that with the crowd there, so I just lay there exhausted and gather random groceries that have now come back up the hill and make a pile so she can put them back in her cart.
When I do finally stand up, everyone is speaking fast and I assume asking her about going to the hospital because she’s shaking and crying and I felt so badly for her but since I had nothing to add to this conversation, I nodded back to their looks of thanks and approval (which I NEVER FUCKING GET AROUND HERE) and I backed away slowly to find the stupid fucking sticks I was there for.
Now I’m PUMPED with adrenaline, still breathing heavily, I can’t find sticks anywhere, and I’m just doing laps to get steps and calm down. Somehow I round the corner to find the natural silverware section and think great, there’s some wooden knives I can buy that are outrageously marked up just so my child can build a boat he’s going to use for ten seconds, super. And that is when THE OLD WOMAN ROUNDS THE CORNER AND SEES ME. She smiles, still shaky, but clearly wanting me to know she is happy I was there today and I want to give some gesture or response back to her but I can’t because the whole time I’m standing in front of her I’m thinking JESUS CHRIST SWABIANS ARE SO DAMNED CRAZY. This women caused me to fall multiple times, rip my leggings, skin my knee and bleed and get so jazzed up I can barely function and only ten minutes later I find her meandering down the natural and recycled utensil aisle like her almost dying was not going to come close to ending her shopping trip?
Seriously, if that’s not an example of a Swabian, I don’t know what is.
It occurred to me tonight, 2,528 days into nightly “rub backs”, the should I expire before my motherly hands straight fall off at the wrist, I have not documented to very important, very non-transferable art I have mastered as Keeper of Bedtime, Queen of Last Sips, Duchess of One More Pee, Master of Tuck-ins, Chaser of Monsters, Keeper of Secrets, Magician of Sun Rise and Set. It occurred to me that the secret of sleep needs to be written down in the case that someone other than myself must make the sleeps come, though I hope that is never the case. And so here it is, a detailed account of the Art Of Hopkins’ Boys Eyes Closing.
Bedtime must start with a nightly and very official and very loud explosion and race to declare who of the two Masters of Home deserve RUB BACKS the most, and be cautious, the subjects are steadfast and aggressive in their defense, never wavering in energy or determination from one night to the next. You must, if taking my place, keep a very daily, and very well documented tally in a notebook, one you can prove on the nights you will be forced to answer to LIAR! He’s LYING! YOU’RE LYING! EVERYONE IS LYING! shrieks. They will be shrill and they will not stop, and when your tally on paper proves to be nothing, flip a coin. Coin flipping, I’ve found, is very distracting by way of shiny object, but also very serious in the world of a child, and I have encountered zero re-do requests at the hand of a solid coin toss.
Now. Now you have a winner, good. Secure all aggressive parties in their beds, shut the shade, shut off the hall light, no one in this family is scared of the dark. Ensure blankets are neck up, fire up the Calm app, and choose a sleep story that makes you happy–I suggest Harry Styles, but do NOT, DO NOT leave it to them–it is tested and proven that they will always choose the one with the Thomas the Train icon and that is a shit story and you will be sorry.
Great, mood set. Oh, by the way, Sully always wins. If he doesn’t win outright, you must make up an excuse as to why he has to go first. Reasons that typically work include: He falls asleep first, he is smaller, he is less emotionally stable, it’s easiest if we let him win—all of these things, by the way, Sawyer is agreeable to, he knows his brother, he’ll follow along. Ok, now, Sully has won, back to prep work.
You must wiggle in the bed next to Sully, he’ll have made you room, and ask you get in, make sure the fuzzy blanket under the duvet is as close to his face without fear of suffocation as possible, burrito him up in it if at all possible. Now scoot in close, Sully wants a Big Spoon, he is big on cuddle, and if you shy away, you will be instructed how to proceed.
Sully will tell you fast and loud he loves you the most, no less than five times, and it’s your job to answer that there is no one more handsome than him, and that YOU LOVE HIM THE MOST, and then you will argue for one minute straight over who loves who the most and he will giggle and fight and then he will sigh and allow you to be the winner, and it is great moment that can melt a million icy hearts. At this point, you must tell him to roll over and succumb to quiet time, and once he does, here are the instructions for RUB BACKS that will make or break the event.
Sully likes the up and down finger trace, bottom of back to nape of neck, lightly, but not so as to tickle, but not firm enough to rub. Up and down, three fingers tracing a track, up and back, up and back, up and back. On the fifth time up, a quick brush of the neck and sweep through the hair is a good transition to lightly brushing his sweaty forehead, his cheeks, and then his forehead again as his body slumps into the night magic and his clammy, oversized paws unclench your unused hand. His breath will have deepened by now, and his weight has gained against your Big Spoon, and slowly, slowly, Sully drifts into the deep, dark Land Of Drool.
You MUST wait thirty seconds after he starts he baby snore, rub his back full palm three times for good measure, kiss him atop the forehead and tell him he is the most special boy on Earth, and only when these last tasks are complete can you slowly crawl backwards out of the twin bed and address Sawyer, who by now has fiercely whispered to less than five times you’ve ignored, IS IT MY TURN YET MOMMY?
Cross the room swiftly and jump the two feet up into the elevated second twin bed, where Sawyer is already positioned, ready and waiting. He needs no prep work, he’ll have done it for you, but in case of chaos, his bed must be situated as follows:
1 fuzzy blanket must be laid over the sheet to be situated completely under his tired and lanky body.
1 full size dog stuffed animal must be in the location of a normal pillow placement, as he has no use for real pillows unless they have been won at a fair ground for an obscene amount of money.
1 duvet must be pulled to the neck and he does not like shirts. (That being said, Sully likes full blown footsie onesies, the fuzzier the better)
Ok, now details are set, Sawyer also likes Little Spoon to your Big, but his RUB BACKS demands are more specific, and he’ll feel your distraction in a second should you momentarily check your phone, and his wrath will be yours.
First round with Sawyer is similar to Sully, finger tracing up and down, up and down. Step two is a walk like a spider, best you use all five fingers all willy-nilly, make the spider frantic and running, give a bit of a press here and there, slow and then fast, pretend the spider is being chased. Tickle his neck, fluff his fair and floppy hair, brush his forehead. Next, he’ll roll over tragically and say sweetly, Mommy, tickle my face, and there are specifics for this, too.
Trace his face and his forehead, down his button nose, circle the apple cheeks, his chin, by the big and floppy ears, circle back, five more times in cycle, sweep his sleepy eyelids, one more circle. Then last, lean in, kiss his sleeping eyes while brushing his bangs away and then when you pause because you think he’s asleep, he’ll ask for more and you’ll say one last time. He’ll roll over then, and he’ll smile a sleepy grin, and he’ll face the wall for the last bit.
Move one inch closer, Big Spoon it up, wrap your arm around his shoulder and chest, squeeze tight three times and tell him you love him the most, and that you’ll wake him in the morning with three kisses and a snuggle. He’ll slowly drop within your arms, his long legs will slow the twitch, and you’ll hear his soft breath flutter, as his brother chainsaw breathes through the night.
If it were me, I’d lay ten minutes longer in the dark, to do weird things like smell their hair or try to remember a time my soul didn’t want to break in a million pieces for no reason just because I share their caged heart’s pitter patter each night. But then slowly, and very awkwardly, I back out of the lifted second twin bed, try not to break an ankle, and retreat into my bedroom filled with adult reality and the silent wish I put out in the world each night that this bedtime will not be my last.
2528 RUB BACKS. Every last second worth the heartbreak.
Tomorrow is a big day at home, in the country we don’t live in, but the one we love and will return to one day. It’s a big day where every American can cast their vote for a person to lead the country, and we all hope this future leader will do good things and care for the people in our nation.
Tomorrow we, your parents, hope to gain a change in Leadership, and we hope Mr. Biden and Ms. Harris end up the face of our beautiful nation, and we can at minimum hope that the tides change to support the following:
We hope that our friends can use their voices, no matter what color–black, brown, yellow, pale, white, or in-between.
We hope that love sees no gender in union and any couple wanting to join is allowed the happiness they deserve and wish for.
We hope women do not have to defend the right always to protect their ability to be a mother, or the decision to be without children, and that women can remain the decision makers in matters concerning their bodies.
We hope that truth can be spread in print or in verbal communication in a way that is never censored, discarded, belittled, or discredited by those in power meant to lead.
We hope that humanity, love, and kindness break through and are the foundation in bringing light to shitty times and circumstances, and I truly hope that you both, both of you boys, understand that you are NO DIFFERENT than the people you meet who struggle the most.
Sawyer and Sully—you are both the most beautiful, thoughtful, and curious humans I have met of late. Please do me one favor—Never assume your people in life are saying and doing things that are just and fair and right. Think for yourselves, and follow your hearts.
Walk forward with your intuition and conscience and what feels right deep inside your chest, and know that the right path is often the most difficult and least walked upon in life. If you choose a path that brings you hardship, you have likely gone the right course, because right choices comes sometimes with confusion, pain, and second guessing.
You are both truly meant for great things–but know I don’t mean conquering lands, or completing video games. I mean only this:
You are both kind and loving and fair, and if that’s all you end up to be in life, it will be more than enough. Be the men who hugs a stranger when they cry in public with no support. Be the men who lead quietly and strongly, when you are surrounded by others who feed off attention. Be the men who never forget where they’re from, or what made your spark flicker first.
Be the first to say were wrong, that you don’t understand, that you need a second chance, that you did the best you could, and that above all else, you showed up, you loved big and hard, that you had zero regrets, and that everyone that ever meant something to you knew it, and believed it, and felt it. Make them feel it.
On election day/week, I want you to understand how important you are, you always will be, and you can change the world with every word you use, and every action you take. This week and always may seem like the winds will shift the world for good or evil with little notice, and things will always change. Know this though, be kind, be bold, and be who you want to Lead, and you will be ok for all of time.
And no matter where I am, near or far, I will love you both to the moon and back, forever and ever.
Chris showed up at Beck, the fabulous new Belgian bar close to work, to pull me outside to tell me something. I wanted him to just come in and have a beer. It was delicious Belgian beer with too high of an alcohol content, and it was free, but even that wasn’t convincing enough. He wouldn’t take my beer, and when I saw my car parked outside, working and waiting for me, I got distracted and excited because that damned car never works, and how did it get here? I ignored his pretend dislike for beer and got in the car, wondering how he got the night off from his second job.
He said he had something to tell me, and he used the tone that’s only reserved for cheating and death, but he looked sad, and then my stomach dropped, all I could muster was a flat, What. And then he said the words I knew would come one day. He said the words I had never been able to prepare myself for.
“Judy called me, Heather, and I’m sorry, your dad is dead.” The word dead lingered in the air. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I didn’t think. I just existed in a space of outrage and confusion.
I shook my head violently, making a face of disgust and disbelief and I countered, “No. No HE IS NOT FUCKING DEAD. I just talked to him, and he called me, and I didn’t call him back. No, NO HE IS NOT DEAD.” I was pleading with Chris, and myself, and I suppose God, who I’m now sure either doesn’t exist or hates me and either way, I couldn’t care less. I knew he was dead from the look in Chris’ eyes before he ever said the word. He was dead, dead, and I launched straight into fight.
I slammed the dash and pounded and pounded and wished my arms could windmill the anger into the dash and smash it and break it and destroy it to mirror the fucking disaster that was happening to my heart. I yelled noises and half syllables and smashed more and harder. Chris just stared at me, and he let me, and then at some point he tried to grab me, apologize, and explain that Judy had called him so that he could tell me, and I would not be alone when I hear the news.I was alone the minute the words escaped his lips. I was fucking alone, and the smashing was not done.
Three weeks later, I finally sat down and tried to tell my father how I felt. I was not going to act like a twit and speak to him like God, or like he was sitting in a fucking cloud, and so I wrote him a letter, because it’s what I do and it was all I could give him at the time.
Dear Dad,
I know it’s taken me weeks to write a letter to you, but you know how I am, lazy and self-absorbed. I’m sorry I didn’t write you sooner. It’s been a long three weeks, and there’s a lot to tell you.I wish I could tell you I’ve done my best in taking care of Katie and Judy—but I haven’t, no one needs me and I don’t want to take care of anyone, including myself. No one here wants to be taken care of, if we’re being honest. No one wants pity, or love, or hugs, or relief. I know you expect me to keep everyone strong and let them know that everything is going to be okay, but I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, and honestly, you can fuck yourself, because I just can’t. I’ve tried when I can, I really have, but YOU DIDN’T TELL ME HOW, I DO NOT KNOW HOW, and I can’t think straight to figure it out.
Chris told me you were dead on Judy’s behalf, due to location and maybe because of his stature and knowing the mess it’d cause. He said, “Heather, I’m so sorry, but your Dad died today.” I didn’t believe him. I told him no, absolutely not. I had just talked to you the week before and no, you were not dead. Not dead. YOU WOULD NOT BE DEAD WITHOUT TELLING ME FIRST.
But I knew he wasn’t lying, so I called Judy immediately, and I’m sure she knew it was me before she heard my voice and I didn’t waste time, I just demanded to speak to you. I needed to talk to you, and I needed to hear you so you could tell me yourself that you were alive and just sitting on your end of the couch, reading the paper and waiting for dinner. But she said you weren’t there to answer the phone, that I knew you weren’t coming to the phone and I wanted her to be a liar and to be mad at her but you were gone and you weren’t coming to the phone and so he’s dead is all I stated, because I know you didn’t get hit by a car or die of natural causes, I knew you did that thing you had wanted to do, and I thought we were past it, and as I thought all this, but thought nothing at all, you were just still dead. “How did he do it?” I asked, because the pain I felt was unbearable. I was ruined. I was defeated. I was unable to form one solid and rational thought.
I waited three weeks to write to you because part of me refuses to believe you left me without saying goodbye. I came home to DC from being in Maine a week to “help take care of things” (I literally stared at walls), to watch over Katie and Judy (I watched them, zero watching over), to find clues as to why you’d do this to me—I actually ransacked your office when no one was looking and came up with nothing, you left me fucking nothing. I was convinced, though. You must have left me a letter somewhere in your house, somewhere near the one you left that detailed how to use the snow blower or sell the cars. You sat down to write that letter, surely mine was just missing. Maybe you sent a letter to me instead, because I am just like you, and I loved you, and you could NOT have left a multiple page letter that didn’t include one word about me. That would be cruel and horrible and all I wanted was for someone to tell me was that you left something for me that said, I will miss you, Heather. I loved you, Heather. Goodbye. I’m sorry, it’s not your fault, you’ll be ok, fucking ANYTHING. And so I was certain that there must be something waiting for me in my mailbox back home in DC. I raced there as soon as the taxi brought me to my door. I left my suitcases outside in the wet grass facing theft by the transitional neighbors, and I sat alone on the floor and I opened all the mail. Every piece. I threw them all on the floor. I looked at every one of them again and again and again. I was shaking and begging the bills and advertisements to magically turn into a letter from you and they didn’t. You hadn’t written to me. You left me in silence. You left me to deal with more than any normal person could even begin to comprehend. I didn’t even know where to start in this end you created, and I didn’t know how to get up off the floor.
I just don’t understand. I can’t. I can’t accept the fact that the closest I’ll ever be to you again is when I go to your house, to sit in your sports room or to look at the velvet bag. You’re in that bag, Dad. You’re in that goddamned bag in an urn that wasn’t meant for you yet and I don’t know if I can do it. It’s crazy because I want to take you out and shake you. I want to dump you in a big mess on the floor and I want to sit there and say all the things I never got a chance to. I’ll tell you every funny story I have. I’ll tell you all the family gossip and my craziest life goals. Remember when I told you I wanted to be an Olympic diver? I can find something like that again. I’ll talk until you come back. I want to shake you and let you out so you can please come back. Please. It’s a sick, insane, horrible thought, I know, but I don’t know how to bring you back and I’m really trying to be strong but I don’t know if I can do it. I shouldn’t have to be strong.
You weren’t supposed to be gone yet. I’m only twenty-seven. I never wanted to need you alive, but I need you so much and I don’t even know what I need you for. I’m trying so hard to be strong and move forward like you’d want me to, but my head hurts, and my heart hurts, everything hurts, Dad. I’m scared and sad and confused and shit. I just…I just need you. Please, PLEASE tell me how to do it without you.
You should know, Chris drove me twelve hours that night so I could be the one to tell my sister. I know she’s my responsibility, but Jesus Christ, how could you leave without telling her you love her, telling her you weren’t mad, giving her peace in knowing her father really didn’t just kill himself without saying goodbye? I hate you for doing that to her. It makes me despise you. It makes me happy you’re dead. You ruined me, but you killed a part of her.
I think can take this finality eventually. I will get by. But her? She hadn’t talked to you in YEARS. I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for making me tell her the worst news of her life. It was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen, and it fucking killed me to watch her crumble at my feet. I am positive it is the worst thing I’ll ever have to do in my entire life and part of me will never, ever forgive you for it.
Katie saw us out the window when we pulled up, I saw her head in the curtains, and then I saw her disappear. I knew she’d see us. You know she’s like a spy, Dad. Always watching out her window, like you did, because you’re both bizarre and paranoid, but thing is, she was getting ready to leave two hours later for her well-earned one week vacation down south. It’s all she talked about in the weeks leading up, and I was there to ruin that, I raced to beat her out, and I was there to ruin the rest of her fucking life and I wish she had left already, but she hadn’t.
She was still there, and she bolted down the stairs leading down the back of her house. She didn’t even bother to put anything on over her pajamas, and she ran so fast you could tell she was excited and surprised. I knew she thought I came home to go with her, to surprise her, but neither of us were going anywhere, and you were fresh gone, and didn’t have to deal with any of this fuckery and I was mad and sad and mad and distraught.
Do you know how long I had to sit and comprehend and dwell and come up with the words I was supposed to say to her? Twelve hours, Dad. Twelve hours of staring out the window and crying and not crying and staring and having no fucking idea how to string together the worst sentence of my life. It made me sick. It was a million times worse having to tell her and ruin her life than it was even having heard it myself.
She was still running and I was just standing there, a fucking mess of a human at the bottom, broken and face smeared, smelling of the bottles of wine I drank the entire way up 95. And then she stopped. She stopped three steps before the wet grass and she froze and she just stared at me and I stared back and then I looked down and back up again and she knew before I even said a word. She saw my face and then I saw her eyes change and I knew her heart was breaking at the very same time as her eyes lost that glimmer she always had, the glimmer that was married to her dimple, and I just stood there and it all happened so fast but so slow and I actually watched a part of her die and I will never be able to explain what it feels like to be the person who shows up and takes your normal life away from you.
I didn’t cry when I saw she knew, and I tried to smile some half-hearted sympathy smile that I’d hate for someone to ever give me. But I couldn’t, I couldn’t comfort smile her. She is my person. She doesn’t want my smile, but I wanted her pain, but I was helpless and so I just stared at her, trying to burn a mental snapshot of her face one minute ago when she was still fully alive and I had not told her with my eyes that you were dead.
She already knew, though, and she went from blank to hysterical instantly. She held up her hand and said firmly, “No. Please tell me you’re not here about Dad. Please tell me nothing happened to Dad.”Goddamn you. I couldn’t fucking tell her no. I just stood there, I couldn’t even move towards her or away from her, I just froze for what seemed like a long time but then she fell down the three steps, and I grabbed her hard and held her tightly while she tried to squirm away and said softly, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Dad killed himself yesterday. Dad’s dead.” And then I held my breath. She was trying to run, I wanted to run, neither of us had anywhere to go, and you were still dead.
She dropped to the ground, out of my arms and clawed and slammed at the wet grass, barely able to wheeze familiar words of regret. “No. Noooo,” she wailed. “I never got to talk to him. He called me and I didn’t call him back. I didn’t call him back.” She was shrieking and pleading with herself that this wasn’t her fault and I hate you for making her feel like that.
We’ve all had weeks now to convince ourselves that it’s our fault, because someone didn’t do their job and one of us could have made it better. I don’t know whose fault it is Dad. I want to hate you and blame you and not myself but I’m just so sad. My chest hurts and I can’t swallow and nothing seems exciting and I wait all day long just so I can find a way to sit by myself at night to cry. I didn’t know I could ever feel so, so empty.
###
That was all I could say to him. I wasn’t ready for anything else. I was still trying to figure out if his death would take me with him somehow.
I’m working on a creative writing piece, and somehow I went down the rabbit hole of trying to choose which family members to write about, and I ended up finding the safety in choosing my dead father’s dead parents — you can’t insult anyone that’s not around, so why the fuck not.
So. My Dad’s dead parents—
I think my Grandpap died when I was in the fourth grade, I only know because I know we were living in the wooden house situated on the potato farm in Berwick. The news was anticlimactic, I’d known for some time my father wished 94% of his family dead, and so it was matter of fact and not a time where we shared fire side stories or cried. He was gone, my father would be going to the funeral, and much to our protest, we would not be joining him.
We only thought we might be going because once in a while, because my fraternal grandparents liked my mother, we went there to see them. Like once in addition to the time my father brought us to New Jersey to see my Aunt and Uncle and cousins and we went on the boat and saw their massive Star Wars legos but we had to leave early because my father never paid my aunt for the money he owed and he was still on drugs and they were both into vodka and they were really good at fighting with their words and no one, and I mean no one, in that zip code when we visited acted like they were capable of paying taxes or holding a job.
So we never saw New Jersey or Pittsburgh for the better part of a decade and we were certainly not going to see it to put my Grandpap in the ground.
Grandpap went by Red in his younger days, his name was Howard, but I never once heard anyone in his family or mine pronounce the W or the R in his name, and I think if you brought his name up now, everyone would still forget how to use those letters in his memory. It was always HAAAAAARAAAAAD, the HOW was forgotten long ago, and it was always dragged out and the second R had no real purpose.
He didn’t have a ton of hair that I remember, I think it was slicked back in his last days, not that he was bald, just like he actually wanted it slicked back, and his hair never had pigment, but I’m guessing it was once red, or his family and friends were fucking color blind. I always knew him as silver white, but not a silver fox, because there was nothing really foxy about Grandpap, and I should know because I am third in line as those who have inherited his build and I’ll tell you, it gets no easier on the eyes per generation, we all look like underboiled fat Easter eggs, no great shape, ill colored, and just in need of strategic clothing and a good sun tan.
He had this deep and throaty drawl that was not Southern and not Northern but somewhere blue collar and it was as grainy in sound as he was in emotion. He was Iron City through and through, from his accent to walk to car to verbal attack, and I was always mesmerized by this hardened city guy, because I lived on a dirt road in Maine, and he always hated something, someone, and as always ready to punish, just like my dad.
I never saw him young, he was old from the day I pieced together memories, and if you were to ask me now to describe him, I’d tell you what I would at eight, he always wore a short sleeved dress shirt, and a white tank underneath that was more cream than white, always had sweat stains, and was never unnoticeable under the dress shirt, and I always thought you weren’t supposed to notice the tank. His pants were always pulled too high, held by a belt but not a leather one that I remember, he wore white sneakers no matter where we went, he never looked comfortable, never once wore jeans, and I saw his feet exactly twice in my life and beyond blaming my father, I blame him for these god awful troll man feet that I have aquired.
Grandpap would come with us to the zoo, it was one of the only things I think my grandparents could think to do with us when we made the once in five year trek to Pittsburgh. He’d come, he’d drive the boat of a car, and he’d bitch the entire way that we were making him pay to sweat in the sun and come close to a heart attack, when we could have left him happily on the back porch alone in silence. I don’t think anyone ever cared what he said, I don’t remember it being a fight, I really think no one cared, seems odd now, but never crossed my mind otherwise in two decades.
He’d get out of the car slower than death, trudge and shuffle along, pay the fees like it was going to bankrupt him, and then find himself plopped promptly under the first concrete overhang he could excuse himself under, and he’d be pissed. He’d be huffing and puffing after 1/10th of a mile we made him walk into the gate, and then he’d sit under the overhang, and he’d be gruff and angry and shout loudly about not surviving his childhood in the south side of the Burgh to watch a bunch of apes in a cage throw shit at him for sport. If I were being really honest, he said a lot about the N word in discussing his neighborhood and the zoo, but since I am a full blown Yankee, I have this amazing ability to ignore the use of the N word, have no context for it, and I can keep on telling a story about my grandfather without having to fully admit the absolute racist that he was really was.
My Nana, she was something else. She was like an adult Shirley Temple, from her sometimes tight and curly hair to her dimple, to the bizarre habit of winking when it was appropriate and when it was entirely not. Nana had really small eyes, like dimes on an old and weathered Irish milky face, and her eyelashes were few and far between. I think God only gave her 5 prickly lashes each eye, 1/8 inch max in length for any of them, or maybe combined, and he awkwardly spread them across each small lid and called it a day. Thing is though, is Ann, my Nana, used those tiny eyes to communicate like you wouldn’t believe. You know how people say, he smiled through his eyes? My Nana. He cut you with a glare? My Nana. And what’s more weird is she liked secrets as much as she liked winking and so she winked the most when she pretended she had a secret—and it was never anything good, I have a childhood of proof that no one ever told her a good story.
She’d wink when she was making dinner, she’d wink when she thought you had something in common, when she meant to stress something in a story, when she liked you, when she was telling you about someone she didn’t like, when she was talking nice but not nice within earshot of the neighbors, when she referred to my father but didn’t want to disappoint us, and later in life when I think she had cateracts but to this day I am not really sure what that is. It was just that one year I saw her again and her dime eyes were different, still the same five eyelashes, still the same magic behind the wink, but just different.
The time I drove from DC to Pittsburgh with my sister in the front seat, the time my AC in the Hyundai Elantra shit the bed, as did the CD player, and we drove 6 hours with both of our pants off and tossed in the backseat so as not to pass out in the humidity, we arrived to a different Nana than we saw in our childhood. We showed up to see her new home, not 506 Jenne Drive anymore, I drove by and saw that a new family was already in, and we were not allowed to go in the back yard, and it was weird.
We came to the home my Uncle had moved her into, and in one look we knew the Nana we had barely known in the first place was never to return again. It wasn’t the way she firmly clasped my hand like she always did, slapping the top hand out of love but also like payback, but it was her eyes.
Her eyes had somehow turned cloudy and milky, not translucent like her skin, but milky like thick pools with a lost pupil, just fluid circling in a thick and glazed over sadness I didn’t like. I looked at those eyes a few times, and then a few times at the floor, and I never looked at her face and saw what I did at seven ever, ever again.
What’s funny, though, is you never inherit from your family what you want, whether material items or physical traits. You are stuck with what you get, and the more bizarre things you inherit, the less circumstance you can change.
From my father I took too many Smith traits, and the easiest to work on in my adult life, has been my tendency to overexaggerate every story I’ve ever told on record. Who needs a normal story when I can tell you the version that happened not only in life, but also in my head?
And what I got from Nana? Well, Katie got her big tits and her slim legs and long fingers. Me? I have normal sized eyes, but I have taken to winking at all the wrong times, and to this day if you saw me winking you’d be unsure if it was on purpose, or if an allergy or bug was to blame instead—like the one time I took communion to fit in and because I wasn’t quite sure how to receive the body of Christ, I winked at the priest as he dropped the Jesus wafer in my hand. Or the time Sully recently told me I look like a beauty queen during quarantine, the one time I wore an oversized swimsuit coverup as a daytime dress, and I winked at him, and then he asked why I did that thing with my eyes and then I felt pervy and let’s be honest, I wink out of nowhere when I’m nervous or can’t muster normal social responses and it’s my dead grandmother’s fault and I bet Katie doesn’t have this stupid problem with her Nana tits and slim legs.
So we’re in Ireland and Sully is helping my pal Christine wrap her bf’s gift. She is 16, bf is 16, Sully is 4. To give him something to do, she gives him the card to draw on. Said card has a nice snowman front, some glitter, and inside some words and pretty plain. Plenty of room to draw.
He draws, she wraps, and then I hear her ask what he drew. There is a pause I’m familiar with, one that means something bad has or is about to happen, he says something to her I cannot hear and then I hear, HEATHEEEEER, can you come here?
Upon entering she repeats, Sully, tell Mommy what you drew. He looks exasperated, rolls his eyes to the back of his damned head and sighs.
Penises, he declares. One for her and one for me. He looks at me like I’m an idiot and his craft is unrecognized.
I am slightly taken aback but obviously living for it, but have to pretend I’m a responsible parent. She remains horrified, as real Irish are very private, do not discuss sex or bits, and are apparently unaccustomed to having a toddler draw a bag of dicks on a card meant for the birth of Jesus.
I try, SULLY WE DO NOT DRAW PENISES ON CARDS. I am stern and trying not to laugh.
He remains unapologetic. WELL I DREW ONE FOR HER AND ONE FOR ME. I find this explanation way more valid than she does.
He then, out of anger, grabs the card back, scribbles violently, throws it back at me and shouts THERE, ITS A ROLLERCOASTER.
He then crosses his arms, not so much in defeat, but in complete disgust with us, and leaves to go find something better to do.
A penis for you, a penis for me, Happy Birthday Jesus indeed.
I told Chris today how proud I was that I didn’t break down over Xmas over missing my father. I didn’t have a wine induced, shit show, laying on the floor, hating everyone moment, or half day. Seems like a small accomplishment, but I love a little holiday self destruction.
What I didn’t get into is that I had decided not to lose myself in my grief and anger in losing him, but I tried really hard to channel him, celebrate him, and make him come to life.
I decorated more. I made thoughtful present attempts. I sang. I drank water. I dressed silly. I acted like a kid. I helped others. I loved and hugged people. And most of all, I laughed hard, and tried to make others laugh, because that was the very best thing about my father—his deep and joyful, thick and meaningful bowl full of jelly, twinkle eye crinkle, ear to ear glee, unapologetic, strip you from adult woes, howling, childlike wondrous humor that made everyone forget what they shouldn’t care about, and made you only care about laughing so hard you forgot how to breathe. He made time stop and bad things disappear when he made you laugh, and sometimes I think I have the superpower to do the same.
And so I didn’t need to cry this year, I just needed to laugh more, and i think it worked.
The Heather Chronicles 