I really want to post everyday. I really do. You would think that with all of the "free time" I have nowadays that I could. You would be wrong. There's still so much going on in the Adventures of Me, so I have to postpone. Plus, I've been reading some of the previous posts....they kinda suck. I know that I'm my own worst critic, but damn.
I majored in English (one of my many majors), and you wouldn't believe how many papers I had to write. I had a professor brag that she never gave out A's. "I've yet to come across a student who exemplified 'A' work in all my years of teaching." I got four in a row. Writing is very important to me, as is storytelling. Each, I approach like a job. Draft, rewrite, rewrite, start over from scratch, rewrite, say 'fuck it' and turn it in. But who has the time for that with a blog? I can hardly get through the first sentence before "someone who must not be named" stabs me in the side with a crayon to get my attention.
To be honest, I want to redesign the whole site. I'd like a unique logo, a different name (I chose mentalstorage because everything else I came up with was already registered, including my own first name), and more than anything I want to link a podcast to it. You should hear me tell the stories...waaaaay better when you hear them.
Anyway, I write all of this for the handful of people that I see keep coming to check each day for something new. I'm still alive, just really busy right now. So either you'll get nothing for a while, or it'll really suck (in my eyes). On the plus side, my personal life is looking up. "I got my swagger back," or whatever those young kids say these days.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Friday, April 26, 2013
I'm Batman
One would think that with my daughter now being in daycare that I could shut down the Bat Cave, unplug the Bat Computer and hang up my cape. Nope. I haven't really had time to breathe, because it's enrollment season for public school. Now a while back I posted a status on Facebook wherein I cursed out every single person who got a spot in the DC Public School Lottery. The only ones safe from my wrath were those who actually grew up here and, as I consider it, paid their dues.
Little things like--I don't know--not having textbooks for a whole year and not having a Math teacher for three quarters of the year are character building exercises that I feel earned my child a spot in the new "We're supposed to care about kids?" public school system. School was closed a few months ago due to what I can only describe as 28 snowflakes, yet my knee and elbow still give me trouble almost twenty years after Cha-Cha Sliding down an icy sidewalk during a blizzard. I want my daughter to be a part of this new Age of Reason where the school being on fire is an acceptable reason to miss class.
I just feel like it's not fair that my daughter struck out at six schools on the lottery list. There shouldn't be a lottery for us 80s DCPS'ers. I should be able to whisper the name of the teachers that used to give us the answers to the CTBS test under the guise of "You'll repeat a grade if you fail" and someone just magically pull a chair out of the closet for my daughter at any school of my choosing (GoodFellas-style).
But that's not how the world works, and perhaps it's for the best. I still get to be Batman and who doesn't want to be Batman? I'm jumping from rooftop to rooftop going on last minute tours and gathering enrollment data. You're only supposed to enroll at one charter school at a time. I've been thoughtful and followed this rule, but that means that every time a new/better school calls to say we're off the wait list, I have to grab my grappling hook and swing around the city trying to drop off medical forms, birth certificates and DNA samples. I feel like I'm on Making The Band.
I spent last Friday running...to the train, to the daycare, back to the train, to the house to get the medical forms I forgot to bring with me, to the bus stop, to the school, back to the bus stop... It was a lot. But...I'm Batman.
Little things like--I don't know--not having textbooks for a whole year and not having a Math teacher for three quarters of the year are character building exercises that I feel earned my child a spot in the new "We're supposed to care about kids?" public school system. School was closed a few months ago due to what I can only describe as 28 snowflakes, yet my knee and elbow still give me trouble almost twenty years after Cha-Cha Sliding down an icy sidewalk during a blizzard. I want my daughter to be a part of this new Age of Reason where the school being on fire is an acceptable reason to miss class.
I just feel like it's not fair that my daughter struck out at six schools on the lottery list. There shouldn't be a lottery for us 80s DCPS'ers. I should be able to whisper the name of the teachers that used to give us the answers to the CTBS test under the guise of "You'll repeat a grade if you fail" and someone just magically pull a chair out of the closet for my daughter at any school of my choosing (GoodFellas-style).
But that's not how the world works, and perhaps it's for the best. I still get to be Batman and who doesn't want to be Batman? I'm jumping from rooftop to rooftop going on last minute tours and gathering enrollment data. You're only supposed to enroll at one charter school at a time. I've been thoughtful and followed this rule, but that means that every time a new/better school calls to say we're off the wait list, I have to grab my grappling hook and swing around the city trying to drop off medical forms, birth certificates and DNA samples. I feel like I'm on Making The Band.
I spent last Friday running...to the train, to the daycare, back to the train, to the house to get the medical forms I forgot to bring with me, to the bus stop, to the school, back to the bus stop... It was a lot. But...I'm Batman.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
My Version of A Heartwarming Story
Over the weekend my daughter and I watched Monsters Inc. I've never really liked that movie, so I don't know any of the character's names, but she enjoys it. I asked her what the big blue monster's name was and she said, "Daddy!" I thought she was trying to be funny. "Okay, well if that's me then who is that?" I asked pointing to the little girl in the movie. My daughter said her own name.
I don't really remember what happens in the movie, but the particular scene that was playing at the time involved the little girl being captured by a snake or something and the big blue monster trying to save her. He said something along the lines of, "Nothing else matters now. Boo's in trouble and I have to save her." He then went through a bunch of crap trying to save the little girl. At the end, he saved her and the girl gave him a hug. At that moment my daughter gave me a hug.
I could be looking too deep into it, but I realized at that moment that my daughter identifies me as that big blue monster going through hell and high water to protect, care for and entertain a little girl. She identifies herself as the object of that protection, care and entertainment, a.k.a., love.
Just at the moment of that realization, ninjas broke into my apartment (stealthily) and began cutting onions behind our couch. A single solitary manly tear fell.
I don't really remember what happens in the movie, but the particular scene that was playing at the time involved the little girl being captured by a snake or something and the big blue monster trying to save her. He said something along the lines of, "Nothing else matters now. Boo's in trouble and I have to save her." He then went through a bunch of crap trying to save the little girl. At the end, he saved her and the girl gave him a hug. At that moment my daughter gave me a hug.
I could be looking too deep into it, but I realized at that moment that my daughter identifies me as that big blue monster going through hell and high water to protect, care for and entertain a little girl. She identifies herself as the object of that protection, care and entertainment, a.k.a., love.
Just at the moment of that realization, ninjas broke into my apartment (stealthily) and began cutting onions behind our couch. A single solitary manly tear fell.
Monday, April 22, 2013
24
But it's been no bed of roses, no pleasure cruise. I consider it a challenge before the whole human race and I aint gonna lose...
OH MY GOD! At the time of this writing it is 9:08PM Sunday April 21, 2013 the year of our Lord. I have everything from We Are the Champions to gospel songs playing in my head. I just finished my first weekend alone with my daughter since she was born. If you're reading this and a single parent...I kneel before Zod. Good Lord! As a matter of fact, add that Jay-Z song "Oh My God" to the list of things playing in my head with the woman screaming in the chorus, "Good Lord (bump) Good Lord (bump) Good Lord (bump) Good Lord...said I feel like I'm dying!"
Now let's backtrack a bit for those just tuning in. Long before 'The Fall' I was a stay at home dad. I'm not the stereotypical man who gets a dose of reality when the mommy is gone for a while. To the contrary, my 918 days of stay at home dad-ness has made me a hall of famer when it comes to parenting. BUT...there was always a relief pitcher. There was somebody I could tag into the ring in the evenings. At 6:15 every night, I clocked out. I've never done a 24 hour shift before by myself, let alone two freaking days.
It all began Friday. Somebody called me right after my daughter fell asleep around 9:00 and I knew that I should've just gone to bed, but a part of me feels like "oldness" wins if I go to bed before 11PM. Pride cometh before the fall. I watched the clock and I did that thing that people usually do the night before work. "If I go to sleep right now, I'll get X hours of sleep." I lied to myself and said that my daughter was super tired and would sleep at least until eight. Bullshit.
6:00 AM Saturday Morning"Tiger Uppercut!"
That's what she should've said. Instead she said, "Daddy!" The voice of an angel accompanied by three part harmony of my rib, lung and her fist/foot/something connecting. I can't know for sure, but if I replay it in my mind, then she had to have been jumping on the bed for a while to get the kind of height needed to land on me with that kind of force.
Anyway, that's how my weekend began. With a bang and a whimper. I was then instructed "Cook. Breakfast. Cook. Grits? Sausage? Cook?" The rest of the day is a blur, which is very sad considering it was YESTERDAY. I just remember being tired for most of it. I assumed that being up at six guaranteed a nap around noon. Nope. She sat in her bed singing negro spirituals until about 1:30 when I dozed off. I woke up at 2:30 and she was just nearing a crescendo. I don't remember much else, except learning from my mistakes and going to bed directly after her.
6:02AM Sunday Morning
She let me sleep in an extra two minutes. She was feeling merciful, I guess. It didn't last. I woke up to the Tiny Toon Adventures theme song being sang directly into my ear canal at about 200 decibels higher than the human ear can tolerate. I just stared at her. There was nothing else to do in that situation that won't get you put in jail. I just stared. She smiled and said, "Watch rabbits?"
Somehow I made it to the living room. Somehow grits, smoked sausage and a banana appeared on the table before her. I returned to the table with my bowl of grits only to see her bowl empty and her hands reaching up for my bowl. "Grits?" I handed her the bowl, she took my sausage too and then I just sat there and ate tasteless, flavorless Grape Nuts.
I was instructed to read every Fly Guy book that we have in addition to every Dr Seuss book. Then we watched Tiny Toons. Then we did some flash card app on the iPad because she thinks I'm the illiterate one. Then my desperation said, "Check the clock. It's gotta be time for her nap. It's gotta be noon." The devil is a liar. It was 9:08. I'm federal agent Jack Bauer and today is the longest day of my life.
We went for a walk. We went to the park. I tried inducing a nap by having her "race" me up a hill. She made it up and down twice before I got up the first time (wink, wink). We went out for a slice of pizza. I took exactly enough cash for two slices of pizza to prevent greedy-me from getting a whole one. Little did I know, they raised the price so I only had enough for one slice. She was nice enough to give me the pepperonis off of it. We went to the zoo. Oh yeah, all of this was on foot. We went somewhere else--can't remember--and then we finally came home. We went up to the roof to look at the sunset. We did everything a human being can possibly do...and now she's finally asleep.
So guess where I'm going.
OH MY GOD! At the time of this writing it is 9:08PM Sunday April 21, 2013 the year of our Lord. I have everything from We Are the Champions to gospel songs playing in my head. I just finished my first weekend alone with my daughter since she was born. If you're reading this and a single parent...I kneel before Zod. Good Lord! As a matter of fact, add that Jay-Z song "Oh My God" to the list of things playing in my head with the woman screaming in the chorus, "Good Lord (bump) Good Lord (bump) Good Lord (bump) Good Lord...said I feel like I'm dying!"
Now let's backtrack a bit for those just tuning in. Long before 'The Fall' I was a stay at home dad. I'm not the stereotypical man who gets a dose of reality when the mommy is gone for a while. To the contrary, my 918 days of stay at home dad-ness has made me a hall of famer when it comes to parenting. BUT...there was always a relief pitcher. There was somebody I could tag into the ring in the evenings. At 6:15 every night, I clocked out. I've never done a 24 hour shift before by myself, let alone two freaking days.
It all began Friday. Somebody called me right after my daughter fell asleep around 9:00 and I knew that I should've just gone to bed, but a part of me feels like "oldness" wins if I go to bed before 11PM. Pride cometh before the fall. I watched the clock and I did that thing that people usually do the night before work. "If I go to sleep right now, I'll get X hours of sleep." I lied to myself and said that my daughter was super tired and would sleep at least until eight. Bullshit.
6:00 AM Saturday Morning"Tiger Uppercut!"
That's what she should've said. Instead she said, "Daddy!" The voice of an angel accompanied by three part harmony of my rib, lung and her fist/foot/something connecting. I can't know for sure, but if I replay it in my mind, then she had to have been jumping on the bed for a while to get the kind of height needed to land on me with that kind of force.
Anyway, that's how my weekend began. With a bang and a whimper. I was then instructed "Cook. Breakfast. Cook. Grits? Sausage? Cook?" The rest of the day is a blur, which is very sad considering it was YESTERDAY. I just remember being tired for most of it. I assumed that being up at six guaranteed a nap around noon. Nope. She sat in her bed singing negro spirituals until about 1:30 when I dozed off. I woke up at 2:30 and she was just nearing a crescendo. I don't remember much else, except learning from my mistakes and going to bed directly after her.
6:02AM Sunday Morning
She let me sleep in an extra two minutes. She was feeling merciful, I guess. It didn't last. I woke up to the Tiny Toon Adventures theme song being sang directly into my ear canal at about 200 decibels higher than the human ear can tolerate. I just stared at her. There was nothing else to do in that situation that won't get you put in jail. I just stared. She smiled and said, "Watch rabbits?"
Somehow I made it to the living room. Somehow grits, smoked sausage and a banana appeared on the table before her. I returned to the table with my bowl of grits only to see her bowl empty and her hands reaching up for my bowl. "Grits?" I handed her the bowl, she took my sausage too and then I just sat there and ate tasteless, flavorless Grape Nuts.
I was instructed to read every Fly Guy book that we have in addition to every Dr Seuss book. Then we watched Tiny Toons. Then we did some flash card app on the iPad because she thinks I'm the illiterate one. Then my desperation said, "Check the clock. It's gotta be time for her nap. It's gotta be noon." The devil is a liar. It was 9:08. I'm federal agent Jack Bauer and today is the longest day of my life.
We went for a walk. We went to the park. I tried inducing a nap by having her "race" me up a hill. She made it up and down twice before I got up the first time (wink, wink). We went out for a slice of pizza. I took exactly enough cash for two slices of pizza to prevent greedy-me from getting a whole one. Little did I know, they raised the price so I only had enough for one slice. She was nice enough to give me the pepperonis off of it. We went to the zoo. Oh yeah, all of this was on foot. We went somewhere else--can't remember--and then we finally came home. We went up to the roof to look at the sunset. We did everything a human being can possibly do...and now she's finally asleep.
So guess where I'm going.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
An Inconvenient Truth
There are times when my life feels like Groundhog Day. No that's not right. I'm gonna say that it feels more like Die Hard 2. There's a scene in that movie where Bruce Willis is running down a tunnel or something and says, "How can the same thing happen to the same guy twice." I find myself saying the same thing from time to time. Today was no exception.
As you all know, this has been a hellacious year for me. A few weeks ago my best friend suggested I get out of dodge for a little while, so I bought a ticket to Philly. Now I like to believe that I have a sixth sense about things. Either that or I'm about as paranoid as a meerkat. Whatever the case may be, something told me that this trip would be problematic. So I flipped a coin to pick the date. Don't ask how a two sided coin can select the date and time of departure/arrival. I'm gifted.
Anyway, I picked April 17th and train number 86 to Philly. Now, if you have any free time and want to check the news to verify if I just make these stories up...you'll find that at approximately 10:30 some poor soul became overwhelmed by life and jumped in front of a speeding train. That's about the time that my train did something weird. It didn't really rattle or anything. There was just a noise and then they slammed on the brakes. There was this smokey smell soon after that I assumed was from the brakes, but so close to the Boston bombing, you can understand how people would be slightly rattled.
"Attention passengers, we hit an (pause) obstruction on the tracks. We're going to inspect the tracks and train."
A few minutes later...
"Ladies and gentlemen, that obstruction turned out to be a person. We have a suicide on our hands. We will be here indefinitely as we await the police, coroner and EMTs. This train is now part of an investigation and likely you will be placed on a rescue train, but we don't know when that will be."
Well that turned out to be about three hours later. It was standing room only on the next train and I rode that for the next 30-45 minutes to Philly. Some people took offense to what happened. They openly discussed how "selfish" the suicide was and how the person didn't have to ruin everyone else's day (Several people actually said this aloud).
I saw it as an unfortunate event. Having had a hell of a year so far, I can understand that we're all just a few bad days away from giving up. Plus, I don't have cancer, so things kinda roll off my back now. I made it to Philly, I hung out with my friend, and we had a great day. On the way back to the station, the running joke was, "You'll be fine as long as no one else decides to jump in front of your train on the way home."
I get to the station and no more than five minutes after I get there the little board scrambles around and says, "DELAYED." I asked one of the people at the information counter if this was just a normal delay. The woman responded:
"Honestly, I'd get comfortable. They had a suicide on the tracks."
"Oh, I know about that. I was actually on the train that hit the person this morning. I'm talking about the southbound train to DC."
"So am I. There was a suicide this morning and one just a moment ago. The train heading south to DC hit someone. Wait, you were on the train this morning too?"
So for the next two hours, I found myself regaling people with my tale. For whatever reason, random strangers struck up conversation: "Hey, someone said there was a suicide this morning too, but I can't imagine two in one day."
"It's true. I was on that one."
"Wow, what are the odds?"
"Hey, I heard the delay is because of a suicide. Can you imagine being on the train that hit someone? That's gotta be awful."
"Yeah, I was actually on the one that hit the person earlier this morning."
"Wait, there were two? In one day? And you've been around for both? That's freaky."
While it wasn't exactly the trip I had in mind, I felt a little relieved. Things were bad earlier in the year, but not so bad that I felt that was the way to go. I don't care what anyone says, killing yourself isn't a coward's way out. It isn't the right one either, but I have to believe that jumping in front of a moving train is anything but an easy decision. It's an act of desperation and indicative of the world in which we live where it can happen twice in one day and in both times I witness a people talk about how inconvenient someone else's death was for them.
As you all know, this has been a hellacious year for me. A few weeks ago my best friend suggested I get out of dodge for a little while, so I bought a ticket to Philly. Now I like to believe that I have a sixth sense about things. Either that or I'm about as paranoid as a meerkat. Whatever the case may be, something told me that this trip would be problematic. So I flipped a coin to pick the date. Don't ask how a two sided coin can select the date and time of departure/arrival. I'm gifted.
Anyway, I picked April 17th and train number 86 to Philly. Now, if you have any free time and want to check the news to verify if I just make these stories up...you'll find that at approximately 10:30 some poor soul became overwhelmed by life and jumped in front of a speeding train. That's about the time that my train did something weird. It didn't really rattle or anything. There was just a noise and then they slammed on the brakes. There was this smokey smell soon after that I assumed was from the brakes, but so close to the Boston bombing, you can understand how people would be slightly rattled.
"Attention passengers, we hit an (pause) obstruction on the tracks. We're going to inspect the tracks and train."
A few minutes later...
"Ladies and gentlemen, that obstruction turned out to be a person. We have a suicide on our hands. We will be here indefinitely as we await the police, coroner and EMTs. This train is now part of an investigation and likely you will be placed on a rescue train, but we don't know when that will be."
Well that turned out to be about three hours later. It was standing room only on the next train and I rode that for the next 30-45 minutes to Philly. Some people took offense to what happened. They openly discussed how "selfish" the suicide was and how the person didn't have to ruin everyone else's day (Several people actually said this aloud).
I saw it as an unfortunate event. Having had a hell of a year so far, I can understand that we're all just a few bad days away from giving up. Plus, I don't have cancer, so things kinda roll off my back now. I made it to Philly, I hung out with my friend, and we had a great day. On the way back to the station, the running joke was, "You'll be fine as long as no one else decides to jump in front of your train on the way home."
I get to the station and no more than five minutes after I get there the little board scrambles around and says, "DELAYED." I asked one of the people at the information counter if this was just a normal delay. The woman responded:
"Honestly, I'd get comfortable. They had a suicide on the tracks."
"Oh, I know about that. I was actually on the train that hit the person this morning. I'm talking about the southbound train to DC."
"So am I. There was a suicide this morning and one just a moment ago. The train heading south to DC hit someone. Wait, you were on the train this morning too?"
So for the next two hours, I found myself regaling people with my tale. For whatever reason, random strangers struck up conversation: "Hey, someone said there was a suicide this morning too, but I can't imagine two in one day."
"It's true. I was on that one."
"Wow, what are the odds?"
"Hey, I heard the delay is because of a suicide. Can you imagine being on the train that hit someone? That's gotta be awful."
"Yeah, I was actually on the one that hit the person earlier this morning."
"Wait, there were two? In one day? And you've been around for both? That's freaky."
While it wasn't exactly the trip I had in mind, I felt a little relieved. Things were bad earlier in the year, but not so bad that I felt that was the way to go. I don't care what anyone says, killing yourself isn't a coward's way out. It isn't the right one either, but I have to believe that jumping in front of a moving train is anything but an easy decision. It's an act of desperation and indicative of the world in which we live where it can happen twice in one day and in both times I witness a people talk about how inconvenient someone else's death was for them.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Batting A Thousandth
I don't think I'll ever take my self-esteem for granted again. If there's one thing that Saturday has taught me, it's that you can never have too much of it. You see, now that I'm in the free agent pool, I've found it necessary to do a bit of "calisthenics." As Louis CK put it, "I didn't exactly keep THIS (pointing to my gut) up." You just kind of assume you'll be signed with the same team forever annnd you kinda let yourself go. So I've been trying to get myself back into shape.
So far, I've been doing good. AND, I almost have a six pack. It's more like a chalk outline where the fat person I once was has died, but still, it's progress and if you catch me under muted light RIGHT after I finish doing that Ab Ripper X video, then you can kinda see it. You'll have to look down on the floor, because I often find it hard to stand up after that workout, but my tears tend to collect near my abdomen and they glisten off my soon-t0-be six pack.
Where was I? Oh yeah, I've been running like three miles a day (in under 30 mins, believe it or not) and doing pull ups and sit ups and trying to bring sexy back or whatever, and I figured that it was time for me to go pro. I signed up for Adult Kickball. Saturday was my first practice.
I got there early and decided to kill time at the batting cage across the street. When I look in the mirror I see an athlete staring back at me now, so I figured I could "Bo Jackson" it and do two sports in one day.
Warning: Objects in mirror are a goddamned lie.
There were three pitching options available to me: Slow, Medium, Fast. I knew that slow was beneath me, but the fast cages were full. Some kid jumped ahead of me and ran into the last medium cage, so I took the slow cage. I figured that I'd just have fun knocking 'em outta the park.
Yeah, about that.......For a buck, I got 14 pitches. I didn't see the first four. I only knew they went by because I heard them hit the pad behind me. I saw the next few, but my bat was defective so it wasn't hitting them for some reason. But those last three...Maybe not a homerun, but singles all day!!! Meanwhile, the person beside me was hitting like Barry Bonds. As I was leaving I felt what was left of my self esteem die as I realized it was the little kid who jumped ahead of me...in the medium cage.
So far, I've been doing good. AND, I almost have a six pack. It's more like a chalk outline where the fat person I once was has died, but still, it's progress and if you catch me under muted light RIGHT after I finish doing that Ab Ripper X video, then you can kinda see it. You'll have to look down on the floor, because I often find it hard to stand up after that workout, but my tears tend to collect near my abdomen and they glisten off my soon-t0-be six pack.
Where was I? Oh yeah, I've been running like three miles a day (in under 30 mins, believe it or not) and doing pull ups and sit ups and trying to bring sexy back or whatever, and I figured that it was time for me to go pro. I signed up for Adult Kickball. Saturday was my first practice.
I got there early and decided to kill time at the batting cage across the street. When I look in the mirror I see an athlete staring back at me now, so I figured I could "Bo Jackson" it and do two sports in one day.
Warning: Objects in mirror are a goddamned lie.
There were three pitching options available to me: Slow, Medium, Fast. I knew that slow was beneath me, but the fast cages were full. Some kid jumped ahead of me and ran into the last medium cage, so I took the slow cage. I figured that I'd just have fun knocking 'em outta the park.
Yeah, about that.......For a buck, I got 14 pitches. I didn't see the first four. I only knew they went by because I heard them hit the pad behind me. I saw the next few, but my bat was defective so it wasn't hitting them for some reason. But those last three...Maybe not a homerun, but singles all day!!! Meanwhile, the person beside me was hitting like Barry Bonds. As I was leaving I felt what was left of my self esteem die as I realized it was the little kid who jumped ahead of me...in the medium cage.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Clark Kent
A friend posted this on Facebook:
Remember how safe and secure you felt as a child when you held an adult's hand? What gives you that same feeling now?
Rather than be one of those people who runs a coup d'etat on someone's page, I figured I'd just write my own post.
I remember when my grandmother was Batman to me and her house offered the protection of the Batcave. When I was six, I had a nightmare that an alien spaceship hovered outside my window and was trying to abduct me. I woke up screaming. My mother ran in the room and tried to calm me down, but at just 22 herself, she wasn't big and bad enough to protect me from an extraterrestrial threat. No, I needed someone more seasoned. I needed someone older. I needed Grandma.
My mother actually loaded me up into the car at eleven at night and drove all the way across town so that I could spend the night at my grandmother's house. My grandmother sat beside me on the bed until I fell asleep, but not before giving me an egg and bacon sandwich at almost midnight and some Kool-Aid. I slept like a baby. I was under the protection of The Justice League.
Fast forward 25 years and I'm donning my own cape and tights. My daughter sees me as Superman, but the truth is that I'm only Clark Kent. I can't stop bullets or speeding cars running red lights. The only superpower I have is not allowing her to see my fear. I'm afraid of the world too. I know that there are very bad people out there who mean us harm and while the instinct to protect her to the point of my own destruction is hardwired into my DNA, the sad reality is that there may come a day when everything that I am and everything I have won't be enough. And that scares me. But again, my superpower is a poker face.
So I hold her hand like my grandmother did me all those years ago, and I look her in the eye and tell her that everything is going to be okay because Daddy's here. And when she's not looking, I pray to God that it's true.
Remember how safe and secure you felt as a child when you held an adult's hand? What gives you that same feeling now?
Rather than be one of those people who runs a coup d'etat on someone's page, I figured I'd just write my own post.
I remember when my grandmother was Batman to me and her house offered the protection of the Batcave. When I was six, I had a nightmare that an alien spaceship hovered outside my window and was trying to abduct me. I woke up screaming. My mother ran in the room and tried to calm me down, but at just 22 herself, she wasn't big and bad enough to protect me from an extraterrestrial threat. No, I needed someone more seasoned. I needed someone older. I needed Grandma.
My mother actually loaded me up into the car at eleven at night and drove all the way across town so that I could spend the night at my grandmother's house. My grandmother sat beside me on the bed until I fell asleep, but not before giving me an egg and bacon sandwich at almost midnight and some Kool-Aid. I slept like a baby. I was under the protection of The Justice League.
Fast forward 25 years and I'm donning my own cape and tights. My daughter sees me as Superman, but the truth is that I'm only Clark Kent. I can't stop bullets or speeding cars running red lights. The only superpower I have is not allowing her to see my fear. I'm afraid of the world too. I know that there are very bad people out there who mean us harm and while the instinct to protect her to the point of my own destruction is hardwired into my DNA, the sad reality is that there may come a day when everything that I am and everything I have won't be enough. And that scares me. But again, my superpower is a poker face.
So I hold her hand like my grandmother did me all those years ago, and I look her in the eye and tell her that everything is going to be okay because Daddy's here. And when she's not looking, I pray to God that it's true.
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