Laid-Off Dad

The only thing

Robert's relationship with Little League baseball is a timeline of such fecklessness as to demand its own separate post. (A post that is destined to arrive during this solstice-month blopgasm.) Today, however, it's all about me, and my eternal struggle not to become That Dad.

During Robert's first two years in the league, life on the sidelines was smoooooth sailing. The first year was tee-ball, when no one is ever called out and Everyone's A Winner! And last year the team stunk, and the parents writhed with euphoria if our boys made it off the field with all their limbs intact.

This year is different. This year, the team is good.

Really good, actually. As of this morning, they were in a battle with today's opponent, the Yankees, for the second-best record in the league, which means 1) a first-round bye in the playoffs, and 2) Daddy gets to take the kids to the beach next Saturday. I was invested in this game. Because I wanted beach, dammit.

And then, to my wincing eye would appear the ump for today's game, a lovely guy whom I'll call Hopalong Half-Ass. Ol' HH was an assistant coach on Robert's team last year, and he was really terrific with the kids. Volunteered lots of his time, never demanding, always nurturing, knowledgeable, and supportive. Overall just the nicest, calmest, mildest man you'd ever meet. Like the mayonnaise in the spicy fish taco that is organized sports.

These are all great qualities for a coach. For an ump, however, they blow. Hard. He's not the most decisive guy, and when stuff happens and we all look to him for the call, he sort of shrugs back at us and asks, "Did anyone see that?"

And sure enough, in today's first inning, the Yankees' biggest kid, a colossal endomorph who looked as though he routinely grinds people's bones to make his bread, hit a monster shot that landed about ten feet foul. Ol' HH, who never left his position behind the pitcher, had no line on whether the ball was fair, so he actually said, "That was a great shot. Let's give it to him." And sent the kid around the bases with a two-run dinger.

I was working the concession stands with two moms and their small kids nearby, and the voices in my head pleaded with me. "Don't guy up. DO NOT GUY UP. It's a game, it's for the kids to enjoy themselves. Except how can they enjoy themselves when they're getting RIPPED OFF BY THIS MILQUETOASTARRRGH!

Thus the internal war raged. The seemingly placid me sweetly offered change for the ring pop, while screams of "BEACHDAMMIT!" echoed in my brainpan.

I've seen dads like this. The ones who hop up and down and scrape at their bald spots and scream, "My life is so empty! Please Lord give me this one break in this symphony of bleakness!" And yet, when the stakes are raised and that's my kid being put at an unfair disadvantage, I have to launch at my Inner Asshole with a handkerchief soaked in chloroform.

I'm happy to report that I was spared a bout of apoplexy when one of our guys hit a three-run homer in the bottom of the last inning to win the game and cement the team's second seed in the playoffs. And I'm happier still that I was able to offer Double-H a free Powerade and thank him for umping a great game, while Inner Asshole made plans to fetch the beach chairs from storage.

Waste not, want yes

I have a follow-up thought to yesterday's post, one that finally came to me at three this afternoon, because last night was one of those pass-out-at-9, semi-wake-at-11, stare-uncomprehendingly-at-Jon-Stewart, roll-over-and-snooze-for-another-hour, get-up-and-blot-the-drool-on-the-sofa-cushion, realize-you-never-washed-the-dishes, hose-them-haphazardly-with-the-spraything, realize-you're-wide-awake, watch-CraigyFerg-for-as-long-as-you-can-bear, switch-over-to-the-Daily-Show-rerun, struggle-with-the-vague-sensation-that-you've-seen-this-before, turn-everything-off-and-go-check-on-the-kids-using-your-phone-as-a-flashlight, wonder-if-your-heart-will-burst-from-the-love-you-feel, lie-awake-hoping-you-don't-let-them-down, drift-off-for-two-precious-hours-until-the-alarm-goes-off type of nights.

It's been two years since I moved out, and over that time circumstances have dictated that I live pretty modestly. Which has always been fine. I threw out half my life, literally and figuratively, when my marriage ended, and I don't need much to be comfortable. Plus, having a small place means everything is nearby, and I can usually re-fill my glass without having to get up.

The thing is, I joined a book club several months ago. Each of us is expected to host, and the spectrum of apartments that the other members have runs from Spacious Enough With A Great View to Jesus I Hate You So Much Right Now. And then there's me, who could probably fit everyone in my place if I invested in a few bunkchairs.

I guess what I'm saying is that, now that the divorce is no longer kicking up clods of lifedirt, I've discovered the hubris of Want. Maybe I Want a little more room to entertain, and to hold the ever-burgeoning Lego foothill in the corner. Maybe I Want a job that's more suited to my long-term goals. Maybe I Want to live beneath someone who doesn't berate the world at all hours of the night.

Maybe I Want to believe that I deserve a little more than this.

So I've been striving a bit more lately, and I've discovered that the Wanting is fine--unless it comes without the concomitant Getting. Which is a drag.

The pleasure, I guess, is in the striving. In staying determined to throw out your stick and see how many lacrosse balls you can snag as they whiz by. And never forgetting that there's always room for a bigger net.

Berrylicious

Thanks for your comments and e-mails, but I don't want to put forth the impression that things are particularly "shitty." In the broad scheme of things, they're actually pretty good. In fact, I'd equate my current state of being to the first car my family ever owned, a Chevy II station wagon that looked a lot like this. Except it was covered with strawberry stickers.

You read that right.

My parents bought it right before I was born, and it barely missed living long enough for me to drive it. (Legally, anyway.) When I was about 10, a rust spot formed above the right front tire, and it so offended my mom's aesthetic that she slapped a large, vinyl adhesive strawberry over it. This turned out to create more aesthetic issues, because really: Who drives around with one strawberry sticker on their car? A crazy person, that's who!

So she covered the rest of the car with stickers, because that made more sense, and soon people took to calling it "Shortcake." This was now a car that commanded respect. That might have belonged to a city councilperson. Or a captain of industry. Or an alderman on peyote. Still, I'll always credit Mom with being ahead of her time by using a fruit so high in antioxidants to hide the rigors of oxidation.

Toward the end, the front seat was held up by a two-by-four, and we kids liked to watch the road streak by through two massive holes in the floor. But we still made it to school, and practice, and church, and anywhere else that afforded us all maximum mortification.

And that's sort of where we are right now. The car's got a few dings in the fender, and the headlights are a little cross-eyed, and you might look at it and wonder what sort of diseased mind is behind this madness. But she's still cruising along, looking good, and unconventionally conveying us from A to whatever comes after A.

Weeknight knackered

Whether I’ll be able to finish this Juneblop boils down to this, right here. The School Night. Thanks to our new custody arrangement, the boys are spending some weeknights over here, at the Dad Pad. And if it’s been a particularly challenging day of Single Working Dadhood, and I finally get the kids to sleep after playing and transporting and cooking and cleaning and bathing and reading and Stop That and Put Your Brother Down and Why Is This Stick In The Toilet, I’m usually out cold within seconds after my body senses inertia.

And believe me, I am not complaining. This is exactly what I wanted, and this is what I finally have. When my ex and I envisioned our arrangement after TwoBert turned five, I fast-forwarded my brain to nights just like this: me on the floor with strewn rice to my left, filthy socks and sneakers to my right, my laptop and a cold one front and center. These are the good times. This is fatherhood. This iszzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Lucky seven

When last we heard from me, it was late March, and I was telling you how calm I felt while Life was clicking shells into the chamber of its Change Rifle and aiming it at the bridge of my glasses. "Fire away," I told Life. I don't even like these glasses. They're faded and bent and covered with four years of scratches and unscourable schmutz. These things are barely street-legal. They're like cataracts with earpieces. Do your worst.

Well, since then the amount of clarity I've found has been preciously scant, and I've mercifully spared you my slow descent from calm to grumpysumbitch. Because although some really good stuff has happened--we've got school lined up for the boys this fall, and they're spending a lot more time at the Laid-Off Lair--I've also had a string of disappointments lately that are starting to pound their tent stakes into my craw. On professional, residential, and personal fronts, someone has stepped up, stuck their hand in my face and said, "No. Move along, Four Eyes."

It's starting to rankle a bit.

Then it occurred to me: Today is this blog's 7th birthday. (I know!) Lucky seven. Seven years of blogging, which in blogging years is approximately equivalent to the Mesozoic Era. Sure, postings have been a bit sparse lately, but that's going to change. I'm going to celebrate this milestone by blopping my way through June and getting back to the writing rhythm that helps vent the steam in my headkettle.

I'm also going to tell you that I'm expecting some important news in the next day or two, and I would really appreciate it if you could use this Lucky Seventh anniversary to wrinkle up your brows and send some positive energy my way. If all goes well, next year might turn into something to behold. And I might even be able to afford the new glasses I'll need to behold it.