The Sound of Silence

I am often asked why I started this blog.  That’s not true.  I’m never asked why I started this blog.  But since you asked, the reason I started this blog was to keep myself busy when I don’t have my kids.  My house was always full of noise and commotion and activity and life.  It’s still that way when the kids are there, but when they’re away, the house is silent.  Lonely. 

Coming home after work to a dark, lifeless house isn’t something I enjoy.  I turn on the lights.  I see reminders of my kids…pictures they’ve drawn, messes they’ve made, toys left out.

Photographs of my children are scattered on my desk.  Some are recent.  Some are older.  I last saw my boys only yesterday, but I miss them.  I stand at the sink, doing dishes, and the house is silent.  It is physically painful to be separated from my sons.  But it’s more than that. It feels like a piece of my soul has been amputated.

I finish the dishes and try not to think.  Thinking doesn’t help.  I go into the living room.  It’s a disaster.  Charlie likes to pull the cushions off the couches.  It’s a serious endeavor for him, like it’s his job.  As soon as I replace the cushions and leave the room, he’s removing them again.  And now, in the half-lit, silent house, I look at the cushions on the floor.  Charlie had them stacked for some reason.  I feel a lump in my throat.  I put the cushions back on the couches.

Laundry.  I have to do the laundry.  It’s a good thing the boys aren’t here, because I have so much cleaning to do.  This thought tastes bitter.  It makes me stop in my tracks.  It is a lie.   It is never a good thing when the boys aren’t here. 

I try to breathe. 

I try not to hyperventilate.  

I miss my boys. 

I go into the laundry room and start the laundry.  I go to the toy room.  It’s a disaster.  I find socks on the floor and take them to the laundry room.  I return to the toy room.  Toys are scattered everywhere.  I can’t clean it.  Not tonight.  I turn off the light and leave the room.

My phone rings.  I look at the incoming number.  It’s my ex’s number.  I answer it and hear Jackson’s voice.  He’s excitedly telling me about what he did today.  I hear his mom in the background telling him to tell me where they went and what they did next.  Ethan gets on the phone.  “Love you, Dad.  Poop.”  He’s a man of few words.  Charlie talks.  I hear his mom tell him to say “Love you.  Miss you.”  Hearing my sons’ voices brings tears to my eyes, but it is a gift, and I am grateful for it.   


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Hawaii Five-0

It's Saturday night.  And being the swinging bachelor that I am, I'm at home.  The boys are in bed and asleep.  It was a good day.  The plan initially was to meet up at Grandma and Grandpa's house to watch BSU trounce Hawai'i (please note the proper spelling...I have it on good authority that it is "Hawai'i" and not "Hawaii."  The apostrophe between last two letters was the result of Hawai'i's state legislature taking action to make it clear to the world that the name of their beautiful state was pronounced huh-wahy-ee, and NOT tuh-hee-tee.)

Anyhoo...The plan was to watch Bois'e State (note the new spelling) trounce Tahiti.  I mean Hawai'i.  So we loaded up and went to Grandma and Grandpa's.  Two of my sisters and their children showed up, Grandpa had the grill going, so all in all, it was a party in the making.  


Then, something occurred to me.  The game was going to be broadcast on ESPNU, but my parents didn't have ESPNU.  That was when I knew something was terribly, terribly wrong and that my parents didn't intend for us to leave alive.  


I rushed to the door and tried to open it, but it was too late.  The doors were locked from the outside.  We were trapped.  We pounded on the doors.  We screamed.  Grandma and Grandpa just laughed maniacally and said that nobody could hear our pitiful screams, because Grandpa had soundproofed the walls.  "It's delightful to have you FOR dinner," Grandma cackled as she sharpened her butcher knife.


Okay, I made up the last two paragraphs.  I'm sure it's going to make my mom very angry because she hates it when I portray her as a cannibal who eats her own children.  She likes to be portrayed in a more "positive" light.  It's called literary license, ma!  The truth of the matter, however, is that my parents had a beautiful assortment of food--fruits, veggies, bratwursts, you name it.


Now where was I before taking that detour down macabre lane?  Oh yeah, no ESPNU at my parents' house.  Luckily, my sister Mollie has ESPNU at her house.  So she said, "Hey y'all, let's head down yonder t'my place.  I got ESPNU fer sher."  That's not really how she talks, but I have a lousy ear for dialog.   


Since the grill was already going, we ate before caravaning to Mollie's house, where we caught the rest of the game.  The cousins got to play with each other, and there was food and laughter.  Among the adults, there was also laughter, as well as some tears, some cross words, a few punches thrown, more laughter, and a brief intervention by law enforcement.  In other words, it was a typical family get together.

Now, at home, I wonder what the get togethers will be like when my kids are grown. Looking at my boys, asleep, I'm amazed at how much they've already grown.  I kiss each of them on the cheek and whisper to them that I love them.  In my mind's eye, they are newborn babies.  It seems like yesterday that I held them, fed them bottles, and rocked them at night, singing:

                              Rock-a-bye, Say goodnight

                              Daddy loves you, Rock-a-bye.

Charlie is the only one who'll let me sing that to him anymore.  Jackson and Ethan are "big boys" now and don't want me to sing baby songs to them.  Soon (too soon), Charlie won't let me sing it to him, either.  But looking at my sleeping boys tonight, no matter what, they will always be my babies.

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Dating and the Pistol Offense

When you’re single with a child (or three as the case may be), dating takes a back seat to parenthood, or at least it should.  Other single parents get that.  Those without children say they understand, and I hope they do, because I don’t know how many dates I’ve broken because something came up with my kids.  (I’m not looking for a show of hands, by the way.) 

I feel bad when I break a date or don’t call or text or e-mail or snail mail or telegram or smoke signal or whatever, but when your child needs you, you have this irrepressible urge to rush to him.  Unless you have a daughter, which, in that case, you’d have an irrepressible urge to rush to her.  (Why do I get so caught up in which pronoun gender to use?  I don’t know.  I really hate using “they” as a gender neutral pronoun when I’m only referring to a single person and using “him” to refer to either a male or a female just does not seem appropriate anymore.  It’s a quandary, a Gordian Knot for which I have no sword.  But I digress.) 

Logistics aside, who to date is a tad bit more complicated when you have kids.  You don't want to bring just anyone around your children.  Before I had kids, who I dated was simply a matter of:

1.      Is she hot?

2.      Can I tolerate her annoying habits?

3.      Is she interested in me?

If the answers to all three were in the affirmative, I was in a relationship, my friends.  But now that I have three sons, the questions are:

1.      Is she hot?

2.      Can I tolerate her annoying habits?

3.      Is she interested in me?

4.      Would my children like her if I gave her the opportunity to meet them? (she will obviously like them, unless she’s a complete idiot), and

5.      Can she intelligently discuss the merits and general history of the pistol formation?

Why must she understand the pistol offense?  Did I not mention that I have three sons?


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