The Table: Moving Out and (Not Quite) Moving On

“Circle of Life”, The Lion King. My daughter doesn’t really like to eat. In order to entice her, I show her videos on youtube. She loves this song. It takes me back to my freshman year of high school when my girlfriend at the time was obsessed with Disney. We went to see this movie on opening weekend and I secretly loathed her for it. But now, every time I see Simba raised up in front of his father, I come near to tears. That I start this post with this song and memory will make sense, I promise

As my brother may have mentioned in an earlier post, I haven’t been posting as much for a few reasons. One is that I have gotten steadily busier with work; the other is that, after living in an apartment for a year (only after giving up a house we lived in for four years to move downtown in our adopted home city), we realized that even the spacious 1500 square feet was too little room for two toddlers and two organizationally challenged adults.

So, we house-shopped, made some offers, lost some houses and finally closed a few weeks ago. After some horrors, we moved last Friday. I took the kids to daycare, cleaned out the old apartment and took them home to our new house.

Continue reading

Our Entries This Week

Note: There is very little about music in this entry; it is about memory

How do you measure the passing of a year? (No, this is not a Rent allusion)

In the past year, I became a father. I made countless ER visits. I made hundreds of phone calls. I send thundreds of emails. I know I drove 20,000 miles or more because odometers can’t lie. I ate at least 2500 calories a day. I ran 25-30 miles a week and slept less and less each month.

This year I became a father to a son; I watched my daughter learn to crawl, to walk and to say her first words. And I did it all one man short. This year I became a father and lost one.

Before my brother and I started this blog, but after we started planning it, our father died suddenly. His death, far too soon and completely unexpected, has brought our family to its knees. We have all dealt with it in different ways and the law of unintended consequences has reigned—my sister will have a child this spring; my wife and I had a second child sooner than we would have, my brother has sacrificed his life to be the good son and companion to our mom.

And we have all found ourselves losing it in different ways. I got the call from the Younger J at 3 AM. We had spoken the day before, I knew my father was sick, but we all thought it was minor, that he would be fine. When I woke my wife and told her, her sobs were the first thing that made me feel anything at all. She redefined grief-stricken for me; so wracked with emotion was she, that when she called her mother, she feared something had happened to me or our daughter.

I did not cry for 11 hours. My brother, sister and mother suspect that I am something of a robot, that I do not feel like normal men. The obverse is true: I have spent so much of my life fighting off tears that I have become a master of sublimation. At 3:01 AM I went into mission mode. I had to buy plane tickets, pack sufficient diapers, cancel classes, notify my wife’s employer and arrange for family members to come in from around the country.

I did not cry until I was 25,000 feet above the ground. The night before, we had been in the Emergency Room for one of my daughter’s many ear infections. (Yes, granddaughter and grandfather were in the hospital on the same night, 3000 miles apart.) My wife fell asleep as soon as we were seated on the plane, exhausted from grief. I rocked our daughter to sleep and put on my iPod. I pressed play. Jose Gonzalez’s album Veneer had been paused the day before. The stupid machine started at “Heartbeats”; I made it, maybe, 30 seconds into the song.

 

Continue reading