What if I just killed the other blogs and wrote here? Why don’t I? Why do I stretch myself so goddamn thin? I don’t want my kids to have that type of father? What a fucking mess I’ve made. And this came to me, here, at my desk (something of a slight semblance of a “home office”) while thinking of what a shitty day it’s been. I’m just in a mood from having sick kids.. yep, I’m a parent now, and I’m almost 37, and I’m getting an attitude on me, sometimes I think I need to fix it but now I’m just like “fuck it this is who I am.” Feeling the parenting pressure today, more than I ever have I think. Ever.
They say rain is on its way, and I hope it is. The sun was starting to piss me off. Well, not really, I just love the music the rain creates and precipitates; odd paradiddles and percussions that I’ve never experienced with anything else. Random idea, or observation, I’m just tired…
Just checked on Jack, still asleep on the couch, poor bloke. I know it’s hard for him, not being comfortable and not being at school with his friends, he only being able to express so much to us with worded accuracy. I would take all his discomfort away from him and multiply by 50 and hold onto that multiplied sickness for a year if I knew he’d never feel ill again. Or even if he could be healthy till the end of the year. These are things parents talk about, I know, and people who either don’t have kids or don’t like them, or don’t know what a kid is should stop reading now I guess. But this is what I see, today, what I’ve been living and feeling and I’m only now seeing what I should do with it. Write it all. Write my life. My life as a father, a writing father.
Huh… Exhausted with these thoughts. Need a glass of that Chardonnay I opened last night. This quiet helps, honestly. Last night took a toll on this writing father, this “papablogga” as I sometimes tag myself in my posts. This is learning, everyday as a parent, and I’m certain I’ll never have it “right”, or be some parenting “expert”. How the fuck would that ever be possible? One day Jack and his sister, little Emma, will be teenagers, and more than likely assholes, both of them, and I’ll be even more exhausted and flustered and exasperated than I am now, in this home office-ish space, surrounded by mounds of papers and clutter, books and bags and clothes I have to take to the dry cleaners, STILL.
Checked on Mr. Jack, and he sleeps, resting, finally, good for my little Kerouac. Quiet, I’m seeing, as a parent, is like wine. It’s delicious, complex in its stillness, intoxicating, and instills urgency like other dimensions don’t.
Just remembered I have to post to the other blog— No I don’t. I’m simplifying, cleaning up, for them, these two little lives for which I have to set some “example”. Shit, that’s a lot of pressure.