I almost titled this as “Of Gaps in Teeth and Blogs” but then I realized it was stupid and chalked it up to being rusty on the writing front. Went back to the drawing board. Eventually, former Kelly Ripa co-host/current GMA employee Michael Strahan jumped to mind because that is my buddy’s go-to codeword for a solid gap due to the legendary Giants defensive end’s phenomenal diastema.
[Pssst:
]And:
(If I can somehow cut and paste a glorious zoom-in of Michael Strahan’s gap tooth, so let it be in this exact spot Baby Jesus:)
Notice the resemblance?
And finally … notice the analogy to the gap in time between the current blog and this one?
Oy. That is just horrendous. Way too much time between posts. I take full responsibility.
Without digging too deep, I have more of an explanation than an excuse about why I haven’t written. Basically, the inertia of my different daily commitments (family, work, friends) have taken priority and left little room for anything else. Somewhere along the way, that opportunity every week to reflect quietly in peace at the laptop disappeared from my routine. When the rare moment of spare time occurs, I usually drain the brain by watching a show or reading something followed by sleep a half hour later. I’m 99% certain that you, most beautiful reader, are in the same boat whether you have a kid, spouse, career, and/or a modest social life. I’m not unique in that sense, nor am I complaining.
However, the urge to write sneak attacks me all the time. The ideas strike inevitably when it is most inconvenient at work or driving. I jot down some notes and plan to revisit some other time. And then the other time never happens. Repeat again. And again. Next thing you know, it’s been 15 months and a stale old blog post is still sitting up there like a dusty relic sitting on the shelf of a musty library.
The other day, I was speaking with a colleague (God I hate that word so much but I can’t think of an appropriate synonym) and we started chatting books. He told me about a study of Marcel Proust. Later that day, I opened an account on audible.com and took a stab. I was so struck by this quote:
“I think that life would suddenly seem wonderful to us if we were threatened to die as you say. Just
think of how many projects, travels, love affairs, studies, it–our life–hides from us, made invisible by our laziness which, certain of a future, delays them incessantly.
‘But let all this threaten to become impossible for ever, how beautiful it would become again! Ah! If only the cataclysm doesn’t happen this time, we won’t miss visiting the new galleries of the Louvre, throwing ourselves at the feet of Miss X, making a trip to India.
‘The cataclysm doesn’t happen, we don’t do any of it, because we find ourselves back in the heart of normal life, where negligence deadens desire. And yet we shouldn’t have needed the cataclysm to love life today. It would have been enough to think that we are humans, and that death may come this evening.”
What a phenomenal concept - “where negligence deadens desire.” That is so spot on, I can’t even handle it. So in other words, at least as I translate the above, once we stop trying to fight the momentum of daily routine - the initiative to pursue our true inner passions will gradually erode until it exists no more. Good call, Marcel. Brilliant. (The irony that my day job literally is an endless exercise in arguments as to whether negligence has occurred or not - one billable hour at a time - is just another reason for me to chuckle.)
Proust’s comments caused a bit of an epiphany. It honestly kind of scared me. I’m not done writing. I’ve just been on a Ross and Rachel break. I don’t want to write something that’s going to be half-assed and not well polished. The inner perfectionist standard is a blessing and a curse. But at the same time, I realize it is possible to take so long that I may never end up finishing anything. And let’s be honest - I’m not going for a Pulitzer. I just hope that someone is reading this for a laugh while they sip on some coffee or sit on the bowl.
Long story short, I’m back baby. I may be rusty. I may be long-winded. The writing may be a bit clunky. But c’est la vie. (That one’s for you Monsieur Proust.) Time to pretend again that the apocalypse is near. Anyway, mind the gap. Let’s go.
‘But let all this threaten to become impossible for ever, how beautiful it would become again! Ah! If only the cataclysm doesn’t happen this time, we won’t miss visiting the new galleries of the Louvre, throwing ourselves at the feet of Miss X, making a trip to India.
‘The cataclysm doesn’t happen, we don’t do any of it, because we find ourselves back in the heart of normal life, where negligence deadens desire. And yet we shouldn’t have needed the cataclysm to love life today. It would have been enough to think that we are humans, and that death may come this evening.”
What a phenomenal concept - “where negligence deadens desire.” That is so spot on, I can’t even handle it. So in other words, at least as I translate the above, once we stop trying to fight the momentum of daily routine - the initiative to pursue our true inner passions will gradually erode until it exists no more. Good call, Marcel. Brilliant. (The irony that my day job literally is an endless exercise in arguments as to whether negligence has occurred or not - one billable hour at a time - is just another reason for me to chuckle.)
Proust’s comments caused a bit of an epiphany. It honestly kind of scared me. I’m not done writing. I’ve just been on a Ross and Rachel break. I don’t want to write something that’s going to be half-assed and not well polished. The inner perfectionist standard is a blessing and a curse. But at the same time, I realize it is possible to take so long that I may never end up finishing anything. And let’s be honest - I’m not going for a Pulitzer. I just hope that someone is reading this for a laugh while they sip on some coffee or sit on the bowl.
Long story short, I’m back baby. I may be rusty. I may be long-winded. The writing may be a bit clunky. But c’est la vie. (That one’s for you Monsieur Proust.) Time to pretend again that the apocalypse is near. Anyway, mind the gap. Let’s go.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part Two: The Triumvirate
Unlike yours truly and THE WIFE (of course,) my kids are far from perfect. Each one of them can be a stubborn pain in the ass, whiny brats, or high maintenance little shits at any given time. I blatantly open with this caveat at the outset because now I’m going to brag.
Outside the presence of someone familiar, Greta is almost always quiet on the surface. Possibly shy, or even bashful - particularly in large group scenarios. But don’t let that poker face trick you. Her antennae are up and her wheels are spinning at all times. She hears and sees - everything. Her instincts about people are pretty keen. And I fucking love that quality about her. She has incredible depth and sensitivity. She also has an extremely playful and goofy side that she reserves only for those in her comfort zone.
Let me put it this way. I miss G so much when I haven’t seen her for a while. I don’t “tolerate” when we spend time together. I genuinely desire to be around her so we can talk and laugh and dance and goof around and get philosophical. My brain explodes when I think about us in the years to come having a chat about politics or religion or zombie movies over a glass of wine.
When I reach to hold her hand as we cross the street these days, and she contorts her arm so that my fingers can’t make contact, I understand and accept that this is just my 9 year old telling me without saying so that she isn’t a little kid anymore. But that doesn’t mean a microscopic piece of my heart hasn’t just shriveled up and died somewhere deep inside my core.
Insert any occasion in any location at any time. Shopping at the mall? Eating at a table in a restaurant? Waiting in line at a supermarket? Getting cash at the ATM? Sunbathers laying on blankets at the beach? Sure you name it. No one is safe from Gus-man’s potential approach.
GUS: Hi, I’m Gus. (extending his hand) What’s your name?
Unlike yours truly and THE WIFE (of course,) my kids are far from perfect. Each one of them can be a stubborn pain in the ass, whiny brats, or high maintenance little shits at any given time. I blatantly open with this caveat at the outset because now I’m going to brag.
Gigi
Outside the presence of someone familiar, Greta is almost always quiet on the surface. Possibly shy, or even bashful - particularly in large group scenarios. But don’t let that poker face trick you. Her antennae are up and her wheels are spinning at all times. She hears and sees - everything. Her instincts about people are pretty keen. And I fucking love that quality about her. She has incredible depth and sensitivity. She also has an extremely playful and goofy side that she reserves only for those in her comfort zone.
Let me put it this way. I miss G so much when I haven’t seen her for a while. I don’t “tolerate” when we spend time together. I genuinely desire to be around her so we can talk and laugh and dance and goof around and get philosophical. My brain explodes when I think about us in the years to come having a chat about politics or religion or zombie movies over a glass of wine.
When I reach to hold her hand as we cross the street these days, and she contorts her arm so that my fingers can’t make contact, I understand and accept that this is just my 9 year old telling me without saying so that she isn’t a little kid anymore. But that doesn’t mean a microscopic piece of my heart hasn’t just shriveled up and died somewhere deep inside my core.
Gussy
Insert any occasion in any location at any time. Shopping at the mall? Eating at a table in a restaurant? Waiting in line at a supermarket? Getting cash at the ATM? Sunbathers laying on blankets at the beach? Sure you name it. No one is safe from Gus-man’s potential approach.
GUS: Hi, I’m Gus. (extending his hand) What’s your name?
Whether the other person understood what he said or not, the aspiring Mayor of the World breaks the ice for everyone else in his party.
GUS: This is Den. This is Shell. That’s Greta. That’s Tilly.
Reactions run the full gamut. Polite smiles. Awkward nods and waves. Hand shakes and follow up questions. Full blown conversations where said stranger eventually explains to us that he has a relative with special needs, or she works as a paraprofessional at such and such school, or he volunteers at Special Olympics. It’s uncanny. I would say the positive vibe reaction and connection rate from Gus simply introducing himself is somewhere around 80%-85%.
My little man has more quirks and eccentricities that could merit a blog unto itself. So I’ll hold off on that for the time being.
But let me say this - in his 8 brief years on this Earth, my son has been the conduit between our family and (conservatively) hundreds of amazing, wonderful, warm, and solid people in this world. For anyone who knows him, I needn’t say another word. You get him. You know what I mean.
The Force Awakens
My little Matilly Till Till. When she laughs, she cackles uncontrollably with an infectious mischief. When she hugs, she takes a running leap and launches Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka-style into my arms. When she yells, she doesn’t just raise her voice. She screeches like a banshee.
When Tilly approaches an activity, there is rarely a middle ground. There is either zero. Or a Spinal Tap amplifier eleven.
If Greta’s outward displays of affection toward me have waned in the last few years, Tilly’s demonstrations of love are steadily superlative. I love that she puts my face between her hands and smooches me on the lips with an audible smack. Every so often, I’ll be halfway through my dinner and engrossed in convo with THE WIFE when suddenly a little spider monkey has scurried her way like a mini-ninja into my lap.
Some may say that my youngest is, ahem, strong willed. Or even fiery. At this juncture in her life, THE WIFE and I simply do our best to avoid the epic marathon standoffs that occur a little less frequently every day. The tantrums involve doors slamming, feet stomping, arms alternating between animated gesticulations or crossed over her chest, and teary monologues citing long-held grievances.
(I know. I know. This is supposed to be a humble brag. Just keeping it real for a second.)
Honestly, the signs of Tilly’s more mature self are beginning to poke through. She is a deep and intense thinker. She gravitates to helping people - particularly peers - who need an extra hand. She is very sweet and giving. (She rubs lotion on my feet for me and gives me massages!) And again, I am so in love with all of her - even the parts that drive me crazy. I am going to sob like a baby when I drop her off at college.
Fini
Hoping I’m not one and done this week. C’mon back and visit. Stay tuned.
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