Sometimes this whole parenting thing reminds me an awful lot of the scene below. Â Hell, a lot of things remind me of it but at the moment Mother’s Day has me thinking about it.
Ask me what fathers want for Mother’s Day and I’ll to cancel the whole damn thing. OtherÂ dads will sayÂ other things, that is ok with me. I don’t need or want everyone to agree with me. The world would be dull and lifeless.
My mother isn’t going to read this post, at least I don’t think she will. She knows that I have a blog but she hasn’t ever been invited here. That is because I used to be an anonymous blogger and now I am semi anonymous.
Mom could read these posts but I prefer that she doesn’t. I don’t feel like having the conversation that some of them would create. It is not that I couldn’t because I could. Hell, I could do a lot of things but just because you can doesn’t mean that you should.
My issue with Mother’s Day is simple. It irritates me. That is not because I don’t think moms deserve recognition but the day gets crazy. There are too many players to deal with and no way to make everyone happy. Most years I feel like someone is irritated with me because they feel like we fell short.
Reminds me of playing a carnival game. You rarely beat the system. Most of the time you are lucky to win something small and cheap. Except this carnival doesn’t come with rides, cotton candy, peanuts and popcorn.
Ok, it occurs to me that there is a chance that my mom might read this one day, so just in case I better write her a letter. Feel free to read along.
It is your favorite son writing you a letter. I know that this isn’t the of letter you prefer. It is not handwritten and it feels a bit impersonal especially since a billion people might be reading along with us, but let’s pretend that is not the case.
Let’s pretend that this is handwritten and that you can actually read my writing because you know that my teachers never liked my penmanship. And let’s skip the part where you tell me that I can be your favorite son but not your favorite child. I know I am the only boy and I am good with that. Not like I have a choice. That is one thing that I can blame upon you and dad.
I was desperate to get a brother and then you brought home twin sisters. Well, it is almost forty years since they came home so I suppose that it is fair to say that I accept them now. Mom, don’t roll your eyes at that. You know I love all of my sisters but did I really have to wait until what’s her face got married to get a brother. He is a brother-in-law and not a little brother.
Ok, skip all that brother crap. It is done and there are other things to talk about. I don’t know what month you’ll read this during or what year so I’ll try to provide some context.
If Mother’s Day approaches you know my birthday is within a few days. I am going to be 43 and to be honest my forties have been less than inspiring. Matter of fact you could say that they have sucked. Thirty-six months of crap and crazy.
That shit gets old. I know, I probably shouldn’t curse. I have a very large vocabulary and I am capable of using it but think of it as being similar to a fork- it is optional. Sometimes words are like finger food and well I am old enough to decide when I feel like getting dirty and when I don’t.
Anyway, I am working on being a writer but not in the way that you remember. I loved being published in the newspaper and that whole journalism bit but I am chasing other game. I am like a million other dreamers- I want to be a novelist.
I keep writing and talking about it. Part of me says that this is foolish and that I might embarrass myself. If I fail to succeed I will have announced to the world what my plans are and then shown myself tumbling down a staircase ass over elbow.
But you know me. I go for broke and sometimes it works. Remember that time when I was 12 and playing little league. It was the game where I knocked over the catcher at home plate.
He was much bigger than I was. I had no business going for home. I should have settled for a triple but I rounded third base and smashed into him with all that I had. I knocked him down and I was safe.
That wasn’t a calculated risk. It was just your son following his instinct. I won that time. It worked.
But that is officially 31 years ago and I can’t live off of 12 year-old glory. Nor can I accept that things have been so damn difficult. It is not all my fault but some of it has to be. But I am not really worrying about that. I am just trying to round third but this time my goal to break the catcher in two or to scare him into moving.
I suppose we’ll find out soon enough if it works. Between you and me I hope he moves because it takes bit longer to recover than it used to. Anyway, I have got to run now. I expect to see you in a few days. I told your grandchildren that I need to make a card for you and I plan on finger painting. They think I am crazy, but that is the joy of having me for a son/father/
From your favorite and most loving son,