Straddling the Line

It’s been just over a week since I lost my job.

I’ve woken up in the morning, helped get the kids ready for school and out the door. I’ve written blog posts. I’ve cranked-up my obsession with working out to a level to where I’m sure I’ll get injured soon.

I’ve been pissed as shit. I’ve been depressed. I’ve spent my time feeling helpless, letting distractions rule me, and occasionally fed-off bursts of incredible support and energy.

Yeah…right now, I feel like a victim and I’m not scared to say that. But it’s been nine days…and now I straddle that line.

On one side I can continue to slip…turn a blind-eye, wake up months from now with still nothing.

On the other, I can move on, flip my chin to what’s left behind, all while leaving small motivational bits and stories in my wake.

The way my son looks at me after everything he does makes me feel like a rock star. The way my daughter snuggles closer to me in the mornings when I crawl into bed with her to wake her makes my heart break. My family is my motivation. But pride, as a man, is my downfall. And my pride’s just been buried six-feet down and a tombstone reading “you were fired” has been slapped down forever marking my time on this orbiting rock.

But I won’t dwell. I won’t be gotten the best of.

I’ll never forget laying in bed with my wife in college, then after we first moved in, then after we had kids….and a million other times where I’ve said…. “I’m gonna make $1 million before I turn 30.” I’m 34 now.

But with time comes lessons, some learned harder than others. Risks – bring on a whole new meaning. Love – we could all write books about love. Family – it’s what defines you, and later, you find the pen in your hand with a wife and children eagerly looking at you to begin writing their chapters. Jobs – they’re the essential component in the glue holding everything together but it DOES NOT make you the person you are.

The loss of my job does not define me. It’s humbled me. It’s made stop dead. It’s made the musical soundtrack of my life adjust yet one more time. It’s made my vision of life, family, love, profession….change…..again.

When I was a kid I told myself I’d never be like my father. When I was 10, I told my brother the same. When I was a teenager, I told my future wife the same tale. When I was in college I wrote endlessly about it. When my first born entered our lives I journaled this continued promise vowing this transformation would never happen.

My current situation has me closer to being my father than I could have ever imagined I’d experience.

So I’m putting the gloves back on. The mouthpiece is back in. And I just glanced over my shoulder to see if my family showed up for their front row seats. And I can see them all lined up, leaning forward, looking at each other for reassurance, but throwing fake confidence my way. And I’m loving it…cause I’m about to cross back the fuck over and move on..far….far away from that dividing line…and fulfill a promise made long ago….to more than provide…but BE someone.

Moving Onward

It was a day I’ll never forget…standing midway up the stairs looking down at my wife as she’s scrambling to leave with the kids as she takes them to school before heading to her part-time job. The night before we’d shared glasses of white wine and agreed one hundred percent – given the decision before us, I’d stay with the job. But in that brief moment…in my heart of hearts I knew it was wrong, and I know she did too…..

Last Tuesday I was given an option at my job. Take half your pay beginning December 1, or be fired and take three months of your full pay and benefits through February.

My daughter had just finished two days in the hospital fighting H1N1. The next day my son came down with H1N1. Two days later my wife came down with H1N1. Three days later all was well and it was my first time being able to actually deal with the reality of the decision before me. Before us.

A friend of mine who I respect fully called late Sunday night and dropped all kinds of entrepreneurial motivational words my way. They were sincere….they made me think and dream about what could be. Quite honestly it’s that euphoria time in your life where your chest gets filled with air and you think – “fuck yeah I can do that…I totally can do that!!!” But then that child screams, and the wife asks for help, discussions of bills fill legal pads, and reality creeps through every weakness you never knew you had.

We went to bed knowing I would remain in my job, despite half the pay, despite the slam to my ego having to walk in day-to-day knowing that everyone and board members knew what had happened. Knowing I was now a dying blip on the budget.

Then I woke up….and I knew what to do. I agonized, I talked with the wifey, I called multiple people, I stood outside Union Station freezing my hands off holding the phone and making sure I could hear every opinion from every person I respected….and then I knew. It was time to just leave.

In twelve years since I’ve graduated college I’ve never NOT worked. I’ve in fact been consistently rewarded for my work. I’ve been given raises, praises, and opportunities that I felt I’ve grasped. We’ve moved from mill house, to larger house, to a larger city. And yet…..I haven’t stopped to really understand my fortune.

For the past three nights, my family has sat at the table, together, eating dinner. That hasn’t happened in days. Last night, we had “game night.” First time in a few weeks.

I laid in bed with my seven-year-old son….and told him what happened. It was a huge stretch…but I’ve always been honest with him.

“So, are you upset daddy lost his job? Cause it’s OK, but I want you to know how lucky daddy is that he’s going to get a paycheck for the new few months.”

“Yes, but I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

“I want you to scream it to the world, cause maybe that’ll help me land a job, my man.”

“OK”

“But in the meantime, you know what’s killer about this?”

“What”

“I’m gonna roll-up every day at 2:45 at your school with….the kickball. At least till it snows, then we’re going home.”

I’m a lucky lucky bastard. I talked to my best friend tonight and found out his wifey lost her job a month or so ago. I never knew. She’s no different than the thousands around the country. Some have no kids, others have many. Some got severance, others didn’t. Some are ashamed…..hell, we’re all ashamed. Some are about to find out a week before Christmas….some won’t have a Christmas.

Today I was put in my fucking place. Today I became a statistic. Today I was given a huge opportunity. Today it’s up to me to figure out tomorrow….

You're a Meany!

So I’m officially a meany. How do I know? Well my son whispered it under his breath three seconds after I got upset at him.

“Meany,” he whispers while slowly glancing up just to make sure I was still drooling, sitting on the couch oblivious to everything around me.

I’m not really sure when that phase ends. The phase where you still believe if you’re not looking at someone, then they clearly can’t see you. Or if you mumble something, there’s no possible way in hell someone eight feet from you could hear it!

What my child is too young to realize is that I’m the poster child for ADD. I don’t miss a fucking thing. No….thing. If he rolls over in his bed at night, I hear it and wonder if he’s about to start puking everywhere. If the wifey sighs just a fraction harder than normal, the hairs stand-up on the back of my neck and I get queasy with fear. I can hear my neighbors two doors down having sex every other night…well…that might be because I have a video camera in the house, but I digress….

“Meany,” he mumbles, slowly looks up, and I can only imagine how badly he shat himself when he saw the look on my face.

“I’m mean?!! Really? I’m mean? Because I had to ask you four times to do the same thing and you wouldn’t do it so I raised my voice and now I’M MEAN?”

I remember as a kid getting in trouble and being chewed out and sent to my room. I’d be walking up the stairs and I’d stop and hold my middle finger up towards the kitchen where my dad had just reamed me. I was a totally bad-ass like that. I was all mumbling “fuck you!!!! Suck on this ya bastard!!!!,” while I grabbed my tiny package and shook it at him.

I’m still trying to figure out a way to rig a series of mirrors and cameras along the stairs to his room so I can catch him doing the same thing to me.

But then it sets in…. “damn….was I being a meany? I mean..he did kinda have a legitimate excuse. I know I said it four times, but in all reality, iCarly was looking pretty good on TV, there was a shiny object in the corner of the room, the cat did walk by, and old man Jenkins was cutting his grass creating some damn loud noises. So….there were quite a few distractions from him actually hearing me say the same thing four freakin’ times in a row.

So I start feeling bad…I want to call him back down, hug him and say let’s move on. But then what would that Super Nanny show woman say? In her British accent she’d be all, “you have to be consistent and stick to your guns.”

I always wonder if she’s like that in bed. “Paul…I’ve been naughty and you haven’t put my on my naughty stool yet. You won’t even spank my arse or give me a stern talking to. You must show me who’s boss of this house…and do it sternly, consistently, and while wearing leather.”

So I just let him sit up there and stew…while I stew…and try hard not to kick the cat.

And it’s always funny how the daughter acts like an angel after her brother’s gotten into trouble.

And then I let him back down…I do hug him…all’s good….we play, we laugh, and usually within 10 minutes I’m in the corner, naked, crying, and rocking back and forth….again.

A Day With Pink Ducky

So we have a ducky. A pink ducky to be exact. He’s a cool dude, hangs out, doesn’t really cause much trouble. The little bastard used to light up from within. When we first brought him into our crazy life he was a rock-star. The kids slept with him…the daughter held him on a pedestal. Mainly because his flashing guts made them feel like the owner of the most bad-ass piece of awesomeness that ever existed.

Then his lights stopped blinking.

He spent a week shoved between the mattress and the wall of my daughter’s bed until he was saved by the ole fashioned sheet changing maneuver. Then he lived on my daughter’s dresser and was there the day fishy died. A week later, the daughter rediscovered him and he was transported to the tub. Since that time, he’s become one of two dozen toys crammed in a bathtub toy baggy, rarely played with, constantly cold, damp, wet, and ignored. Until yesterday.

During a regular shower routine, I noticed pink ducky chillin’ in his bathtub bag. Sad. Angry. Depressed. I scooped him up and said, “hey little man!!! What do you say I make today, YOUR day?”

Three high-fives and a wing-bump later, we were on our way to live life to its fullest. And so….here’s our day….

He drove us to a pancake breakfast where he quickly scoffed one plate after plate after plate of yumminess. He carbo loaded like a master.

After we got home, well fueled pink ducky said, "all right bitches...let's go for a ride!" So the whole family hopped on our bikes and headed out.

Along the way we made a stop cause ducky got wood.

Knowing this would probably be the last time pink ducky ever has a day in the real world, he thought he'd make his mark and let everyone know how he feels about the war.

Worn out, pink ducky ate a quick little snack and setteled in for some TV time and a nap. I took off and took care of some stuff around the house. An hour later I went back to check on everyone and pink ducky was gone. I looked everywhere. Then...I found him.....and was horrified.....

I decided to leave them alone....and let them get done what clearly needed to get done. Lucky ducky.

  Then we headed out for dinner with our good friends, the @momomatic family. It was there that Pink Ducky decided to get his "drink on."

And that wasn't enough.....afterwards he hit the liquor store for more....

Pink ducky didn't just get drunk....he got stupid drunk. He took his clothes off. He streaked a Chuck-E-Cheeze. He got depressed and tried to cut himself open to remove his dead flashy light thingy. He told off-color racist jokes. He even made passes at the wifey. Then...like all good stupid drunk pink duckies do....he got sick.

He puked like he'd never puked before. We all got to experience his Mexican dinner all over again. A couple hours later, we cleaned him all up, laughed about the memories, gave each other hugs, and promised we'd do it again soon. I love that little pink bastard.

After I tucked him in to his cozy warm bubble bath for night time, I cried myself to sleep and dreamt of pink ducky and me running through fields of dazies, laughing, and being free, together, and happy.....

The End

RIP

Janet Watson

July 7, 1919 - November 3, 2009

Thank you for being such an endearing part of my life and for all the love you showed as my grandmother and my children's great-grandmother. You will be missed tremendously.