Day 349: Happy Birthday, Little Girl

Today, we celebrated my baby's fifth birthday.

Today, we celebrated life.

We celebrated each other.

Today, I took a good look around and reminded myself of everything I love. I saw the beauty. The potential. The fruits of my labor.

Today, I watched little children gather for a party. They laughed and smiled and giggled and played. They were of life and joy. They were everything kids should be.

I thought of the children who were lost yesterday as I watched my daughter and her friends. I counted my blessings. I thanked God. I appreciated the moment.

Today, life gave back to me.

Happy birthday, sweet baby. Thank you for the gifts you give me each day.

Day 348: Sandy Hook Elementary

There’s a space that exists somewhere between extreme anger and extreme sadness. That space is filled with darkness and uncertainty. It just lingers there, waiting for the time that you’ll return. And we always return. Events that transpire in this world dictate that we must. We always find our way back to that space because it’s unavoidable. There’s too much sadness and hurt and destruction for us not to know that the space exists and that we must make the occasional trip there.

I’m deep in the  middle of this space today, this place where I’m alive but without purpose. I’m too numb and cold to feel purpose today in this place where I’m enraged and ready to take action but too frozen to take the first steps.

I’ve been in this space all too often it seems. We all have. I’m starting to recognize the finer points of this ugly, sickening place. I’m starting to know the environment too intimately. It’s gotten so I know my way around here, where emotions seem to cease to exist and shock and disbelief rise to the surface and push me down.

But I’ll never be comfortable here, and I’ll never accept this as a place I want to stay in. This space is only temporary because my emotions are pure and my thoughts are alive, and I'll fight to keep it that way.

Just when I truly believe I seen the most horrific or demonic things possible, something occurs to still manage to bring tears to my eyes and remind me there are depths that men and women can sink to. But those actions anger and fuel me. Just when I believe my senses can no longer be surprised and that they have been dulled and ground to nothing, something sticks me sharp in the side to wound. But I’m only renewed and ready to take action.

On days like this, my heart aches. My lungs are heavy. My faith is severely challenged. But I’m  committed. I’m intent.

I’m conflicted today--between my extreme anger and my extreme sadness. I’m deep in the funk, but I’m seeing clearly. Renewed. Still committed. Still intent.

Fucking kids. Tiny. Defenseless. Innocent. Unaware. Just fucking kids.  

Aurora. Columbine. Virginia Tech. Gabby Giffords. Portland. Omaha. Etc. Etc. Etc. Etc. Etc.

Seriously, fuck your guns. With every bit of conviction I can muster, fuck your guns. Fuck your right to bear arms. And fuck you for defending them. I may be reacting with a heavy dose of irrationality, but these are irrational times, and I’ve had my fill of the stupidity.

Save your petty arguments. They carry no weight. Save your references to your constitutional rights. They’re antiquated. Prehistoric. Shameful. Senseless.

No civilian needs a gun. Not one. It’s that simple.

If you're a responsible gun owner and this rubs you the wrong way, I don't care. I don't blame you, but I'll fight you every step of the way to make your guns unlawful to possess. 

I hate this space. The tears. The continual loss of life. The loss of humanity. I hate these continual plunges into deeper and murkier waters. I’m tired of sinking.

Right now, I’m trying to remain positive. I really am. I’m trying to stay true and reflective. I’m trying to stay even and think clearly. But it’s hard. Really fucking hard.

I’m a lucky man today. My beautiful children are alive and walking this earth. They’re here. They’re present. They’re with me of this earth.

I’m a lucky man. My grief takes place from a distance. My loss is not immediate. 

I’ll wake up tomorrow without the void that these people of Connecticut will suffer with the rest of their lives. 

Tonight, I'll tuck my beautiful little baby into her bed and hug and kiss her goodnight. Tomorrow, her beautiful voice will be the first child’s voice I hear, and it will ring angelic in my ears.

Tomorrow, I’ll watch my beautiful older daughter take to the court play basketball, and my pride will soar.

Tomorrow, I'll walk out into my living room in the morning and find my other daughter sleeping peacefully on the couch, right where she falls asleep every night, and I'll thank everything that is holy that she's there. 

Tomorrow, I'll walk through my day with the knowledge that my son is living his crazy, wacky, unique life just the way he wants, and I'll smile a big fat smile. 

Tomorrow, I’ll do as I do every day: think of all my children and know they’re a phone call or a text away.

Tomorrow, I'll remain committed and intent and renewed in believing there are great, great people in this world and they can and do great things. 

I’m a lucky man. And I’m so, so sorry for those who after today no longer possess that same luck.

Day 347: Random Things I Want For Christmas But Won't Get

1. A Royal Enfield motorcycle. 

2.  A Gibson SG '61 Reissue. 

3. A year-long free pass to try every cheesecake at The Cheesecake Factory.

4. A lifetime supply of Giant sunflower seeds. 

5. Lunch with Wanderlei Silva.

6. A reunion of The Smiths. 

7. A beautiful, immaculate lawn. 

8. A private screening of Django Unchained with Quentin Tarantino. 

9. To attend the New York Yankees Fantasy Baseball Camp.

10. To have a cage fight with Karl Rove. 

Day 346: The Class Of 1985

I try not to spend too much time in the past. Oh, I’m a pretty nostalgic person by nature, but the older I get, the less time I try to spend in the past comparing the me that was then to the me that is now. There’s little point. We share a lot in common, but the worlds that we live in are completely different.

Every so often, though, I like taking the road that leads back to the mid-1980s and looking around again. I’ve found myself doing just that of late as my daughter gets ready to graduate from high school. Mostly, I’ve been drawing comparisons between the world she’s grown up in during her high school years and the one that I did. I’ve also been projecting what the world that my youngest will grow up in will look like. No offense to either of them, but I like my world better.

My high school world consisted of growing up in a town of 2,000 people total. There was very little crime. There were no really dangerous drugs that were widely available or wildly overused (that I can recall, anyway). There were no guns in lockers. There was no gang activity in the hallways. No childcare center in Room 200. No truant officers. No police in the parking lot after the final bell. In short, there was nothing that really served as a steady, constant reminder of how big and bad and cruel the outside world could be.

I’m guessing there were more than a few of my classmates that didn’t like school, and they probably had good reasons not to, but man, compared to today, walking the hallways of ole’ Ashland-Greenwood High was a cakewalk.

I notice that the kids in the city schools older girls attend today tend to gravitate to groups populated with kids that share the same interests. Kids in my school did, too. But it wasn’t too terribly hard to break outside those circles, if even only temporarily. At least it didn’t seem so. My friends were jocks. My friends were also farm kids. Potheads. Some liked their cars. Others liked to sing. Some acted. Some were in band. Some were cheerleaders. Others liked heavy metal. Some rolled their pants legs up to get their “Miami Vice” on. Some of my friends were smart. Some not as much. Some were artists. Some were magicians with crafting wood. Some smoked. Some drank. Some did neither.

My high school world was a class that totaled roughly 65 kids. My daughter’s class contains many hundreds beyond that. I’d venture to say that if she actually knows even 25 to 30% of her fellow classmates’ first and last names, she’s doing well. I, on the other hand, not only knew every one of my classmates’ names, I grew up with nearly all of them, spending the greater portion of my life from five years old to 17 roughly nine months out of the year.

I knew a great deal about them, and they about me. That might not have always been a good thing, but it wasn’t always bad, either. I can’t say I knew all of them intimately, but I can say I knew all of their personalities. I knew who their friends were. I knew more or less what they liked to do. Who they liked to hang out with and where. I knew who their girlfriends and boyfriends were. I knew their brothers and sisters. I spent the summers swimming at the same pool. I spent afternoons roller skating at the same rink. I spent Christmases with them. Every year growing up, we celebrated each other’s birthdays. And on some level, I cared in some way about each of them.

I’m lucky. I’m still friends with some of those people. A few are among my best friends. I’m friendly with many others. I’ve been surprised and pleased and happy with how many of them have turned out. I wish I knew more of them better. I’m lucky. Although I’ve gone my own way and they their own, these people who belonged to the Class Of 1985 at Ashland Greenwood High School with me played a big role in who I am now. I may be biased, but I don’t think they did too badly of a job.

Day 345: Sisters United

This is one of my favorite photos of all time. It's of my girls, and despite the fights and nagging and cross words and irritation and everything else negative that can surface among them, this photo represents how I know they really are and how they really feel. United. Together. Interlinked. One. Loved.

My girls are as different as the day is long, and I love and hate that. I love that they follow their own leads, and I hate that they can't seem to agree upon anything. But they all share something in common that's so strong and so comforting. They're loyal. They're loyal to each other. They bicker, but they back each other up. I can live with the bickering because of that. 

My oldest daughter is about to move out on her own, but I know she'll always be nearby. She'll always have and take her rightful place in the circle that the three of them of formed. My next oldest will be on her own way in a few years, but I know the same will be true of her. I know they'll both always check in and guard and protect and guide the youngest. I expect them to, but I know they expect it of themselves, as well. 

They're beautiful children, but they are more beautiful sisters. They're lucky to have one another. I'm lucky to have them all. 

Day 344: Volunteering

Tonight, I'm ringing the Salvation Army bells with my oldest daughter. I'm so glad that's she's doing it with me. I'm glad that's she's bucking up and braving the cold night that Nebraska is going to throw at us during our  two-hour stint out. I'm most glad she's volunteering, though, because my hope it that this is something that continues to resonate within her for years to come. 

I hope she always volunteers. I hope she always sees the need. I hope she always sees that there are many things that she can offer others. 

This isn't her first time on the volunteering front, but it's her first time doing something volunteer-wise with just her old man. That's pretty cool in my book because these opportunities are going to come less and less in the coming years. In just a few weeks she'll be graduating high school and setting out on her own. She'll be making all her own decisions and choosing where to spend all of her own time. Volunteering will only be one of many choices that she has in front of her. So, for these two hours tonight, I'm going to cherish the experience, and I'm going to remember it many, many Christmases from now. 

Personally, I'm grown quite fond of volunteering in my advancing years. Whoever said "it's better to give than receive" first was a smart man or woman. It is. I suspect that this will always be true. 

Hell, I realize it doesn't take a lot to stand around and ring a bell for a few hours and then head back to my warm house and crawl under my warm covers. I realize it doesn't take a great deal of intellect or know-how to bug people a couple of times a year for their extra dollars and donate it to a good cause. It doesn't take any special skills to gather up some clothing for those who need it or slap some food on a tray for people who need the nourishment. But that's kind of the point: anyone can pull of volunteering, and really, everyone able should be doing it. 

Like I wish for my daughter, I hope for myself that I always see the need and that I see that which I can offer. 

Day 343: Santa Claus

Today, my daughter and I played Santa Claus. I got to do the honors, which meant that each and every one of her 20 little stuffed animal boys and girls sat on my lap and told me want they wanted for Christmas. For some reason that I'm still trying to understand, all the girls had been naughty this year and all the boys good.

In all honesty, it pained me not to be able to give all the "kids" a toy. I even pleaded with my daughter, who was pretending to be their dad, to rethink her poistion. To think of the kids. "Dad" wouldn't budge, though. So, none of the girls got presents.

It got me thinking that even if Santa does keep a naughty list, how could he possibly not give a kid a present? Is it really a kid's fault that he or she is naughty? Or is it the parent that should be held accountable?

I say the parent. And if that's the case, there really ought to be a Santa figure for parents to hold them in check. Mess your kid up, you get nothing. Beat your kid, you get nothing. Belittle your kid, zip. Same for neglecting, ignoring, and scaring them.

If only.