My friends, go mark your calendars: My farewell tour starts tomorrow.
I’m not going anywhere. That's obvious by the fact that after all the years and all the awards won writing this junk that I’m now making less money than I was when I started this venture. (I have a degree in journalism, people, not personal finance.) Instead, I am embarking on a year-long goodbye to my youth because, about this time next year, I turn 50.
Tomorrow is
Valentine’s Day. For single folks, it’s a day for love and romance; for us
marrieds, it’s been there, done that, now hand me the damn remote.
If only we
had paid attention. If only we had heeded the long-term side effects, printed in
microscopic lettering on the back of those pink and red Hallmarks, that alerted us
to the chances that love may eventually cause children.
I didn't ask my father that Saturday morning or ever before, as best as I can recollect. It just happened, sudden and unexpectedly, like the best things tend to do.
My father exited the parkway, as he and I had done thousands of time before, and he pulled over onto the dirt shoulder. Then he turned to me, sitting in the front passenger seat, and spoke five words to me that he had never before said in this particular order.
"Do you want to drive?"
I was 13.
For the next few miles, on a relatively straight and wide tree-lined backcountry road, I steered his maroon Oldsmobile Cutlass as best as I could, the strange combination of speed and power rumbling through the thin rubber soles of my Keds.
No white-knuckle moments came to pass with oncoming traffic or errant deer or, more likely, immobile objects like trees and brick-fortified mailboxes.
There was no cold, nauseating caving of the chest and stomach from the sight of marked Crown Victoria being glimpse in the rear view.
Nothing.
Just me and my Dad, together, cruising through a world standing silently beyond the tinted windows.
When it ended, my father and I never spoke of it again. We couldn’t because our ride had concluded a phrase I was far more familiar with in our household, "Just don't say anything to your Mom about this."
A few years ago, sitting at the kitchen table or in a bar or at a ball game, unexpectedly he brought up our adventure.
"I still don't know why I let you do that. I must have been crazy," he said. "But you were ready."
I like to think that he was right.
Thanks for all the years of believing in me, Dad.
Happy 71st birthday.
* * *
This post is part of Fatherhood Friday on Dad Blogs. Check out this week’s other posts.
Back in the days of yore, when American Bison freely roamed the Great Plains and Internet access was dial-up only, we had a family Web page on America Online. Nothing fancy, but it served as a way to keep our friends updated on our adventures following our move to a strange land called Texas.
I maintained it fairly regularly for about three years until the nearly simultaneous arrival of Thing 2 and the onset of Thing 1's autoimmune disease overwhelmed my free time and patience. For six years after, it sat idle and abandoned like a zillion similar sites other people set up back in a time when the closest thing to iTunes was the squawking ping of the modem mating call.
This past Halloween, AOL killed that site along with its entire free "Hometown AOL" Web hosting service. I'm sure the ironic timing was lost on them but it was an understandable death.
People move on. Priorities change. Technology improves (or, in the case of Word 2007, it grows more annoying). Blogger's days will also eventually be numbered, I'm certain.
But before the site went black, I downloaded all its content. I hadn't seen much of it in years and I was surprised that it wasn't nearly as embarrassing as I thought would be. Nor was it as good. Eh, life is one continuous re-write, is it not?
Therefore, to mark this weekend's anniversary of My Love's squeezing Thing 1 out from between her marathoner's thighs, I bring you -- from the archives -- my blow-by-blow account of that blessed birth -- as written by myself nine years ago with some slight clarification and enhancement for today's sophisticated tastes:
Feb. 5, 2000 - Baby due. Baby no show. An entire bag of Reduced Fat Oreos disappears from the cupboard.
Feb. 8, 2000 - My Love's doctor says not to worry. If no baby by Feb. 15, they will induce that day. After the appointment, we go for Mexican food. Much salsa is consumed.
Feb. 14, 2000 - Valentine's Day. Still no baby. Inducement scheduled for 8 a.m. tomorrow. Our Whitman Sampler is low on vanilla creams.
Feb. 15, 2000 Approx. 1:15 a.m. - My Love's water breaks. Hey, no one tells her when she's going to have a baby!
1:30 a.m. - My Love's wakes me and tells me the news. After asking her if she's sure for the 20th time, we decide to go to the hospital.
2:30 a.m. - On the road to the hospital, My Love predicts a six- to eight-hour labor. "I'm going to make this mind over matter," she says.
3 a.m. - We arrive at hospital and check in. My Love asks for, and receives, Labor Room 1 because it has a jacuzzi. (Ed. note: Not sure why. Water birth wasn't part of the plan. I didn't bring my trunks either.) My Love starts having contractions.
8 a.m. - The epidural is administered. My Love's language again becomes printable in a family newspaper.
10 a.m. - I go for breakfast at the hospital cafe. Western omelet, toast and coffee. Mmmmmm.
Good signs appear while reading the newspaper: Horoscope for today's birthday, according to Joyce Jillson in The Dallas Morning News: "It's a year of self-expression. Your need for expansion takes over, and you may move into a bigger place ... Your best signs for romance are a Taurus or Libra."
I am a Taurus. My Love is a Libra. Oooh, veeeeeery scaaaaaary stuff kids!
The News' "People in the News" column notes that also born on this day was Mick Avory, original drummer for The Kinks.
11:30 a.m. - We settle in for a viewing of the Jimmy Stewart classic "Harvey," which includes this dialogue:
Doctor -- Uh, trauma. Spelled t-r-a-u-m-a. It means shock. There's nothing unusual about it. There's the "birth trauma" - the shock of being born...
Elwood P. Dowd -- That's the one we never get over.
1:15 p.m. - I go for lunch: chicken salad, pretzels and cranberry juice. Mmmm. (Ed. note: Around this time My Love had her 10th cup of ice chips. Sometimes, it's good to be me.)
4 p.m. - Now that we've finished watching "Oprah," time for My Love to start pushing. My role is to hold up one of her legs and count 10 aloud during the pushes, which is a good thing because the nurse keeps forgetting the count.
