A Long Week, Ending

So.... here we are. It's Friday. Our week of mommy and daddy time, coming to an end.

Tomorrow, I will spend the day with Soccergirl, Fastpitch, and my dad, in Baltimore. When I return home, it is likely that soccergirl will crash for the whole 70 minute drive home. After all of the ripping and running she has been doing at my dad's house, I think she'll get a good night's sleep... she will need it, because on Sunday morning, she is scheduled to serve as Acolyte at church. She'll have to be on her toes.

I can't wait.

To Grandfather's House We Go

Yesterday, I had the great pleasure (and sad task) of driving to Baltimore to take Soccergirl to my dad's house for the week.

I call it a great pleasure because A) She is going to have a great time with her older sister, who also got to my dad's house yesterday. B) Mrs Gunfighter and I get to spend a week without running to and from Soccergirl's activities, and C) Mrs Gunfighter and I get to spend a little alone time together.

It was also somewhat sad, because to tell you the truth, it is very strange not having Soccergirl around. It isn't as if she is underfoot all of the time... she is quite capable of amusing herself when she likes... but I miss her.

After dinner, last night, Mrs GF and I sat there and listened to the quiet... I miss my girl. I'm glad she is having fun... but I miss her.

You see, I like that kid. A lot.

Of course I love her... but I really like her. She is smart. She is funny. She is caring. She is intuitive. She is athletic. She is empathetic. She really is a good kid.

We are going on 24 hours now....

It is going to be a long week.

GF

Through The Upstairs Window

I wrote this on the 5th of May, while I was watching Soccergirl play outside with one of her neighborhood friends:

Through the upstairs window, I watch you playing on the lawn. I’m still wearing my shoes, even though I would rather take them off, just in case I have to go downstairs to help you if you fall.

I can hear you singing.

You are playing with the pink ball that I bought for you a few weeks ago.

As much as I tell you that I love you, and as much as I know that you know that I love you, I don’t think there are words enough to describe it to you.

You see, you are my second chance.

My second chance to be the father I have always wanted but didn’t have. My second chance to be present in the life of my child, after my first marriage fell apart, and took your older sister so far away.

Do you know how important it is that I don’t screw this up?

Maybe you will when you get older.

I want so many things for your future, but I am not going to saddle my unfulfilled dreams on your shoulders. What I mostly want for you, is happiness. I want you to be happy.

I want you to go through your adult life with as much joy as you have right now, shrieking and laughing with Fionna as you play tag.

I want to be the example of what you see in your mind’s eye when you think of what a husband and father should be; a man that comes home from work and spends his time with his family; a man that takes care of and protects his family; a man that is respectful of his wife and children; a man that doesn’t believe in violence in the home; a man that is a fully participatory father.

I hope I can live up to it. I think I’m off to a good start.


Daddy

On Becoming a "Local"

Is the place you live the same place as you were raised?

For most of the people that I encounter on a daily basis, here in the in the Washington, DC area, the answer is an emphatic no.

I live in Prince William County, Virginia, approximately 25 miles south of Washington, DC, and until about 25 years ago, Prince William would be considered by many to be a backwater. It hadn't yet been engulfed in the suburban sprawl that is now busy consuming green spaces with Ebola-like speed. The county population was fairly small, as it was mostly rural.

Fast forward to today. Prince William has a large population... I think it is the second most populous county in Virginia, behind our immediate neighbors to the north in Fairfax county... where some of the readers of this blog live.

Northern Virginia, and it's suburban Maryland counterparts, is home to huge numbers of government employees and military personnel, so it should come as no surprise that the majority of the people that you meet are originally from somewhere else.

None of our neighbors are native to the area, and only three of my colleagues can claim to be life-long local residents.

Mrs Gunfighter and I came to the Washington, DC area in the 1980's, and moved into our house in Prince William, when we got married in 1994. Sprawl started even before we moved here, but, even then the differences were palpable. In 1994 we could still go to the grocery store and see blue-haired white women that routinely greeted us with: "Howy'alldoin'?" (yeah, it came out like that) Not so much anymore.

In the past few years, much has changed. I have begun to feel like "a local". I have started to say "old guy" stuff like: "Remember when we moved here, and route 123 (or 234, or Spriggs road)was a winding two-lane road?". I have been wondering about this lately and I have decided that the catalyst between living in this community and being a part of this community is having children.

Soccergirl is our anchor here. We are involved in youth soccer, the church, girl scouts, and her school. Is it any wonder that we can be at the mall/bookstore/supermarket/you-name-it, and we see people we know... everywhere? Mrs G and I are not hugely social... in that we tend to go home and stay home, or do things together as we are busy most of the time, so our social interaction happens at soccer games, girl scout meetings, chatting with the "school moms" during school pick-up times (this is usually me).

Yesterday, I found myself talking, at different times with different parents about summer camps, travel soccer (no thanks!), school events for next year, vacation bible school, swimming lessons, day care and Tae Kwon Do all in the span of two hours. I talked with several parents and discovered that we knew people in common and wind up saying things like: "oh sure, I know her, she drives the green minivan with the Australia sticker on the back" or "Yeah, she goes to our church". Jeez, we even know some of the local politicians for whom streets and parks are named.

This place that we live, this bedroom community of commuters and SUV's (not us, thank you) has become our home. When I do the math, I come up with incontrovertible proof: I have lived here longer than I have lived in any one place in my life; we refer to the house at the corner of our street as "Tom and Arlene's house", even though Tom and Arlene sold that house and moved 10 years ago; we don't socialize with anyone (with the exception of sg's godparents, and them rarely) that we did when we moved here... back then, all our friends were DC friends from work; soccergirl is FROM here.. this area is the only home she has ever known, and will likely grow to adulthood right in this place.

Kind of strange, isn't it?

Adulthood.... suburban parenting... being a local.

Growing Up

On my other blog, when I have talked about Soccergirl, I have mentioned that at age eight (nearly nine), she doesn't have a lot of little girl time left. Although she isn't done being a little girl (not with the constant bombardment of "Spongebob" that we deal with), there are little things that creep in that tell us that she is growing up. Sometimes it is the use of a new word... sometimes it is doing something that she loved last week, and she tells you this week that it's "for little kids, daddy".

The little things sort of flow around you, because, well, they are little. Every now and a gain, you get to a major thing. A few weeks ago, Soccergirl got out of the bathtub (she was in the master bath in the big soaker tub) and came into the master bedroom. She saw me there and immediately shriekd and covered herself with a towel.

That's right, folks... the first instance of modesty.

My Dad

I started this post at this blog and my other blog, about my father at least four times. This will be attempt number five.

My parents were divorced when I was five years old... Between my father's philandering, unholy temper, propensity for using his hands to express anger, and my mother's unwise use of chemicals, theirs was a match made in the depths of hell. As difficult as it was, their divorce, in 1969, was a blessing for the whole family.

After the divorce, my mother took us three children from California, where my dad was stationed (he was in the Air Force), to New Jersey where my maternal grandmother lived.

We were raised by my mom and (mostly by my) grand mom, and saw my dad whenever he was stationed somewhere nearby... in the early 70's, it was in central Massachusetts.

On school holidays, my father would drive from Westover Air Force Base to our house in NJ, come inside long enough to say hello to my mother and to use the bathroom, and we'd be on the road! It was during these trips that my father first demonstrated his perfectly abysmal ability to tell jokes. My father told the absolutely worst jokes on the planet. He would tell a joke, and then roar with laughter... not caring if anyone else found them funny. My dad also told awful knock-knock jokes, like this one:

Dad: "knock-knock"

Kids: "who's there?"

Dad: "Emerson"

Kids: "Emerson who?"

Dad: "Emerson funky socks you've got on!"

Kids: "That's Not Funny!"

Dad: "Baahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!"

Jeez.

My dad and I formed a decent relationship, and after he retired from military service, in 1973, he went back to his hometown of Baltimore, Maryland. We (my older brother and sister, and I) visited fairly regularly, and after the older two graduated from high school and went out into the world, I continued to visit on my own... by this time, I had graduated to taking the train, which I thought was pretty cool.

I continued my visits with my dad (and his wife and their daughter, my half sister), until I graduated from high school and joined the service.

One of the best things that my dad ever did for me, is something he probably doesn't even think of now.

When I left home to join the service, my recruiter picked me up early in the morning, and took me to the processing point, in Newark (NJ, not Del.), where I had to fill out forms, get shots, etc... We were then put aboard a bus to the airport for flights to our basic training destination... in my case, Parris Island, South Carolina.

As we were about to board the plane, I heard a shout across the terminal: "Billyyyyyyyyyyyy!" It was my dad, sprinting in my direction. He didn't even tell me he was coming! This was in 1981, and my dad was about three years older than I am now. He drove his little Toyota Tercel to the point where his engine completely gave up the ghost in the parking lot of the airport... just to get there to see me off. He gave me a hug and said: "I'm proud of you, son!... time to be a man, now. Take care of yourself, and call when you can"

He had driven nearly three hundred miles with a car whose engine was literally coming apart at the end of the trip, to spend about thirty seconds with me. It was then that I realized that many of the things that my mother had said about my dad for years, weren't all true. Somebody that doesn't give a shit about their children doesn't do something like that.

Life went on, and my dad was a proud observer of my time in the service. Proud of my accomplishments, and of my promotions. He was even more proud when I came back from overseas the first time, speaking German even better than he does (an odd talent... my brother, father and I are nearly fluent in German... it drives our other relatives nuts!).

We didn't have a perfect relationship, but it was functional. As I grew into my thirties, and had a family of my own, I started thinking more about my dad, and had come to some unpleasant realizations about my own childhood. He sensed the growing tension between us, and wrote me a letter asking what it was all about. I answered him and told him that I wanted an apology. I wanted him to apologize for being a wife beater. I wanted him to apologize for not being around more when I was little. I wanted him to apologize for all of the things that I had to do alone in Scouting when the other boys had their fathers with them. He didn't see me achieve a varsity letter for throwing the discus, or sing in the school shows.

I didn't even know those things were bothering me, but they all came out in a rush of words.

I immediately felt like I had taken a load of bricks from my shoulders, and it felt good.

My brother and sister were pissed about what I said to my father, but that is a story for another time.

Anyway, it was time for Soccergirl's baptism, and he and I had a long talk in which he apologized to me for all of the things that I mentioned, and some that I hadn't mentioned.

From that day, six years ago, to this day, my dad and I have enjoyed a fantastic relationship.

I think I mentioned, over at my other blog that my father was largely responsible for my remaining in touch with my oldest child after my divorce. I called him the other day to thank him.

If you have any bad feelings with anyone, friends, remember that it is NEVER too late to try to reconcile with someone if both parties are still living.



Gunfighter, Fastpitch, Soccergirl, and my Dad

Calling All dads!

I don't think that this blog can be done properly without a range of male voices, so I am inviting Real Dads to participate.

I think that our theme for July is going to be: The Joys of New Fatherhood.

Share your stories of those first cool, and freakin' terrifying moments of fatherood, whether it be a story about the birth process, LaMaze classes, projectile vomit, learning to change a diaper... whatever comes to mind from the earliest days and moments of your fatherhood.

Email me with your stories, and I will post them here.

Cheers,

GF