January 13, 2018

Vivian punched me four times today. Sometimes she punches me with fire in her eyes and sometimes there is a twinkle and it feels like she just wants to wrestle. I don't know. It's confusing. She is a toddler.

She is our only child to experience regular child care. Sometimes we wonder if that has something to do with her temper and the way she can tear apart a playful afternoon or wreck a quiet evening by refusing to brush her teeth for the seventh night in a row. Two nights ago when she wouldn't let me brush her teeth, I took her four babies and threw them out the back door. Timeouts for her don't mean much but when you throw her babies into the backyard, shit gets real.

There's a hole in our ceiling thanks to the recent (but extremely rare) rains. The fireplace is literally shifting like pangea and one whole section has begun to move.

This old house has some stories to tell.

December 9, 2017. 10:53pm. On the purple couch. We went out for pizza before setting up the Christmas tree and decorating it with ornaments and some lights that don’t quite make it around. We decided a slumber party made sense, even though it seemed kinda risky on account of the kids getting over hyped or under slept or some combination of both. But that seems to happen on any given night, so what the hell. After watching Christmas Vacation, the kids and Kari fell asleep neatly spaced out along some mattresses on the floor. Auld Lang Syne plays on repeat. Still now. Success. 

Before the evening started we sat in the car and put our hands in the middle and I said that the only thing that could sabotage the night was a bad attitude and whining and everyone managed to do pretty well. 

Seeing my kids sleep and watching their stillness and hearing their breath is both the happiest and saddest part of my day. On the one hand, I fall in love with each of them just a little more, remembering their sweetness and innocence and how vulnerable and intrinsically connected to me they are. They are so quietly human in this moment, which is sometimes hard to remember when they are punching each other or ignoring me in a way that suggests I’m a mouse in a far away field whispering from an underground lair. And this is why I feel so deeply sad in this moment for ever raising my voice or not engaging with their needs or for all those times I’ve walked outside to throw a spoon at the backyard fence. For in this moment, it’s just us. They are my children and I am their Father. 



A friend told me recently to start writing again, but the funny thing is I’m not sure he even knew I liked to write. He didn’t know me back then, when writing was what I thought about most. I don’t know. Probably seems like a good idea. 

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