Right now there’s only the idea of you, but I first decided that I wanted you in my life before I even met your Papa. It was in grad school, I was at the library on a cold night, chilly and miserable and listening to MP3s when Weezer’s “My Name is Jonas” came on and it hit me that I wanted to be a father. I really wish I could describe something beautiful and poetic about the moment, imply that time just seemed to stop, and I did know it was an important moment otherwise I wouldn’t remember how rough and scratchy the damned couches were and that the wooden armrest was hard and unpadded and felt like it was cutting all circulation to my kidney. But know I’ve been chasing the idea of you since then, and you’ve always been tumbling around here and there, always a consideration, because if you ever feel like going through your Dad’s old blog entries for whatever reason you’ll read this and know you were wanted. Hell, I even had your name picked out that night, a strong name that would grow with you as you grew up, because I want you to be strong. Life’s going to throw a fair bit of shit at you, and a person should be able to stand up afterward and still do the right thing. Anything else I tell you is going to sound obvious, but it’s hard-won advice that took a while to really sink in with me. Continue reading
Words to live by, kids!
I’ll start with the standard Happy Thanksgiving to all of my readers, and a Happy Thursday to everyone outside the U.S.
The following piece is a bit of a Thanksgiving tradition for me. I’ve posted the following essay every year in some way, shape or form every year since I wrote it, but before I get to it, a little backstory. In 2007 I was taking Creative Non-Fiction, and our professor tasked us to write an essay describing an event in our lives in which we had been evil, an asshole, or generally refused to follow Wheaton’s Law. Most of us had little trouble pulling it off (we were all college students, after all), though most of the essays were “justifiable” evil. My own, I’ll let you be the judge, but to this day, I still don’t feel sorry about it, and I likely never were.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
This is a story about pudding.
Filed under Humor, Writing