Home Alone Hero 2: The Born Identity

“Are you ready for the biggest of all surprises, Dudicle?” I asked my ten month old son as I walked into his room after his nap.  We were on day twelve of being home alone together without my wife.  She would be arriving later that afternoon and it was sure to blow that baby brain of his.  I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face.  “It will be the best thing to happen to you since you’ve been born.  Mark my words, Jackie boy,” I continued, as I opened his drapes to unveil the second of two sunny Omaha afternoons in a row, soaking it in along with the partially pacifier obstructed smile he was giving me. 

We had done it.  My wife had left abruptly when news that Momma Rita had taken a turn for the worse came in, but neither of us had expected her trip to last so long.  It was getting to the point where we were all aching for a reunion, and now it was finally in sight.  Plus, it was sunny.  Until the prior afternoon, Omaha hadn’t seen a sunny day since she left town.  I told her this during one of our many Skype conversations. 

“Really?” she asked, thinking I was saying something sweet.

“Really.  And though it sounds romantic and shit, it’s just the facts,” I replied as I tossed her a grin.  I needed to see the sun almost as much as I needed to see my wife in the flesh.  The sun showed up first, making for a perfect St. Patty’s day afternoon spent inventing the Black and Green (1/2 Guinness and 1/2 hoppy American IPA) with the infamous Dr. Sanchez.  He would later send out blank text messages while being stuck in his own bathtub, while I pushed the limits of the warmth of the front porch watching the first brilliant sunset in weeks give way to a moon with a beard.  Now, the sun was back again, and my wife would follow in a few hours.

“Yes meat paws, there will be much rejoicing,” I said to Jackie as I changed his diaper, “maybe there will also be tacos, and maybe if Daddy is lucky, there will also be some sex.”   The last “maybe” was a big one, I thought, as I turned up the stereo and brought Jack out onto the front porch to get introduced to Thin Lizzy’s Jailbreak while waiting for the biggest surprise of his little life.  Sex or no sex, she was finally coming back and we were ready for her. She was coming home to better men.

Twelve days of twenty-four hour mostly unaided child responsibility is a bit like military boot camp for parents.  It’s also a little bit like being the manager of Chuck E. Cheese except that you can’t leave and you have to sleep on top of a ski-ball lane.  Imagine being one of those ER doctors on call and at work for twelve straight days.  At the worst moments, that’s what this was like.  Luckily, the worst moments were few. After coming out the other side mostly unscathed and better for it, I would recommend it to everyone. Though, be warned, it’s not for everyone.

If I wasn’t convinced that I could do this Dad thing already, the last twelve days solidified it.  When I first became a father, I had no fucking idea what I supposed to do.  After a couple of months of daddy daycare, teamwork, trial and error, and a father-son road trip, I was starting to feel confident in my abilities. I was proud of my parenting repertoire going into the experience, but now I felt like the Jason Bourne of fatherhood, and not just because we share the same first name.  It was as if I had gone through rigorous montage training right out of a Hollywood blockbuster action movie, Kenny Loggins soundtrack and everything, and come out of it with powers I didn’t even realize I had.  I was Bridget Fonda’s character in Point of No Return, with a beer belly and a beard instead of a gun and tight black dress.  I was a full-fledged-multi-tasking parenting Jedi.

For one thing, I finally mastered how to put up and take down the cheap wooden baby gate.  However, having now also mastered the art of hopping over it, it doesn’t really matter.  We’re talking boy in one arm, full hot steaming coffee cup in one hand, cold bowl of cereal and strawberries in the other, full baby bottle in the pocket of my AC/DC pajama pants, and a CD or DVD in my mouth, over a gate and up and down stairs with grace, speed, style, and not a drop spilled or baby dropped.  I couldn’t have done that a week before. In fact, I failed miserably on a few prior attempts over the gate resulting in coffee being splattered on carpet and wall alike, me bruising my tailbone as I slid down a flight of steps while Jack squealed in delight from the other side of the gate, and a Cheerios free for all with boy and dog scurrying for the spoils while I was left covered in orange juice and crying over spilled milk.  Now, however, I’m some crazy combination of Apollo Ohno and Johnny Weir, but harrier. I’m 007 with baby toys.

I battled through a cold, a fever, teething, explosive diarrhea, and a junkie-like desire to climb stairs and handled them all on top of every single diaper, feeding, laundry load, nap time, bath time, rock-a-bye, and bottle washing.  I did all of that, stayed up way too late unwinding, and got up way too early to do it all again the next day; for ten consecutive days. Then I spent two days cleaning the house for a day and a half visit from my parents.  I was running around the house like Kevin McAllister, but this time I was home alone getting the house set up for The Captain and Tennille instead of the “wet bandits.”  On top of that, I was stuck with the little kid that pees the bed.  I filled the house with groceries after an eleventh hour shopping trip spent catching Jack as he tried to climb out of the shopping cart, I picked up all his toys, cleaned the bathrooms, swept the floors, constructed a guest bed, and vacuumed the carpets until my vacuum cleaner wouldn’t suck anymore.  Seriously.  I have the worst luck with vacuum cleaners.  I cursed at it until it cried.  I actually got pissed at a vacuum cleaner.  Boy how my life has changed!  But hey, it was the only hiccup in what would have probably been some of my best housekeeping work ever.

Upon Grandma and Grandpa’s arrival I breathed a small sigh of relief.  I opened the door and handed over my son.  He took the brunt of it.  A chorus of “I’m going to get you” exploded into his unsuspecting face.  He looked like he was about to freak out.  I laughed on the inside and let them have their fun, giving Jack a nod of assurance.  It didn’t take him long to warm up to them again, and it took even less time for me to turn over the reigns for a few minutes.  Reinforcements had come, and I was going to take advantage.  Unfortunately, they were a bit rusty, and before too long my new found ninja-dad skills were on full display to counteract the Grandparents’ nap sabotage and senior moment forgotten diaper bags.  Yes, I was now a ninja.  A ninja in need of a vacation and many many beers.

What I received, however, was even better.  First, my mom kept complimenting me on my parenting and my son.  For someone so proficient in the field, I was honored.  Then, in a random moment sitting in the basement watching TV with my Dad, he said to me in a voice and tone he doesn’t often use, “You’re doing a great job with your son.  Probably better than what I would have been able to do.  I want you to know how proud I am of you.”  I never had to use so much effort to hold back tears.  Coming from someone who uses heart to heart talks sparingly, it made every single second of sacrifice worth it.  I had started the week not sure if I or any Dad deserved the compliments I was receiving from strangers for just being an involved parent, and now, at the end of what was a sometimes trying, and sometimes lonely twelve days without my wife, I was honored with a compliment that meant more to me than anything.  It’s been quite the twelve days for this home alone hero, and I wasn’t the only one who had changed.

Jack was going through some growth and discovery of his own.  For one, he would look slightly different when my wife finally got to see him.  After a few slightly miserable days of his pain and my solitary agony, he now had two upper teeth to match the two on the bottom. These two were bigger though, straight from his mother’s side of the family, with the even bigger patented gap between them.  It was our biggest fear.  The one familial genetic abnormality that we both hoped he would escape had forced its way through his virgin gums.  I texted my wife and gave her hell as Jack bit my thigh from underneath the kitchen table.  “Back away you hideous midget!” I yelled, as a slimy stream of drool stretched from his mouth to the rug under the table.  Four teeth down and sixteen more to go, I thought, as I snatched him up from between the table legs and gave him a bear hug.   

Aside from sprouting new mouth ornaments, the final melting of all of the Omaha snow had allowed Jack to step outside of his comfort zone and survey the outside world for longer than a trip from the porch to the car and back again.  He crawled around two different front yards, sat and rolled around in the grass, swung some sticks, sucked on rocks, chased a ball down a hill, and tried to eat tree bark, all in twenty four hours.  He was now a full fledged explorer with four teeth and a confident look in his eye, but perhaps the most exciting transformation was that he had actually started listening.

I had been working for weeks on keeping him away from the dog’s food and water dish.  I did not want to live in a world where I had to put the dog dishes on top of the refrigerator, and I know my dog was in full agreement.  I gave her a knowing look and decided to kick up the discipline a bit.  It didn’t take long.  After a single afternoon of my “no’s” being met with dissatisfied pouting and crying, the next morning he actually listened to me.  He stopped, looked at me, and crawled away from the dog bowls.  He hasn’t touched them since.  My dog was relieved.  I was awestruck.  I was proud.  I was so hard core.  I even thought for a second about attempting to potty train him next.  Then I thought about something else. 

Sitting on my front porch swing as we waited for the white Hyundai to roll down Bedford Ave. and into the driveway, I thought back to the first few days of this new job of mine; this experiment.  I thought about my first few days in Omaha as a naive “Stay At Home” Dad with a three month old and my foolish early attempts at trying to take the boy and the dog on a run through the park.  Then, I thought about the past twelve days and more specifically, the prior couple of hours.  Just that morning, I had loaded up both boy and dog into the car, stroller and leash in tow, and drove to Benson Park to attempt what I had failed at months ago, before the weeks and weeks of snow and experience piled onto my existence.

After my first botched attempt at a run through the park with the dynamic duo almost 8 months ago, I wrote, “That’s right, this Daddy day care thing is going to be a piece of cake…a cake made of shit.”  It completely backfired in my face.  So much so, that I gave up the idea and did all my running alone on the treadmill until today.  Today, it was a breeze.  I Jason Bourned that run like a pro. I had actually gotten somewhere.  I had actually learned some important lessons.  I had come full circle.  I felt unflappable, unbreakable, and unstoppable. Training day is over, let the games begin, I thought as I bounced Jackie boy on my knee as we rocked back and forth on the porch swing. Yes, I’m ready for the next challenge.  When it comes I’ll roundhouse kick that son of bitch just like in the action movies, but first I need to hug my wife.

Tall Boys and Short Stacks: Transitioning To A No Income Lifestyle

“Three bucks,” one of the usual bartenders said while handing over a PBR tall boy can. I fumbled through my cash and handed him a five while trying to figure out why it wasn’t only a buck. I swear PBR was always only a dollar, though, at the point of the night when I’ve moved on to PBR, my memory can’t always be trusted. I took my change, tipped a buck, and noticed that everyone around me was drinking the same thing, including the David Cross looking guy with the handlebar mustache.

The PBR tall boy can is the official beer of downtown Benson. I was out a few weekends ago during one of those Omaha local music showcases and I think the entire neighborhood ran out. I was sitting at the end of the bar in Burke’s Pub around last call with the infamous Dr. Sanchez, when it happened. There was no more PBR. None. I’m more of a High Life guy when it comes to cheap beer, so I took it in stride and bought a round of the champagne, but others took to the streets ready to riot, in that polite Omaha way. I even read an article the other day about how PBR is the newest “hipster beer,” especially since we are in a recession. Apparently everyone is a hipster in Omaha.

I however, was not drinking this PBR tall boy to be hip. I am not a “hipster,” I’m much cooler. I also was not drinking it for my usual reason, because I was six IPA’s in and it was last call. No, I was drinking PBR because it was the most beer for the buck, and my job doesn’t pay well. Actually, it doesn’t pay at all. It’s a nice thought, but you can’t pay for beer with the love of your son, and he doesn’t have enough pull around here to get me free guest list spots at The Waiting Room.

I took a swig from the can and turned around as “Instant Karma” came on the house speakers during a set change between bands. I headed towards the stage and took a spot against the wall by the merch table and the bathroom, passing a guy that looked just like the bearded John Lennon. I did at least a triple take, shook my head and shrugged. Instant fucking karma is right. This PBR is some crazy shit I thought, as I tried to coax some flavor out of my next sip while checking out the CDs on the table in front of me. I haven’t bought a CD in months, and the two Hopluias I drank before switching to PBR killed any chance of breaking that streak.

I’ve never been much of a consumer, but as I watched Brad Hoshaw and the Seven Deadlies take the stage, I remembered a time in the not so distant past when I could buy things from merch tables at shows whenever I wanted to. I remembered when I could afford to drink microbrews all night instead of PBR, never once thinking twice about leaving a tip. I remembered the countless nights of freely buying rounds for my friends. Now, I’ve got a budget. Now I sometimes have to embarrassingly and reluctantly skip a tip. Now I have to sheepishly ask my wife for cash on my way out the door. It’s fucking weird.

Not having a personal income is hard to get used to. You feel less free. You feel like a cheapskate. Sometimes, you feel like a kid with a crappy allowance. I’ve always been one to pick up the tab, now I have to defer to Mommy Warbucks. It’s odd to go from a weekly paycheck to complete co-dependence. It’s one thing to be the secondary bread winner, it’s another to not bring in any at all and have to bake it at home.

Going to play poker once a week with friends feels so decadent now. Now, losing is more heartbreaking. Dropping twenty or forty bucks on poker night used to be a small price to pay for good company and conversation. Now I’m trying to stretch out my short stacks and praying to break even. It’s only a matter of time before I’ll have to skip a week here or there. I really can’t justify asking my wife for enough cash to play cards especially when I’m not catching any and coming home empty handed.

The money issue is relatively new to us now that my bankroll has finally dwindled down to double digits after four months of my stay at home dad career. My wife is now paying my car payment and credit card bill. She’s also paying all of the other bills that I used to pay and the ones that she always has, out of our singular income, while I stare with amazement, shame, and fear at the balance of my checking account. It’s hard to leave the house without my wife and her debit card. I can’t even really buy her Christmas presents. I am quickly becoming completely dependent on my wife outside of our home, while I am becoming more independent as a father inside of it. It’s not an easy transition to make, though I’m thankful that she’s generous, understanding, and an all around team player while I adjust to life as the unpaid equipment manager.

On the bright side, not having to deal with money, bills, stores, co-workers, bosses, and commerce in general, is freeing in other ways. I feel like I’m off the grid, but instead of going “Into the Wild,” I just spend time at home with my beard, my dog, and my son. I don’t need to buy clothes, because I rarely get dressed. I don’t need gas money, because I rarely drive anywhere. I don’t go to the grocery store, well, because I can’t afford it. It’s a stress free lifestyle, but one that still is going to take some getting used to, especially since I’m a big fan of going out and doing things and those things always seem to cost money. No more working in radio means no more free concert tickets, CDs, or beers bought by your biggest fans. I now have to actually pay the piper for the passions I’ve gotten hooked on through the years, and if I’ve learned anything from the rock and roll lifestyle I’ve flirted with for the past decade or so, it’s that there is always a cover charge and the beer isn’t free unless you’re in the band.

We knew making the shift to a one income household would come with its challenges, but we also knew that the benefits were important enough to us to try to make it work. My son doesn’t have to go to daycare, and we don’t have to pay for it. I suppose that’s the biggest justification. As long as we’re able to do so, I know we prefer it this way. So far, so good. I leave the house a bit less, I drink cheaper beer sometimes, and I’m starting to play smarter poker. I’ve cut back on the shows I’m going to and I’ve had to get creative about being able to secure the music I want to listen to. But, I also get to spend my days in my Homer Simpson slippers watching my son learn and grow and drool. Every second is priceless, and it’s all worth it. It doesn’t pay, but the benefits are great and I’m getting good at this stay at home dad gig. I’m even getting good at doing the household chores. One day soon, if I play my cards right, I may even ask for an allowance. Until then, PBR me, ASAP, I’ll buy the next one.

Just Another Snow Day in Oma-Hoth

Today was the 29th anniversary of the day John Lennon was shot. Today was also a snow day. The city of Omaha has pretty much canceled Tomorrow as well. Shit, every Omaha school, except the University was canceled yesterday afternoon before it even started snowing. The top four stories on all three 10PM network newscasts last night were about the snow. They honestly gave tips on how to keep your children safe while sledding. The cancellations numbered in the thousands.

Even the University finally closed just a bit before noon and canceled tomorrow’s classes too, so my wife’s got a couple of snow days. She’ll spend them critiquing my parenting skills and my improper usage of burp cloths, and I’ll remind her, under my breath but most likely to myself, that I don’t visit the university and tell her how to use her Power Point presentations. I don’t go down to her work and heckle her, as Seinfeld would say. But it’s official now, she’s staying home. All of the neighbors are home. All of the kids that go to the middle school across the street are at home. Everyone is home everywhere, and they are all intruding on my “stay at home” lifestyle. Snow days are so bittersweet now.

All of the cancellations have scrolled continuously on the bottom of every TV channel and have been read exhaustingly on all the radio stations for the past twenty four hours. It gets old very fast. I mean, I understand posting and announcing the school closings. Every kid with a heart is waiting on that glorious announcement. My brother and sister and I used to sit by the radio for hours praying for Our Lady of the Ridge to intervene on our behalf and tell the nuns to close the school. It rarely happened. Us Catholics always had to go to school. I think we had four snow days total in my 12 years of schooling…in fucking Chicago.

What I don’t get is the posting of every other single event that is not important enough to smash your car over by driving to it in a blizzard. In my radio days, I used to have to read them over the air myself until I realized how stupid it was. If all of the schools are closed, even the Catholic ones and the Universities, there’s a good chance your yoga class, bible study, or Mommy and Me meeting is probably canceled as well. No massage class; no weigh in for Weight Watchers; no craft bazaar. If there’s a foot of snow, there’s probably no Tai Kwon Do.

You’d think it never snowed in Omaha. Hell, you’d think it never snowed anywhere the way people seem to react no matter where I’ve lived. It’s the same everywhere. Snow turns people into little kids, some, into kids with mental disabilities. It can either be a winter wonderland, or one big fucking game of king of the mountain with idiots and assholes. You never really know in the snow. It’s unpredictable. The rule of law always seems to be suspended in the snow. You feel like you can get away with stuff. There’s always a chance you may end up in the belly of a Taun-Taun.

Speaking of, the only thing that wasn’t stopped by the great Blizzard of Aught Nine was The Force. Star Wars in Concert was in town at the arena and the word on the internet was that it was not going to be canceled, no matter what. C3PO was in town and everything. We had wanted to go, but we don’t have a babysitter and my job doesn’t pay. Besides, it was Jack’s first blizzard anyways. We were going to make the most of it with or without George Lucas. I planned to listen to the Beatles and play in the snow with my son.

I remember my first blizzard. Well, I remember the pictures at least. I was stuffed into a snowsuit, holding my Grandpa and my Dad’s hands, snowdrifts taller than me. Looking at pictures from a time that you can’t possibly remember is kind of like waking up on that random Saturday in college, hungover. You don’t remember the night before, but you have a feeling that it was one hell of a great time. Because of those pictures, I’ll never forget that snow day, despite the fact that I can’t remember it. All I know, is that I’ve kept searching for that ultimate snow day ever since. Even though it was probably anti-climactic, and I don’t remember a second of it, I can’t help but feel like that was the greatest snow day of all time. It’s like how people always claim that high school or college was the best time of their lives. It’s funny how we are able to romanticize things that we don’t really remember, and probably never actually happened.

Today, the goal was to create that first snow memory for Jack, or at least the pictures for him to look at years later and falsely reminisce about his role in The Great Winter Storm of 2009. We zipped him into the slightly too big second hand Tommy Hilfiger snowsuit Grandma had bought him, his arms and legs too short still to make use of the attached mittens and boots. He was one part the kid from A Christmas Story and one part drooling invalid. I was way more excited than he was. He shit in his snow suit and cracked a patronizing smile. Julie grabbed the camera, and we ventured out the back door to make some memories.

Less than ten minutes later he was back inside. Jack took to the blizzard as you’d expect a sixth month old to take to laying in the snow and having cold snowflakes blown into his face, which is not very well. Though, I think he could have handled it for a bit longer, and possibly gotten used to it enough to enjoy it, Mom put the kibosh on that as soon as his cheeks got red and his drool started to freeze. I got them both to hold out long enough to snap a few pictures before they scurried back across the snow covered wooden deck, through the back door, and up the stairs to the house. Memories made, despite not living up to whatever expectations I had before stepping outside. Fuck it, I thought, we’ve got some pictures. Snow days will be more fun when he’s older anyways. I grabbed the shovel and walked around to the front of the house to start shoveling the driveway and the sidewalk, though I knew it would be like digging sand out of an hourglass. Hey, I’m a sucker for a lost cause.

I started digging out Julie’s car while casually watching my neighbor shovel out his, next door. We had gotten a couple of inches two nights before, so after he left for work yesterday I had shoveled the rest of his driveway and sidewalk and cleaned off his wife’s car for her. Today, I noticed that he didn’t stop with his own car and started cleaning off her’s as well, probably trying to make up for yesterday and not wanting to get showed up by his friendly neighborhood stay at home dad with nothing else to do. He was obviously saving face with his neglected wife, and I laughed a little to myself as I swept a few inches of snow off our windshields.

“Hey man,” my neighbor called to me as I threw some snow with the shovel at the window Jack was looking out of, “Thanks for cleaning off my wife’s car and stuff yesterday, you made me look bad.”

“No problem, but that wasn’t my intention,” I responded, knowing full well that that was slightly my intention, even if I didn’t want to admit it. She must have talked his ear off about how nice I was for doing something he should have done. I imagined her staring longingly out the window and wishing for a second that I was her husband; the thoughtful one. Cleaning off your wife’s car is just something you should do, I thought about saying, knowing that he’d never again leave me the chance to show him up in the husband/dad/neighbor department.

“That’s what neighbors are for,” I said instead, and started to shovel faster so he wouldn’t feel the need to come over and help, just to repay my kindness from yesterday. “When I get into the snow removal groove, I just can’t stop. I love it,” I continued. It was pretty much true too. I love being out in the snow, and I really do like helping my neighbors. I get it from my Dad, who always cleared off our neighbors’ driveways when I was younger, though he usually had a snow blower. I have only a shovel which I tossed onto the front porch after one last trip up the driveway. I looked up and smiled at my wife and son waving to me from inside as I told my neighbor to drive safe to wherever he was going. I sat on my porch swing for awhile, surveying the early stages of the blizzard, enjoying the stillness and silence of Bedford Ave. I love when the snow shuts everything down. I think we all need that to happen sometimes, it’s good for the soul.

I opened the front door and stepped inside into the somewhat shocking warmth of our living room, Christmas tree in full glory, and stomped the snow from my shoes. It was a bad day to start looking for my boots, and I never found them, so I had to make do. Surprisingly, my feet were still a bit warm. I kicked them off, put The Beatles rooftop concert bootleg on my stereo, and headed towards the kitchen to watch my wife make hot chocolate.

Oh glorious hot chocolate! I swear, as kids we probably played in the snow for the express purpose of coming inside to mom’s hot chocolate with mini marshmallows in the tall white Disney character mugs. Mine was always Porky Pig. I remember consistently burning my tongue and the roof of my mouth on that very first sip, before settling in to the comfort of the cocoa and trying to make it last as long as you could. Seconds on hot chocolate were rare, until we started making our own.

I sat at the top of the steps to our back door, alternately gazing outside and watching Jules in front of the stove and Jack rolling around the kitchen floor. She boiled the milk in a saucepan while trying to dig out any powdered chocolate she could find from the cupboard. I reminded her to grab the bag of mini marshmallows from the top shelf. It was probably a couple of years old, and even made the move from Illinois, but it was there for just such an occasion. A blizzard without mini marshmallows can quickly become a snow day disaster. I smiled at Julie while we both looked at Jack, waiting for the milk to heat up. I turned back to the door and watched the snow fall outside. “Don’t Let Me Down” was coming out of the speakers in the living room. It was the middle of the day, and the scent of hot chocolate was beginning to take over the kitchen. The window to the back door was starting to fog over. It was beautiful outside, and cozy inside, even on the kitchen floor. I was warmed up before the first sip. I had found my perfect snow day moment, on the first snow day that Jack won’t remember. I took a mental picture, this time.

I glanced at my Blackberry to look at the photos from earlier, and noticed a missed call and voicemail from a new Omaha friend. In an odd twist of fate, the snowstorm led to the lack of a babysitter for them, which then led to my eventual invite to the unstoppable Star Wars spectacular later in the evening. He even had some free beers coming to him at the micro-brewery downtown. I was psyched about these new, random plans for the night, but something told me I probably wouldn’t make it. We probably wouldn’t make it. At least not without a Taun Taun, and mine must have run away.

My neighbor stopped over to borrow my shovel, since his wasn’t doing the trick, and offered to shovel my driveway in exchange. I told him that wasn’t necessary and went back to perusing the local news reports on TV, weighing the pros and cons of trying to meet up with my friend. They were predicting the heaviest snowfall to occur right around showtime, with a blizzard warning going into effect around 9PM. Even if I could make it out of my neighborhood and downtown, there was no guarantee that we would have made it back without ending up in a ditch. My friend and I deliberated internally, on Twitter, and over the phone for a few hours, Taun-Taun, and Hoth jokes aplenty and oh so nerdy. By 5PM, the snow was falling harder, the wind had started to pick up, and our street still hadn’t been plowed. My anticipation for a night of free microbrews and hot Star Wars action was starting to dwindle with every inch of snow that now completely covered my once shoveled driveway.

Part of me still wanted to go, and I had noticed online that a bunch of people with tickets were still planning on braving the storm. I had lucked into a ticket, and wanted to try to make it happen if at all possible, though, without a four wheel drive vehicle and still no sight of my Taun-Taun, I knew it wasn’t looking good for this Jedi. Especially now that I had a kid. My daddy instinct seemed to kick in, and what would have once been an exciting, adventurous decision to brave a blizzard for a concert in the city with a friend, was now pretty clearly, a bad option for two dads to be choosing. We clearly would have ended up in a ditch on the way home, having to cuddle together under the blanket in my trunk to survive; our families worried sick.

We decided to ignore the temptations of the dark side, be responsible family men, and drown our sorrows in beer and cheese in the comfort of our own homes. Driving around Oma-Hoth without four wheel drive in the middle of a blizzard for a Star Wars concert was no longer a rational choice. I guess you make different decisions once you have a kid. It took me a minute or two to accept that as fact, and I’m sure my partner in arms felt the same way. We were not Jedi’s any longer, we were Dad’s, with wives and kids, compact cars, and suddenly no plans for the evening except watching the snow fall.

No, I didn’t get to see Star Wars in Concert after all, but I also didn’t end up in a ditch, on someone’s front lawn, or in the belly of a Taun-Taun, so that’s something. I got my pictures of Jack outside in the blizzard and I introduced him to the Beatles rooftop concert and Rubber Soul. I ate enchiladas and chased them down with Fargo on DVD and strong beer, while my guilt-ridden neighbor shoveled my driveway in the dark. It was a damn fine snow day here in Oma-Hoth, and Jack won’t remember a second of it. But I will, so let’s do it again tomorrow. May the Force be with us all.