Driven By the Fear of Being a Deadbeat

I was recently working on a project with another young dad, who also has a three-year-old daughter. We talked about traveling, missing our kids, and how -- especially at this age -- children seem noticeably older if you don't see them for a week.

But I hardly ever travel. The only reason I know what it's like to miss my kid is because, until recently, I only saw her on weekends.

So I had to explain why that is -- the same way I have to explain it to all the parents I meet. I always try to relay the story to these relative strangers without emotion -- as if I wasn't painfully aware of the social monster I was supposed to be.

A coward, a quitter, or just an unbearable asshole -- because a normal, caring father would never let his family fall apart.

Continued at ParentDish.

God Bless Waffle House

I acclimated to adulthood amongst a rain-soaked people. Downtrodden under centuries of shitty weather, the English hive mind has matured into a middle-aged grump -- an embittered old codger -- who, spitting at the futility of man's existence, figures fuck it. Why not get drunk and have a laugh?

For a young man in his mid to late teens, it was actually very appealing.

This is not, however, the culture in which I was raised. We Americans are life's perpetually hopeful, doey-eyed lover. It's an incessant cultural immaturity that's hard-wired into our big, loud, obnoxious, train-wreck of populous. So, even though I may have "come of age" pretending to agree with those Euro types that think we're dumb and irritating, now that I've spent three years back on Yankee soil, I've embraced this train-wreck in all it's Lynyrd-Skynyrd-lovin' glory.

Not that I'm buying Toby Keith albums, joining Focus on the Family or spending my weekends watching NASCAR (though there's nothing wrong with NASCAR) -- I'm into the stuff that really kicks ass:

Like Waffle House. Goddamn that's some good eatin'.

It was late last night, as Amanda and I worked our way through heart-attack breakfast meat, talking to some Texas friends about our first few steps in buying a house, that I realized these greasy, 24-hour diners are a significant part of my romanticized Americana.

They're where I learned to smoke cigarettes, drink coffee, and shoot the shit all night with my fellow dudes. They're where Amanda and I would meet when I was back home during college, so we could hash out our relationship until, blurry-eyed and exhausted, we'd finally watch the sun come up. And after 6 years living in a country that eats ham, beans and mushy tomatoes for breakfast, I think I'm n a unique position to appreciate the true awesomeness of a well-made waffle, bathing in syrup.

I miss my friends, I miss walking to everything, I miss English beer, and a host of other intangible things that will undoubtedly stay with me forever.

But it's good to be home.

Ok. I'm Awake.

Nine months ago, when I decided I was worthy of Internet syndication, I was an action hero. (Propelled by an explosion -- screaming and waiving my arms in slow motion while I rocketed through the air.) I'd moved from a normal country to the middle of The Ultimate Red State, had a kid, started a relationship, blindly (and desperately) joined the work force, blah yadda blah -- but the dust cleared, and I discovered I finally had the space to sit around wondering what the fuck had been going on while I hadn't been paying attention.

But where as I used to spend hours naval-gazing -- consumed by a seemingly bottomless rabbit hold of self-indulgent self-reflection -- this time I was content just to write.

And it was awesome.

Within a few months I got to quit my job and blog all the time, which meant I was free to spend afternoons with my daughter, Edan -- a person who's life I always assumed I'd only see from the fringes.

I had everything I wanted. It wasn't nirvana. It was weird.

Since then people have left comments on old posts, and sent thoughtful emails -- making sure I hadn't died, sunk into depression, or fled my life to roam with a band of thieving gypsies (tempting). I'd love to throw together an elaborate string of unbelievable events that would justify my sudden and unexplained absence, but the truth is: I just didn't want to do it anymore.
Maybe it was my new schedule, or the guilt from being office-free, or the stress of going two weeks without health insurance while I waited for my new policy to clear.

Or -- as a friend recently suggested -- maybe I was just having too much fun to stop and write it down.

Regardless, a few days turned into a week,
which turned into a month,
which quickly became three months,
which leads us to

Today. When I finally got my shit together to say: I'll be around more often.