A little less death, a little more rock and roll
… or something like that.
My wife flatteringly noted about my last show with my band a couple of weekends ago, but this isn’t about that. It’s more about moving forward. Living within grief, acceptance, and blossoming and exploding love of my wife and daughter. And my dog. And sure, maybe one or both of the cats. Maybe.
I’m trying to find myself again in their eyes, in their hope and optimism. In the amazement that my daughter can count and spell. I’d like to come back to the place where I’m asking you why people REALLY want RR to call us two different names. “How does she tell you apart if you’re BOTH ‘mama’?!?” How I single-parented from a Thursday morning until a Saturday night and lived to tell about it. How I’m apparently really awful at bath-time. Just ask RR.
For Pete’s sake, people, if I keep going on and on about this, I’ll have to change the name of the damn blog.
I haven’t even told you that I shaved my legs (less for social acceptance, and more because I just didn’t like the looks of them with long hair anymore) and am contemplating cutting off all of my hair (on my head – not really all of it, but something much different). Oh, and that my doctor commented about my boxer shorts (nicely, in a “Seriously, I cannot picture you pregnant! How’d you negotiate that with the boxers??” I do love her so much.)
So we’re moving forward here. Not into the land of the forgotten, but into the land of reflection and movement. And cammo shorts.