I try to write with some sort of diversity in topic so that the reader does not get bored with the same old stories about skateboards and punk rock. In this instance, I couldn’t avoid writing about Son #1 again. The kid is never at a loss for saying something uniquely intriguing or behaving in a way only his mother could love.

I once opined about two things Son #1 routinely practiced. Singing and running. And sometimes, both actions are performed in unison. Fresh off his fifth birthday, Son #1 is a year older and ‘stronger’ because of it. He was showered with gifts and we’ve done our best to lay down the subtext that he’ll have to ‘donate’ some of his older belongings to the other kids. Of course, he agrees in theory. What I predict will happen is that he will lose it with such substance in behavior deterioration that it will justify its log here on this platform.

But not today. Let’s talk Son #1’s birthday booty and his penchant for singing. Of the many unique gifts bestowed upon him, there was one of which I had no clue to be a favorite. It was an old school sock monkey. You know the kind, the freaky gray and white cottony, drooping sock monkey with the red lips, yarn tuft of hair, and red monkey butt. Unbeknownst to me, Son #1 has entertained himself with Son #2’s new school, light blue sock monkey for months prior to this. Which, by the way, doesn’t have the freaky red lips and monkey butt.


This brings us to the meat of this entry. Son #1 now has his very own sock monkey. It didn’t stop him from liberating Son #2’s sock monkey from the boy’s crib. Now the two monkeys live together in a state of monkey bliss. While sock monkeys are a startling as a clowns or zombies, they become more intolerable and strangely freakish when you read my next statement. Several nights ago, Son #1 began to ad lib a song about his ‘love’ for sock monkeys. It was eerily similar in beat and tune to that of Brass Monkey by the Beastie Boys. First, Son #1 has never listened to the Beasties with me. I can only blame his mother for this. Second, it’s not about the Beasties and the lack of listener discretion, it’s about his lyrics and sincerity. While the exact lyrics professed will not be written here, it’s safe to safe to say they were ‘American Pie-ish’ in nature. My wife and I were rolling with laughter after the song performance. Suffice to say, Son #1 has love for the sock monkey.

Boy. Sock. Love. Three topics which would never be discussed in the same context or in mixed company, or in public for that matter.

What makes this story even more interesting is the draw this toy had when near other five year olds prior to bringing it home. Apparently, the new craze in public affection is ‘moose kisses’. As defined by another five year old, a moose kiss is a strong, and slobbery lap of the tongue across a body part, or in this case, a sock monkey’s mouth. I had the privilege of having my hand moose kissed. But even more disturbing were the little kids moose kissing the sock monkey. Is your child lonely? Get them a sock monkey. It looks like the blankets of Son #1 have been trumped for a sock with arms, tail, and red lips. At least the sock monkey feels wanted in our home.

There’s nothing better than being a hero to a child. Unless of course that child is your own son and he would rather yell, scream, and kick your walls when placed on a time out for running over his younger brother with a toy shopping cart. Son #1 has the flare for the dramatic, and that’s an understatement. But this entry is less about the chaos that he creates or the walls he destroy and more about the compassion of the boy and my unyielding pride in his heart to be himself. We’re just hours away from his fifth birthday.

There has been some proof delivered on the karmic front by way of New Year’s Resolution. If you recall, I began this year with the intention on executing on the plan of patience and tolerance. This was more directed toward the outside world which routinely disappoints me in its inability to operate horseless carriages. However, my patience with Son #1 could be in question at times. Diligently, I planned on turning over this new foliage from the patient tree.

This has worked out well both of us. The last three months have been epic in the time we’ve shared together. The best part has actually come after bed time when my wife would fill me in on his discussions with her earlier in the day. He’d ask his mom, “I wonder how my Dad is doing today. If he is having a good day.” As much as you would expect your child to care about ‘how you are doing,’ it’s not always the reality. Children are pretty self-centered and have a limited attention span similar to that of a goldfish.

In the essence of time and reader attentiveness, I shouldn’t go into everything but I can’t help but write down some of the great things that have happened:

An Audio/Video Lesson
Unsolicited, Son #1 inquired of his mother about the sound emitted from the speakers of our great room A/V system. While my wife is gifted in many accolades and accomplishments in her life, electrical circuitry is not one of them. “Go ask your father,” she says. So he asks me how this stuff works. I have a question of my own, “Do you want the easy description or the scientific explanation?” He wanted the ‘scienticif’ explanation. The long and short of this story is that I crafted a drawing of the A/V system detailed down to the polarity of the wiring. That answered his question and he actually understood. Here is a one of the sheets of the drawing:


Planes, Trains, and buildable Aerospace Inventions
Because I don’t think we have enough clutter in the house, I decided to excavate 20 or so Lego sets from my parents’ attic and bring them home. Our formal dining room became a construction zone with parts strewn like a tornado tipped the Lego factory over. We built a motorized space train, about a dozen spaceships, construction vehicles with lights, and an airport and with accoutrements. Then we decided to freestyle and build our own elaborate spaceship and space station. This took about three weeks to complete. Lego’s were, and still appear to be, a major element of my life. Building with him and watching his excitement brought me back 25 years.

Is it the Z-button that I push?
Much like Lego’s, video games are an element of my generation. Son #1 and I have played Wii Sports Bowling and Golf. He will spank you at both. Don’t believe? Come on over and play him. The next step was the introduction to the Lego franchise of games. We have both Star Wars and Indiana Jones. The latter of the two is much more able to accommodate two players of varying degrees of skill. The one thing I didn’t realize is how well his little mind could master the puzzles of the game. Varying degrees of skill are no longer a problem. He and I are dominating the adventures together. As he accomplishes feats and levels, he becomes more and more excited.


Culinary Arts at NASA
Out of the mouths of babes; Son #1 periodically rambles and occasionally will spill some interesting comments. One evening, he and I were preparing dinner when an advertisement about technology or something was uselessly running on the television. In a trance, he tells me that he has ‘never been to outer space.’ Yes. This comes as a surprise. He was sincere and worried that in his five whole years on this green planet, that he’d missed a unique opportunity to offer his ‘scienticif’ skills to NASA. So I explain that by studying hard he can become and astronaut and achieve an outer space voyage. Worried, he explains to me that he wants to be a chef and since he believes one is mutually exclusive of the other, he can’t have both. Chefs don’t go to outer space.

And while sounding cliché, Son #1 can become whoever his vision for himself defines. I had the privilege of figuring out that very vision of me. That’s not to say my parents didn’t intervene when I was spending too much of my allowance on candy or writing dirty words in Madlibs, because they did. I was fortunate enough to have parents who believed in my ability to make my own educated decisions. They were (and still are) comfortable with their parental skill sets and how they deployed their will on my growth. ‘Give them enough, and let them figure out the rest.’ While I was jealous of my friends who were forced to take piano lessons and committed to one sport or club, I was never coerced into joining or competing when I didn’t want to. In retrospect, the decisions and interests were pushed down to me, for me to choose, for me to fit to my liking and my comfort level. My jealousy has long since faded. I realized that those small exercises in decisions led to larger and more balanced thinking and greater balanced existence. Those same friends as children who were forced to play soccer every year and practice their flutes are the same adults who are inflexible in their ways dividing their family and fostering resent.

Many nights I’ve slid into his room and stood in amazement of the fortune I’ve had in having him as a son. You could say that the communication between the two of isn’t the most efficient. If both of us are sleep or food deprived, I would strongly warn you to keep your distance from any confrontations between the two of us. What makes our relationship complicated at times is the common fact that he and I are emotionally equivalent. An educated individual would think that he and I would recognize this detriment/commonality and step out of a potentially combustible situation.

It never works out that way. I suppose that’s why I have so many worries. He’s so much like me I worry that he’s destined to travel the same emotional path. I’ve always wanted to do better for him, do more, and give him more opportunities I’ve never had. Better yet, opportunities I’ve had, but where I made mistakes. With all of the pain and heartbreak in the world, I struggle with my inability to shield him from the inevitable bumps in the road. That’s part of the parental job description; learning to let go. I can only pray that I equip him with the courage to follow his heart regardless of risk and heartache. As I sit here and wrap up this entry, I’m a little misty-eyed about the little man growing up more and more each day. I’m watching as a finite number of days with him pass. Despite my awareness of the trouble he will encounter on his journey through life and my inability to protect him from all of the heartache, I know the apple didn’t fall far from the proverbial tree. His heart and passion are real. They are mine and he is me, but better.


Son #1 has the blessing (read: curse) of responding to the outside world in an identical fashion as his father. So here’s to the next ‘scienticif’ explanation of where gas goes when you pour it in to the gas tank of the car, and more importantly, Son #1’s fifth birthday.

In honor of the first birthday of Son #2, I’ve decided to discuss the childhood development of this aforementioned child (or maybe it’s the lack of development). Don’t get me wrong here; he’s a fantastic, but defiant kid. He seems to have his own schedule on when and how things are accomplished. I can only wait to see what he’s like in high school and college with this “I’ll do it when I’m ready” view on life.


While I’m not a believer in the second child phenomenon, I think that some of Son #2’s development has been a result of my wife and me not artificially coercing him. Son #1 was in daycare at the current age of Son #2. Because all of the kids were mobile, he wasted no time in figuring out that there was Darwinist stimuli in the classroom. A lack of mobility meant he was late to the snack table and snacks were a huge motivator. Likewise, food is a huge motivator for Son #2. However, the difference is that Son #2 is at home and not in daycare. There’s no “Ya, I took your snack. So what are you going to do about it?” I like to pretend that Son #1 had to fight to survive. It’s much easier for Son #2.

Son #2 has an interesting position on mobility. “Why move when you will move me?” He’ll crawl when it’s a matter of urgency. Crawling in a classical sense doesn’t apply. It’s really more of a ‘dragging’ activity with the occasional erratic kick of a leg to propel him further. In all of this, I don’t know why this really comes as a surprise to me and my wife. The damn kid has pretty much set his own pace since he was born. As a matter of fact, he was born on his own schedule and not his due date. This should’ve been a shot across the proverbial bow that Son #2 was doing things his way.

Another example of Son #2’s self-fashioned schedule of development is the manner in which he eats. Now I hesitate to say that my wife and I may be culpable for the preference of method which he consumes sustenance. It seemed like in the early months we could’ve been more deliberate about making Son #2 take a bottle. In his relatively short existence, he has successfully ingested two complete bottles of milk. Two. He decided early on, with our lack of bottle delivery emphasis, that he’d only feed in two ways; by his mother or by his hand. The first is obvious and has taken months to untie this insatiable need to connect with his mother. The second, which is more interesting, is his need to use his prehensile extremities in an unorthodox method of feeding.

Son #2 did not only skip (read: refuse) the bottle phase, but he also skipped (read: refused) the baby food phase. Admittedly, we tried harder with baby food than the bottle. But ultimately, He vetoed our actions with defiance. Not only did he not like eating baby food, he disapproved of eating from the spoon. This resulted in a scream, a spasmodic head movement, and the infantile plastic ware toss. So Mommy and Daddy had to learn; let Son #2 eat with his hands. The interesting thing was that it was not only about the method of nourishment delivery but also the nourishment itself. He didn’t want baby food, he wanted our food. For the last six months, we make meals in accordance with what Son #2 can eat with his hands. He enjoys bananas, meat, pizza, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, pasta of any variety, bananas, waffles, tortillas, toast, eggs, fruit, crackers, avocado, and bananas. Did I mention he likes bananas?

Never show a banana to Son #2 unless you’re ready to let him devour it. Otherwise, his air raid siren like howl will sound in displeasure. If there’s a banana in the room, house, neighborhood, or city, he’ll find it. There are infrared and heat seeking weapons manufactured by my employer, but I’m certain that if we could channel his banana-sensing abilities in a smart technology format, we could license it the U.S. Government, develop a new homing technology, and find the latest terror cell, or at least find a banana crop in South America. We have learned that if you give him the whole thing, he will put the entire banana in his mouth. He’s like a human banana blender. But to successfully forego choking on the mushiness, we give him half at a time.


Today is Son #2’s first birthday. Unfortunately, no celebrating for me as I get to enjoy the consumption of the finest beverage in the form of chilled PEG-3350. That’s pretty much antifreeze. Son #2 was a miracle child that we were never expected to have. Psychologically, we began to accept that there wouldn’t be a second child. It took me well over a year to get it through my thick skull. At the point of acceptance, my wife had an appointment to begin medical improvements on her health only to find out she was pregnant. I can vividly remember the tears of that day. Son #1 and I sat in the waiting room of the women’s clinic playing cars, when my wife emerged crying. Son #1 asked at the top of his lungs the reasons for her tears. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out but we had to remove ourselves from the public eye so the information could be fully disclosed. Although unexpected and unfounded, Son #2 was miraculously growing in my wife.

Unexpected and difficult, that’s Son #2’s modus operandi. Adjusting to the surprise news, having another little boy, dealing with the demanding new mouth to feed, and handling all of the changes has led us through a new chapter of lessons. This year has been a journey. Happy birthday!

Thirty. The age my little brother would have been today. Unfortunately, we don’t get to celebrate this major milestone with him in the flesh. It’s been just over five years since he passed away at 24, just months before his 25th birthday.


Of all the things I could think about is how he never got the age discount on his car insurance. Why? The dude was a car guy. I think about all of the cars which he would given his manhood for (sorry, had to go there). Specifically, the Shelby GT500. I would bet Son #1’s Lightning McQueen toys on the fact that this car would be in his garage and that insurance age benefit would have come in nice and handy considering the rates on this vehicle and a single man would have been ridiculous. Your deceased brother’s car insurance is a strange thing to consume your self with. I would imagine some psycho babble quack physician would tell me it’s my way of coping. Whatever. I cope with the absence of by brother by crying and missing him every fucking day.

Over the last few weeks, I have wrapped myself up in my own self-created internal battles to not think about today. I guess by staying a little pre-occupied with the more fickle concepts of the world, I can some how artificially avoid the 30th birthday of my brother. The loss has been the single greatest (or worst depending on perspective) event that has chiseled who I have become. No offense to my lovely wife and my sons who are the mortal enemies of sleep. But I think there are souls in your life that give you confidence that there is a balance. You start to extrapolate that confidence over the future and begin to believe that it will always be there for you to lean against. I am guilty as charged.

Being so close to my brother, I relied on the fact that he would always be there to help me sweep up the shards of life when shattered by elements out of our control. It’s simple: I BELIEVED he would be here for my boys’ birthdays, retirement parties, new car purchases, job losses, and escorting me ungracefully into our uncomfortable adulthood. Rather than bitch, I want to focus on this day.

We had dinner with my parents last night in early honor of today. Secretly, I wanted to throw a party for his 30th birthday. But the more I thought about it, the more I considered that people may think it a little demented. I’m trying to do something worthy enough to make me feel better about how much it hurts to not have that one person that just got ‘it’ about you around. Back to dinner. We talked about where he would be today. The conversation was fairly short but go figure. No one wants to consider the ‘what-ifs’ and just going there is a recipe for five gallon bucket loads of tears that I really don’t want to try to explain to the waiter as he serves me another beer. No sir, the salsa is not too spicy.

What would he look like? Where would he be living? Would he own a house? Would he be in a committed relationship? Would he have any children? Would he be happy? Would he be in shock by Son #1’s dancing abilities (or lack thereof)? Would he be surprised that Son #2 would rather eat refried beans than take a bottle?

30 is a big birthday. I remember when I turned thirty. He was there. Before he passed away, I was accused of doing too much for him, spoiling him, and trying to protect him from the disappointments of an imperfect world. Again, guilty as charged. That was the one thing I could do while he was here. Ultimately, there’s a feeling of failure that there was one thing I couldn't protect him from. The whole experience definitely put me in check. But I always wanted to make things better for him no matter how much it cost me or the impossible battle it could potentially be. That is what big brothers do: We do whatever it takes for our little brothers to be happy. Whatever it takes.

A message to my brother:

Today, I wanted to write you a letter and take it to your grave. But as is consistent with my behavior, I manufacture things to do to keep me busy from that which hurts. I should’ve put some music on a CD and delivered it to you. I have always believed that you had CD player in Heaven. Because I don’t know, I secretly felt that when I had my head phones on and had the music as loud as I could get it so I couldn’t hear the outside world, you were right there in my heart hearing every lyric, every chord, every beat, and feeling the exactness of expansiveness of the sound. We were sharing it just like when we sat in your room and listened to music together.

My days of going to the cemetery have dramatically slowed over the years. Now it seems like I only go twice a year and I struggle with the guilt of not showing respect to you. I am repeatedly told that you would understand given my obligations with the boys. You were always very understanding of my imperfections. I wish more people in the world would have had the opportunity to experience your compassion. I made many mistakes against you and at times was very insensitive to your feelings. But as predictable as rain in Seattle, you never judged me and always let me walk my path, stumble, and apologize.

Tough day today. It feels like a lifetime has passed for me since we hung out. The landscape of life is very different without you physically being around. I was reminded of this last night at the restaurant. Son #1 grabbed our mother’s eye glasses and plopped them on to his little nose. There was just this uncanny resemblance of you sitting at that booth eating taquitos. For that very brief moment in time, it was like you were sitting across the table from me again and laughing about dad doing that fork and spoon trick into a glass.

Today is your 30th birthday. I hope you have cake and a great day. But time references and Heaven really don’t make much sense now do they. Let me know if ‘they’ didn’t plan you a party. I miss you.