My Family, My Enemy

The people I live with are conspiring against my well-being, against my peace, my happiness, and even my general health. It is the only explanation I can manage.

Let me back up a bit. And I will begin with the victories, lest you think it is all despair.

The twelve-year-old loves his school. Or rather, he likes it moderately, which is the same thing as love on his part.

The first week he came home from school and was excited to tell us all about it. This has never happened before. He was working on a project, something involving the extinction of the dinosaurs. He would come home every day and work on his project without being told to. Voluntarily. I could only surmise that the school was some sort of cult and that our child has fallen under their spell, but I honestly do not give a fuck. If they have some strange magic that makes him voluntarily do homework, I don't care if they're the Reverend Sun Yung Moon and L. Ron Hubbard mixed into one.

On the following Sunday, he announces that he has finished his project. Early.

I think I just held a blanket and wept soft tears of relief and joy for a couple of hours.

This joy was short-lived, however, when I discovered I had fucked up.

It began with an off-handed comment from the 12-year-old about being late for school. "You aren't late for school. We're like twenty minutes early every day." He really has no concept of time.

I mention this to the Goddess. "What time are you getting there?"

"About 8:10," I say proudly.

"Yeah, his classes start at 8:00."

Fuck. Me.

I don't know how I have missed this. I am an ass.

Also, that means I've got to get everyone ready a half-hour earlier. That's okay. I've got this.

On Wednesday, there is a parent meeting at the school. I really want to go, meet his teachers, and especially learn about his upcoming three-day field trip. They're going to a nature conservancy, talking about the natural world, hiking, all that jazz. Unfortunately, both of us can't go and besides that, his bio-dad decides he wants to be there. (We don't really co-attend events.)

On Friday comes a bombshell. We get a message from his teachers: the twelve-year-old has been skipping homework.

What? How can this be? What about the project? I thought we had this figured out.

We didn't know he had homework. He claims he didn't know it was homework, which is bullshit.

He sits at the dining room table on Friday night, finishing his work.

Friday night also featured a meltdown by the Goddess. She's deep into her teaching gig now and I am certain she's doing well. She talks about a few classes she struggles with. She sees 300 students a week for forty minutes each. It is very difficult to establish a classroom environment in that time and many of her students come from very troubled homes.

She got an email from her supervisor telling her she was doing a good job, but also including some constructive criticism.

I love my wife, but taking things in stride is not really her strong suit.

"I'm awful. I suck. I'm going to quit." She screams. She cries. She crawls into bed.

"I'm sure you're not awful. And you can't quit. I don't make enough money for you to quit, even if you completely suck." As I have previously mentioned, I am not noted for my sensitivity.

This breaks into a very predictable fight which ruins an otherwise lovely Friday night at home.

The first of this week started well. The twelve-year-old is off to his field trip and we are getting into a bit of a routine with the others. I'm still struggling to get them all out the door on time, but with one less child, it seems more manageable.

Wednesday is my day off and I'm pretty excited. I haven't had a break in a few weeks. I've had gigs on weekends and worked more hours this pay period than I ever have. I haven't seen much of the kids, but I'm pretty proud of the paycheck I brought home.

On Tuesday, the Ape is sick. The Goddess takes him to the doctor. She messages me at work. Hand-foot-and-mouth disease. Didn't he have that two weeks ago? Apparently not. That was some other kind of rash.

Fuck.

I get home late on Tuesday. Everyone is already in bed. The house is completely destroyed. There are wet diapers in the floor. The place is littered with Thomas the Tank Engine and Sponge Bob toys. A towel covers a wet spot on the rug where someone either peed or spilled juice. Crackers and bits of food cover everything.

So on my day off, I stay home with the Ape and the Goddess. We get up and clean the house for about four hours, alternately trying to entertain a grumpy baby.

I go out and get some cash from the ATM. There must be something wrong. There isn't much left in our account. That fat check that was deposited on Monday has nearly disappeared. There isn't enough to cover the mortgage, which is due on Friday.

Fuuuuuuck.

I make dinner. Tacos.

"What's in these?" the seven-year-old asks.

"The normal. Beef, beans."

"Yuck. I hate beans."

"You eat beans in tacos every week."

"No I don't."

"Yes, you do."

She does that thing where she puts the taco on the tip of her tongue, pretending to taste it. "Icccckkk! It tastes HORRIBLE! You are trying to starve me to death." I grab a piece of bologna and white bread and slam it on the table in front of her.

The twelve-year-old arrives home from his field trip.

"How was it?" I ask excitedly, hoping to be regaled with how much fun he had and how much he learned.

"It was awful," he says. "It was pretty much the worst field trip ever. We had to answer questions before they'd give us a s'more!" he adds indignantly. Then he tells his mom he needs to get the new bey-blades that come out next Friday. I tell him he should put them on his Christmas list. He says he must get them that day so he can do an unboxing video on his YouTube channel. He starts crying.

I hate these people.

The next morning is miserable. I've slept uncomfortably, mostly due to the fact that we are co-sleeping with the Monkey (seemed like a good idea at the time), who gradually forces me to the edge of the bed all night. My body is sore and I've gotten little sleep. The Monkey and Ape both scream bloody murder when we give them chocolate milk to drink, like we poured gasoline in their sippy cups. The twelve-year-old is running 20 minutes late, which means the rest of us are running late, too.

The Monkey refuses to go into his daycare. First, he stalls in the parking lot, kicking and screaming. I'm dragging him in, so I expect a visit from CPS any time. The he lays in the floor and I have to carry him in a ball to his room. He looks at me with complete contempt.

I drop the twelve-year-old at school -- 20 minutes late -- and the teacher who greets our car looks at me with pity, the sort of expression you reserve for parents who don't bathe their children.

Miserably long day at work. I practically drop into bed when I get home at 10:00.

I got up earlier this morning. I thought I'd head off any potential problems.

The Goddess gets the twelve-year-old up earlier, so he won't be late for school.

I go to walk the seven-year-old to the bus. She is doing homework.

"Let's go," I say. "You're going to be late."

"Ughhhh! I have to do my homework!"

"You should have done it last night."

I walk her to her stop. She's weeping. Great.

I go to dress Monkey and Ape. Both of them emit tortuous screams when I try to dress them. If our neighbors can hear it, I'm sure they assume I beat my children. It is literally the most difficult task in my current routine. It takes all of 20 minutes to put a shirt, pants, and shoes on each of them. They both cry literally all morning, crying for their mommy.

I shout at the twelve-year-old. "We're leaving!"

"I'm still getting ready!"

We wait.

Finally all the boys are in the car. We're running about 8 minutes behind.

"I didn't get to eat breakfast," the twelve-year-old says.

"Not my fault," I say. "Why didn't you eat?"

"Because you were rushing me!" he screams.

"We're running late," I say. "You can't just be late for school every day."

"It's not my fault."

"Then we'll get you up earlier."

"No!"

"Then you can take you shower at night."

"No!!"

He sulks the rest of the drive to school. We get there a few minutes after his classes have started.

I'm really tired. I'm working 12-14 hour days on a regular basis. My body is aching and I have weird physical things happening all the time: sore muscles, scratchy throat, headaches.

I'm broke. Despite one of the biggest paychecks I've ever gotten in my career, we don't have enough money to pay the mortgage on time. (Please don't send money. The Goddess gets paid next week. We'll just be making a late payment.)

My wife is miserable. I suspect she resents my inability to make more money and, conversely, the fact that I'm never home to help with the kids.

My kids resent me. The twelve-year-old resents that I can't buy him everything he wants. The seven-year-old thinks I'm cruel for making her shitty food and forcing her to get to the bus on time. And the Monkey and Ape hate me for putting clothes on them.

I feel defeated.

I feel like I never see my family, and when I do, it's these sorts of tense interactions.

And, paradoxically, I want a break from them.

I love my family. I really, really do.

But it's just so fucking hard sometimes. I feel like a stranger around them these days.

You're not supposed to admit these things. You aren't supposed to admit parental failure unless it's just something cute. You aren't supposed to say that even though you really, really love them you feel like you are going to completely lose your shit on them at any moment and scream, "Why are you trying to ruin my fucking life?!"

But today is Friday. It's not the end of the work week for me, but at least it's the end of the school week. It's Labor Day weekend and they're visiting bio-dad and Granny S this for a couple of nights.

Maybe we can all recharge our batteries. Maybe next week will be better.

Wherein I Describe the Mutual Meltdown of Children and Parents; Also, the First Day of School

After a promise that I would return to regular blogging, I abandoned my post for over a month. But I have sound reasons, my faithful readers (both of you). I was really, really busy. But yeah, I'll do better.

Today was a milestone of sorts for Team Crackerbox.

Last month, the Goddess returned to the World of Work, or rather, the World of Those Who Are Gainfully Employed, as I am beginning to believe that staying home with the Monkey and Ape constitutes something more than a full-time job. Nevertheless, we celebrate her triumphal return to the land of paid labor.

And now, all of our financial woes are over.

You believe that, right?

Well, as I mentioned, we made the decision to send the twelve-year-old to Montessori School this year. It is expensive. I mean, it's not Philips Exeter Academy, but it's expensive for us. That means saving up gig money and overtime. It means we didn't take a vacation this summer, too. I'm not complaining. I'm glad we can do it. I kind of think it's do or die time with this kid and school.

He got to go for a day last year and really loved it. It's so much different than his regular school and such a good fit for him. I'm not naive. I know it won't guarantee success. But I have so much hope for him now.

Of course, life does not stop while we figure all of this out.

The seven-year-old started 2nd grade last week, a full week before her brother had to go back.

The Monkey is being potty trained. Results have varied widely. One day, he is taking himself to the bathroom, taking a leak while holding his manhood in one hand and tipping a sippy cup of chocolate milk with the other: a pro. (This has the same effect as a guy in the men's room at the bar who guzzles beer while taking a piss.) Other days, he will happily urinate in his Spider Man underpants while standing feet from the bathroom door. But we are getting there.

Two weeks ago I managed to come down with hand-foot-and-mouth disease. I assumed I picked it up from one of the kids, although none of them had gotten the symptoms. Last week, the Ape woke up with the spots on his legs and face. The daycare worker said every child in his class had gotten it. (His cleared up in a day, while my skin is still peeling from the rash.)

I'm also getting acclimated to full-time dad duties. Luckily, I've been able to ease into it.

When the Goddess went back to work, it fell to me to get the youngest two to daycare.

Beginning last week, I also started taking the seven-year-old to the bus stop and waiting with her.

Then today, the twelve-year-old began school as well. Since it's not a public school, that means I drive him every morning.

Last week, the Goddess took him to an orientation meeting at the school. They don't have traditional grade groups, so they placed him in the "upper elementary" group, based largely on what the Goddess had told them about his academic needs. I texted her, asking her to let me know how it went.

The twelve-year-old was crying.

Dammit.

I know change is frightening, especially when you're an adolescent. But he had already visited the school. He should have known what to expect. What was going on?

He didn't want to open up to his mom, but she kept trying to pry it out of him. Finally he cracked.

He was crying because his teacher referred to his class as 6th grade. And she intimated that they might need to do some homework on weekends.

So I need to come clean here and admit that I am not the most empathetic person you will meet. The Goddess is typically all caring and loving and sensitive about the kids' feelings and I'm the guy who can honestly not give a shit if one of them is having a meltdown. I mean, other than the fact that I want some peace and quiet.

Look, the 6th grade thing, I get. It made him feel like he was being treated like a little kid. But honestly, that's not it. There are other kids his age in the group and it isn't "6th grade" -- that was just the teacher misspeaking.

But the homework thing? Pfffffttttttt.

He kinda stewed all weekend. My dad would have said he had the "studs." He was moody and grumpy and difficult with everyone.

Saturday, both of the older two kids were sullen because the Goddess insisted they go shopping with her. For, you know, stuff for the two of them. They thought it better that she do the shopping while they spent their day unencumbered with the world's cares.

Sunday morning, I was trying to sleep in. I had a gig the night before, and it was my one day off this week. I hear the twelve-year-old and the seven-year-old going at each other downstairs. Typical stuff, mostly revolving around who gave a mean look to whom first. It had devolved into a shouting match and I heard the Goddess ascending the stairs. She opened the bedroom door, where I was still trying to sleep.

"You may want to cover your ears. There's probably going to be a meltdown."

About thirty seconds later, there is a sound from downstairs akin to to what I imagine is meant when the Bible describes "wailing and gnashing of teeth": the Goddess has taken away screen time for the remainder of the day.

It was a grim day at Crackerbox Palace. A gloom descended on the people. They were left joyless and tearful, with nothing to lighten their heavy loads.

"There's nothing for me to do now!" cried the seven-year-old.

"Should we throw away all your toys then? Because if you aren't playing with them, they're taking up a lot of space." Like I said, Mr. Empathy.

At some point, the twelve-year-old goes comes upstairs, goes into his room, slams the door, begins screaming, and then slams the door again, apparently unsatisfied with the effect the first time.

I'm at my most parental at this point.

I get out of the bed and march into his room.

"What is your goddamn problem?! If I hear that door slam one more time, you won't see a fucking iPad until Christmas!"

Later that morning, we decide that it is time for a come-to-Jesus meeting with the older two kids. We sit them at the dinner table and explain -- for what seems to be the 100th time -- that they must learn to get along with each other.

At this point, the twelve-year-old launches into an ill-advised defense of his mistreatment of his sister. His primary theses are, "You didn't tell me I couldn't be mean to her," and, "My actions are the fault of everyone else, including my baby brother."

What followed this was another profanity-laced explanation on my part that we shouldn't have to tell him every single thing he isn't allowed to do; that he is twelve, not four, and needs to begin acting like it; and that we really love him, but this shit has got to stop.

Then he has another meltdown about school.

It isn't fair, he tells us, that he will have homework on weekends. Weekends are his free time and he deserves to have time off.

If a twelve-year-old was looking for a way to make me lose my shit, telling me that he deserves free time is probably the way to do it.

"Why do you deserve time off?"

"Because I work hard."

"No. No you don't. That is a damn lie. You do not work hard."

"I work hard at school."

"I love you, but that isn't true. You do not work hard at school. You miss turning in assignments, you turn in work late, and your grades are mediocre."

I want to point out that I haven't had a vacation, that I worked six days this week, and that my one day off is being interrupted by a bratty tween who can't just shut up and get along with his sister for one morning.

I do tell him that any work he does at school isn't for someone else: it's for him. That we want him to have the skills necessary to be a very independent and happy adult.

All of this is true. I worry that he'll be one of those beta-males who plays video games all day and picks girlfriends based on who will do his laundry and make food for him. I worry that he will be 30 and wondering why he doesn't seem to have a purpose in life. And I worry about him being selfish and not caring about others.

Much melodrama follows. He asks why we don't just throw him into the street. He says he guesses we would like to see him murdered. There is screaming. There is crying.

At some point, he decides to completely stop talking to us, which is a minor blessing, because at least I can finish this Netflix documentary I have been trying to watch all day.

By evening he has calmed down. He kept asking if he could have his computer and iPad back, but otherwise, he was fairly calm.

6:00 A.M. came early. Today was the first day I was responsible for getting all four kids out the door. I felt like a real grown-up.

The seven-year-old is wearing cat ears and carrying about 20 lbs of gear in her backpack, despite having no homework. I get her on the bus, dress Monkey and Ape, and then all four men head out for the day. The soundtrack is Joan Jett's "I Love Rock and Roll." (The Monkey now insists on hearing this every morning commute. "Play the rock and roll, Dad!")

I drop the younger two at daycare and then it's just me and the twelve-year-old.

"Are you excited?"

"Yeah."

"Are you nervous."

"Not really."

"Are you tired?"

"Yeah. I had trouble sleeping."

I could never sleep the night before school started.

I'm trying to figure the best route to the school (which I've never been to), and I have a bit of trouble finding it. (I have a notoriously bad sense of direction.) They've given really confusing directions for parent drop-off (Where is the car sign they said they gave us? Did we get one?), including an admonition to not text and drive (thanks, Mom).

I find the place and see three teachers standing out front, directing us. I pull up and one of them comes out to greet us.

"Good morning, Jackson. We're so happy to see you." She smiles, a genuine "good teacher" smile.

I get out of the car and introduce myself. She shakes my hand.

"Let me get a picture. You mom will kill me if I don't."

He strikes the pose and smiles dutifully, lunch bag in hand, back-pack strapped to his body, resembling the thousands of other children who've posed for Facebook posts already this school year.

The place makes me smile. It feels like a good place. I just know he is going to be happy and successful here. I can feel my eyes starting to water.

I want to hug him and tell him I love him, but we aren't quite there yet, at least not in public. Instead I tell him I hope he has a great day and give him a really awkward "coach pat" on the shoulder.

I want to keep this feeling, too, this assurance that yes, for once, I know we are doing the right thing for this child.

I think it's going to be a great year.

The Fighter

I used to be religious. I'm not anymore, but it's something that's hard to shake. Religious imagery, paradigms, language, and stories creep into my thinking. Especially stories.

This week I am thinking about one of those. It's the parable of the Good Shepherd. The Good Shepherd was out one day, taking his sheep to pasture. After returning them to the fold, he realized than one of the 100 sheep was missing. So he left the others and went to find the missing sheep, the Bible says, because he loved that sheep so much.

The Bible leaves out the part where the shepherd later makes a pie with the sheep's kidneys, but you get the point.

The last three days have been tough.

Wednesday evening was frenzied. I got home from work at about 5:30. I was looking forward to the evening. I had decided I would take Friday off from work and enjoy a long weekend. I was in a good mood. I wanted to get the kids in bed and play some music.

I helped finish the dinner the Goddess had started while she took the seven-year-old to gymnastics.  The eleven-year-old was outside playing with kids in the neighborhood. The Monkey had a complete meltdown the minute the Goddess left, crying, "Mommy! Mommy!" This, of course, set the Ape into a crying fit and the two of them were inconsolable for about 30 minutes. I was wrapping up dinner when there was a knocking at the door.

I opened it and it was my neighbor Crystal. This immediately set the Monkey crying again, as he thought it was his mother.

"You better get out here," Crystal said.

She explained that the eleven-year-old had been in a near-altercation with a group of older kids. Six of them. According to Crystal, there was an initial round, but as the older boys walked away, the eleven-year-old called after them, calling one of them a name and causing another loud argument.

I called for him and he came into the house. He was crying.

"What's wrong?"

"They were picking on me!" he screamed.

"What happened?"

"I was just standing there with my friend and they started making fun of the way I was standing. One of them called me the 'n' word."

Let me interject here that my child is very white. I'm confused about this part of the story. Maybe he's lying. Maybe the other kids, who were black, were using it in a way he didn't understand. But I believe him when he says they made fun of him. I'm guessing it was his blue hair though, not the way he was standing.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"I called him a little bitch," he answered. Truthfully this time, I am sure.

"What can I do to help?"

"Go out there and shove them! Punch them in the face!" He was crying harder now, with that combination of unbridled rage and emotional pain that only adolescent boys know.

"I'm not going to punch any teenagers," I said. "I'll go talk to them. Go wait in your room."

I go out to the street. There is no sign of them. I ask a couple of adults standing around or sitting on their porches. One of them saw it. He chalked it up to boys being boys, but did note that there were six kids standing around the eleven-year-old, and that they were older.

I go to his room. I talk to him. I tell him I love him very, very much. I talk to him about controlling his actions and especially the things he says. I explain to him that personal insults don't actually hurt you, but besides that, there were six of them and one of him.

"But you wanted to fight a guy who said something to Mom," he said.

"That's true." Fucking kids. Always paying attention and making connections when you wish they wouldn't. "But I don't fight people who insult me. I don't give a shit what people who are less than me think of me, and I don't want to make our lives tougher. You can go to jail for that, then how could I take care of you guys?"

"I don't know."

"Why did you say something back to the kid?"

"Because he humiliated me!" he screamed, as if answering the most stupidly obvious question that had ever been asked.

"There were six of them and one of you. You would have gotten your ass kicked. Which is worse, getting your ass kicked or being humiliated?"

"Being humiliated," he answered, not missing a beat.

That's exactly what it is like to be an eleven-year-old boy. There is nothing, literally, that you fear more than losing face. You are so driven by your hormones and everything is so confusing. I have not forgotten what that feels like.

I talked to him some more about learning to let things go. The rest of us ate dinner while he sat in his room. He wasn't hungry. I cleaned the kitchen while the Goddess got the younger ones to bed. I stayed up late and played some music.

Thursday I was running on no sleep, but the day started well. I was on the road for work, making sales calls. Then I got a call from the Goddess. Her car wasn't starting. Seemed the battery was dead. I was an hour away.

I drove to where she was and tried to jump the car. Nothing. She called AAA and they said they would be there in about 90 minutes. I was going to have to go off the clock for all of this, though my boss didn't complain that I was using the company vehicle. I called into work.

"Just take me off the clock. I was going to take tomorrow off anyway. I'll take this afternoon as well."

The Goddess and I went to a restaurant there to wait on AAA. We talked. Mostly about the eleven-year-old. She was excited. That morning she had an appointment with a local private school. Montessori. It's just what he needs, she said. They will give him more attention, they can personalize things with him, he will have more hands-on experience. This will be a game-changer for him. And she thought we could do it, since she would be working full-time then.

The wrecker showed up. It was the battery. It was just too dead to take a charge from a jumper cable. He charged it for us. The Goddess went to get a battery. I went home.

The eleven-year-old was already home from school. I talked to him while we sat on the couch, but he was mostly engrossed in YouTube videos.

The Goddess came home, with the rest of the kids, and I asked if she minded if I took a nap. I was exhausted.

When I awoke, the Goddess had come into the bedroom. She wanted to talk about a budget. She didn't think we could afford the Montessori school. The conversation moved into the kitchen. I washed dishes while we talked about all the money we spent. It turned into an argument.

I am a very direct communicator. The Goddess is not. She thinks I lack empathy when we talk. I think she lacks clarity.

Fuck. Why are we doing this? Why do people who love each other get in these battles when they are trying to work on the same problems?

We go through a half dozen scenarios, ways we can save money, ways we can make money, alternatives to the private school, etc. We talk for about two hours.

The eleven-year-old comes to the kitchen. He's hungry. He eats a bowl of cereal and we talk to him. I talk to him about the way he speaks to his younger sister. I tell him he needs to not antagonize her. He is sullen.

I worry that we are losing him. Like the lost sheep in the story. 

I want so badly for him to turn into a happy young man. I want him to enjoy his life and succeed in the things he does. But he is starting to disconnect.

It's heart-wrenching, too, because I know how we could fix it. We just can't.

If he was the only child, we could give him the attention he needs. We could sit with him every night and read just to him. We could talk about school projects and play together and devote ourselves to him.

But he's not the only child here. And when you add all the financial stress we've been having, it makes it even more difficult.

I feel like a failure.

But we're going to do this better. For starters, we are going to send him to the Montessori school next year. I'm not sure how at this point, but we're going to.

Friday (today), was his last day of school before summer break. We are having a long weekend, then he visits the Montessori school on Tuesday. The Goddess just wanted to let him miss the very last day.

I try to sleep in, which means I'm wide awake at 6:00 A.M. It's my day off. I cuddle in bed with the Monkey. The Goddess gets the older kids off to school. We talk about plans for the day and for the weekend. It's nice to relax.

The Goddess gets a call at about 10:30. It's the school. There's been a fight.

At first, I'm really angry. His last fucking day. Why couldn't he just go one more day without getting into a fight?

My anger is dissipated when I realize that I wasn't watching the babies close enough and the Monkey has managed to open a very large drawer full of office supplies (a drawer he has heretofore ignored), dumped them all out, and covered a lot them in spilt chocolate milk. He and the Ape are sitting in the midst of the destruction, playing with push pins.

Dad of the Year there, folks.

It takes about thirty minutes to clean up.

The Goddess texts me. The counselor had given the account. A boy pushed him into his locker. He pushed the boy back. The boy started choking him. He hit the boy in the head with his iPad. The boy's friend jumped in and they pushed him down the stairs. One of the eleven-year-old's friends stepped in a broke it up. She was taking him to get a milkshake now.

Then I'm angry all over again, but with a different focus. Where were the fucking teachers? This happened at a locker and there were no teachers around? He gets pushed down stairs and no one is there to even witness it?

I hate this school. It's where poor kids go and no one gives a shit how they do or what happens to them.

They get home. He's quiet, drinking his milkshake. After a few minutes, he goes to his room.

It's a hard life for an eleven-year-old boy. Sometimes it's hard because your brain stops working and your body does things you don't understand. Sometimes it's hard because it takes every bit of your power to just not fucking cry after someone humiliates you at school. And sometimes you get pushed down a flight of stairs.

He's okay now. He wasn't seriously injured.

I've never been this happy to see summer arrive.

Wherein I Explain My Recent Absence and Update Readers on Goings-On

I'm a failure as a blogger.

Blogger tells me that my last published post was in early March.

I have let my faithful readership — both of you —  down.

I'd like to say that it is because something terribly exciting has happened. I would really like to say that my band was signed to a record contract worth half a million and we begin touring regionally and thanks, readers, it's been fun these past few months, but I'm off to a life of liquor, groupies, and rock-and-roll.

Nope. I've just been busy. With like, life.

I've started to post something several times. I have two drafts half-begun. I'm hoping this isn't the third. This week was Mothers' Day, and while I did write a rather lengthy post about the Goddess on Facebook, I didn't manage to blog about mothers and how wonderful they are and how much I miss mine and close off the blog with some poignantly-timed reminiscence that would leave you with a catch in your throat and glistening eyes.

Because fuck mothers.

Just kidding.

It has been an eventful period, honestly. I've been gigging a lot recently and have a tour coming up with my band, the Terribly Fat.

Our domestic life has had its ups and downs. One interruption has been the Bernie Sanders' presidential campaign.

I've been doing a (very) little bit of volunteering with the campaign, but one of the things I told the state campaign director was that I could host a staffer in my home. He is a very pleasant young man, straight from college, energetic, and enthusiastic about his candidate. While the Goddess was welcoming, I can tell it has caused her no small amount of distress having a stranger in our home. He usually is out the door before 8:00 or 9:00 in the morning and doesn't return until sometime after midnight. If I catch him, I usually pour bourbon down his throat and force him to talk about democratic socialism until he pleads for sleep.

I did get to drive a big black SUV in the motorcade for the campaign when Bernie came to our state. I would bore you with a long story about it, but I will simply say that I looked and felt like a Secret Service agent. A Secret Service agent with dad bod.

The biggest factor in our home life for the last several months has been our financial situation and the Goddess' job search. She's applied for several dozen jobs, interviewed for about half a dozen, and even been offered a few. The catch 22 of the job hunt has been finding something whose salary covers more than just the daycare we need for her to work. (Case in point: she was offered an office job at a state agency starting at $18,000 before taxes. Daycare costs for us total about $16,000 per year.)

So, it was with great joy and exultation that the news was received last week that the Goddess had been offered a gig teaching music (the field for which she is certified). It has an actual salary with benefits like insurance and sick leave and all those things you hear about on TV. It's quite glamorous.

We've been all a-titter with talk of our plans once she starts the new job: paying our water and gas bill in the same month, state inspection stickers for the cars, and dinner at Shoney's on special occasions!

It is rather remarkable how much psychological pressure has been lifted in the home because of this. We haven't gotten the first paycheck, but it already feels like we have more money, just because we're pretty sure we can keep the utilities from being shut off.

Of course, our residents are blissfully unaware of these pressures and so they are continuing their lives much as before.  Which is to say, they continue acting like total assholes.

Again, just kidding.

Only less so this time.

The Ape is the sweetest one of the bunch. He's fat and happy most of the time, except when teething or being dropped on his head. This guy and accidents . . . man. He was staying with Granny and pitched himself face-first from a high chair. Then on Mother's Day, while everyone was trying to get out the door for a family visit, the Goddess told the older kids to watch their brothers so she could go pee. They didn't, of course (see paragraph above re: assholes) and he managed to climb a step, just to fall again on his head. I'm guessing the Ivy League is out of the picture for him now, but I still think he's good for a two-year community college program or the trades. A few more drops though and the highlight of his day may be talking to the mailman.

The Monkey is in full toddler mode. The Goddess says he's like a bad boyfriend: he makes a complete wreck of your life but still expects heavy affection and wants you to make him snacks. Oh, and he shits his pants, which I'm gonna tell you is getting really old. But he also is our talker and his near-human utterances make me smile all the time. He "reads" Goodnight Moon and since it has become his favorite, insists on going out to the porch every night to say "goodnight" to the moon. (I know: that makes some of your ovaries hurt, doesn't it?) He is also obsessed with Thomas the Tank Engine, which I personally despise. I have taught him, however, to say, "Thomas is bourgeois." He wishes me goodbye every day and tells me to have a good day at work, and when I leave or come home he'll say, "Gimme a kiss."

The seven-year-old is all about singing and gymnastics. Unfortunately, she is less about taking a bath without having a complete emotional breakdown. Also, she will occasionally melt down if her shoes don't "feel the same" or if her friend Alexis doesn't get to spend the whole weekend at our house. (Aside: we regularly have an additional 1-3 children in our home, sometimes overnight. Their main project seems to be destroying anything we love.) But she also loves to be read bedtime stories, which is really cool, and writes eerily prescient song lyrics for a first grader.

The eleven-year-old is all about his YouTube channel and making videos. Some of them are kind of fantastic (in my unbiased opinion), such as his Doctor Who and Spider Man fan films. He really has some groovy editing skills. But then he also does these films of him playing video games which is apparently a whole thing but also what the fuck? I tried explaining that this was really, really boring, but he isn't having it. He's the one I'm most concerned about because he has basically completely disconnected from school. There is almost nothing there that holds any interest for him and if we thought we could, we would pull him out and teach him at home. And he's hitting that middle school phase where he is less talkative, less engaged with us. Yet he is super sweet with his brothers and regularly plays with them and "teaches" them things. For example, he has worked hard to teach the Monkey to say, "What the fuck?!" which seems like a worthy project for any older brother.

All this rambling to say, here's where the fam is today and I hope to be posting more regularly.

If only life will quit interrupting.

The Repo Man

Sometimes, the ironies of life almost make me believe there is a superintending providence. Almost. But if there is, s/he has a sick sense of humor.

In addition to being a musician and a writer, I work in a music store. It's a pretty good straight job, all things considered, and most days I don't mind it too much. It pays some of the bills. And at least I'm looking at instruments all day.

It's a small shop, literally a mom and pop store. We do a lot of business with school bands and orchestras, especially our rent-to-own program for families to purchase an instrument to play in school. Instruments cost a lot. A decent trumpet is about $900 retail. Saxophones are around $2000, depending on the brand.

We run these rental programs in the schools and families fill out an application with us, we run a credit check, and then they make monthly payments. For the most part, this is a win-win. The store has been in business for over 35 years and unlike the big-box music stores, they've never declared bankruptcy.

I spend a couple days a week on the road, visiting schools, checking in on teachers, seeing if they need anything.

One of the things I do in connection with this is repossession of instruments.

If you are already familiar with my most read post, you'll already sense the irony.

Yeah, so when families fall behind on their payments, I'm the guy who comes and takes their kid's clarinet from them.

It sucks. It's the part of my job I hate the most and I've not done it particularly well in the past. My boss will sometimes say something to me about it. "Need to be working on collections! We can't let those get out of hand." Because honestly, I don't collect after two or three months of delinquency. It's usually nine or ten months. Sometimes it's a year or more.

Then last month, I suppose sensing how distasteful this part of the gig was to me and the other salesmen, the boss came downstairs and announced, "I'm giving $30 for every repossession you do!"

It changes things, doesn't it? I mean, it's the difference between your kid playing in the band and my kid taking gymnastics. Or maybe if I repossess enough trombones this month, I won't have my own van repossessed again.

It's like a bum fight on YouTube.

So like the fellow says, "I ain't gay, but $30 is $30."

I've become the most active repo man in the shop. I've been working overtime, too, usually about nine hours a day, six days a week. Today was supposed to be my day off, but I worked just so I could do collections. "Collections." Like we're selecting stamps. It's a nice euphemism.

The work itself is kind of interesting. You spend a lot of time tracking people down. It feels like being a P.I. or something. You are looking through old contracts, contacting the next of kin, calling their workplace, pretending to be asking a question about your transmission or pet grooming or whatever. Or look on Facebook. People will switch telephone numbers to avoid creditors, but almost no one deactivates Facebook.

The easy ones happen at the school. The family gets behind and you go to the kid's teacher. I have one of those today.

I had stopped by last week to collect and the teacher told me it was his best player, really nice kid. I told him I'd called, sent letters. The family was two years behind on payments. I could get fired if I let that go. The teacher asked me to sell him a cheap saxophone so he could give it to her to play. We usually give 30% off to schools. I gave him 45%. He doesn't have the budget for it, but I guess the kids will sell more pizza kits or something to pay for it.

So today I stopped by again. "Hey, man. I really need that saxophone. I'm going to get in trouble if I don't collect it."

"Can you just give me till Friday? I'm going to call the mom again. The girl doesn't know. She's going to cry when it gets taken."

That's me. Stealing kids' dream at $30 a pop.

The harder ones, or maybe "trickier" ones, are when the kid quits playing or the family moves. Then you have to go knock on doors.

"I've never heard of him. We just moved in four months ago."

"That bitch moved out with her kid last year. If you find her, let me know."

"We don't have the trumpet anymore."

That was my day today, plugging in addresses in my GPS, reading directions to houses from old contracts, knocking on doors. Some of the houses weren't there anymore. A lot of them have "No Trespassing" and "Beware of Dog" signs.

I knocked on one house today. The woman answered and I explained who I was. She said she'd get the instrument. Her son wasn't playing it anymore.

She came back a few minutes later. "I'm really sorry. I just couldn't afford to pay anymore. I lost my job."

"It's okay. I understand. I had my car repossessed last month. Times are hard right now."

It's left me in a mood I'd rather not be in.

I used to not understand my dad. When he would come home, he wanted everyone to be happy. He would get really pissed off if anyone was complaining or arguing or anything. I kind of understand it now.

You do these things, sometimes shitty things, to take care of your family. And you want to imagine that they make a difference, that everyone will be okay because you decided to take this path.

Only, you don't give a shit if you are seven, because you just want to watch "Monster High" for another 23 minutes and you're probably going to cry if someone doesn't let you.

I sat down at dinner tonight and the eleven-year-old asked, "So, how was your day?"

I tried to explain that it was kind of lousy and started explaining repossession to him, but then I decided that the less he knew about that for now, the better.

After dinner, the Goddess bathed the kids and put them to bed, giving me time to write. I've got a magazine article due in the morning and at twenty cents a word, I'll need that to pay the bills this month, too.

It was pretty easy going, so I wrapped it up quickly. I went to check on the Goddess and she was asleep with the Monkey in our bed. She says it's bad sleep hygiene, but most nights, he won't fall asleep in his own bed. And truth be told, I sleep better with him there, too.

Then I stepped outside and talked to my neighbor Crystal, who smokes behind her house so her kids won't catch her. We talked about the neighborhood, about the shootings that have been going on, about heroin and the homeless people down in the tent city. She said it was good we lived one block up the hill instead of "on the flats," where most of the shootings were. We talked about how much childcare was costing us and she told me to let the Goddess know if she was still looking for a job.

Then I took my car to the gas station at the foot of the hill. A young blonde in a super short skirt and stilettos came up and asked me if I could "help her out." She said she'd make it worth my while. I told her I was married, but honestly, I couldn't imagine having such sad sex anyway. Besides, I'm too broke to afford it.

The guys online, waiting to pay while the cashier stood behind the bullet-proof glass were talking about jobs. One of them said that they were hiring housekeepers at the hospital. "All you gotta do is stay clean 30 days." "Count me out then," said another.

It's a hard life. But part of me wonders what kind of father raises his kids in a place like this. And what kind of man does the things I have to do to make a few extra bucks for bills.

Oh, well. It's late. I need to crawl in bed with the Monkey and hope sleep comes quickly. I've got another full day of collections tomorrow.

Christmas and Cabbage Rolls

It's been almost two weeks since I blogged. Part of that was because I was busy with the Christmas and New Years' holidays. A lot of it had to do with my last post.

But honestly, some of it had to do with the reaction to my last post. "The One Where They Lose Their Van."

First of all, a lot of you messaged me to say that you really felt for us, or that you were in similar straits, or to ask if you could help. Thanks. A lot. I mean it. It means the world to us.

The thing is though, it got over 150 hits, most of those in the first couple of days. That's not a lot by Internet standards, but it's about twice as many as any of my other posts. I'm struggling with what that means.

At first, I took it as a really good sign. It means that people relate to what we are going through. I thought that maybe I was writing in an especially raw and honest way, and that the response I was seeing was due to that.

The Goddess had a different take. She said that people like seeing others fail. Maybe some of the people we call "friends" are secretly relishing the pain we're experiencing. It confirms their suspicions about us. And maybe it's some sort of divine justice and they are glad to see a bunch of smart ass, tattooed, atheist rockers get their comeuppance.

My current mood about my fellow upper primates has me feeling she may be on to something.

Christmas was hard. I won't say it wasn't enjoyable. It was and we had a great time. Thanks to the generosity of family, the kids really didn't want for a thing. The Goddess wisely took an old Thomas the Train train set that had belonged to the eleven-year-old and re-gifted it to the Monkey. He loved it and it was a big gift. The eleven-year-old got a laptop to work on his films. There were dolls and books and ukuleles and new clothes and harmonicas.

We also continued a tradition from my family of having a fish dinner on Christmas Eve.

But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't feeling melancholy. Part of it was probably the 75-degree weather. I know a lot of people like that, but all I could think about was that this may be the regular weather at Christmas if we don't do something about climate change.

Then there is the way the holiday is celebrated generally. This was the year of the "Merry Christmas" Starbucks cup. I was struck, too, by the way people talk about this holiday in America. It's surrounded with anger and resentment and ill will toward people who don't celebrate it. More than any time in my life, I feel there is not just indifference, but actual animosity toward the poor, to refugees, to the outcasts.

If that's Christmas, then fuck it.

Like most people, I worked through the holidays. We lucked out this year because Christmas fell on Friday and I wasn't scheduled to work that Saturday, so I did have a three-day weekend.

I took a little time on New Year's Eve to reflect on my year in review and posted that on Facebook. I thought about doing it here, but I'm pretty committed to the quasi-anonymity of this blog. I've also written already about most of the things contained on that post, so it's old ground.

I worked on that night, which if you're a musician, is a good thing. Or rather, it's a bad thing if you don't. The soul band played for the New Year's Eve party at the Greenbrier Resort, which is pretty fucking fancy. This is the fourth year with the gig, and it feels like they're low-balling us a little every time. This year we didn't get rooms, which meant a two-hour drive back home sometime after 1:00 A.M. Still. It's work, and pretty good work.

The next day we had a traditional meal of cabbage rolls and black-eyed peas. The Goddess suggested we try cooking them in beef stock with just a little tomato sauce in them, instead of all tomato sauce. This I regarded as anathema at first. After tasting the results, however, I am a firm believer.

We stick a dime in one of the cabbage rolls. If you get the dime, you will be rich in the coming year. Forty-three years on this earth -- most of them with cabbage rolls on New Year's Day -- and I have yet to get the damn dime.

This year the eleven-year-old got it. Chomped down on it on the first bite.

After we ate I decided to turn to my New Year's resolutions.

I realize a lot of you think they're bullshit. Personally, I've given up on making any that are about weight loss or money. If those things happen, then great. Instead, for the past three or four years, I've written some that were more about an approach to life.

This year, I decided they needed to be action-oriented. I made them simple: Read, Write, Listen, Play. That is, I've committed to reading from a book (not just the Internet or magazines); writing in my blogs, working on short stories or novels, or writing for the magazine; listening -- really, actively listening -- to music; and play music, every single day, whatever instrument for whatever time.

When I was younger, and before kids, I probably would have set loftier goals -- write 500 words a day or practice for an hour and half. Part of getting older is being realistic about your time commitments.

The thing about these goals is, I really want to do these things every day. It's not like exercise or drinking eight glasses of water or whatever. I actually enjoy time spent in reading and writing, playing and listening to music. And so far, I've made time for them.

Now it's back to work. I wasn't back for more than ten minutes before a coworker shoved an iPad in my face to show me some homophobic video he found hysterical. 2016 is going to be great.

I just finished my lunch. Left-over cabbage rolls. God, they're good. The beef stock really sent them over the edge.

Then I bit into the dime.

After forty-three years, it looks like I'm going to come into some money.

The bad news is, the eleven-year-old apparently lied. I guess we'll deal with that when I get home.

A Christmas Story

The Goddess is in a musical right now. A Christmas Story, based on the movie.

Now, I have loved this movie for a long time, back when there weren't many people who had seen it. My college roommate had a copy of it on VHS that his parents had taped from television, and we watched it 27 times our sophomore year, commercials and all.

It's extremely quotable and I do so frequently, even among people who have never seen the movie. They just look at me like I have lobsters crawling out of my ears.

One of the best written lines in the story comes from the narrator: "Sometimes, at the height of our revelries, when our joy is at its zenith, when all is most right with the world, the most unthinkable disasters descend upon us!"

So it is.

It's been a pretty good few weeks. The Goddess has been busy with rehearsals and the opening of her show. A few weeks back we were really stretched on money, but even that has picked up. I've been getting overtime, the Goddess has been substitute teaching, we've both gotten paid to do some writing, and I've been gigging a lot. This past weekend I even had a show at the Greenbrier resort and got a room to myself.

Neither one of us is great with money. That's probably the understatement of the year. We always seem to be a few bills behind, dodging cut-offs and making urgent payments. It's not just being broke. It's also that we can never seem to breathe long enough to get everything organized.

"Hey, I just got a call from the gas company." "The Internet isn't working. Did you pay the bill?" "We're behind on the car payment. When do you get paid next?"

"First world problems." I know. But I don't have any experience in any other world. 

My brother has helped us out a lot over the years. He saw me bitching about bills on Facebook and transferred money into our bank account. I am grateful for him.

So, we were doing alright. For the moment.

Yesterday was our one month wedding anniversary. Incidentally, it was also the 20th anniversary of my first marriage. I got home late. I had a rehearsal with a new guitarist and we had a beer afterward.

After I came home, the Goddess and I got into an argument. It was about the seven-year-old and her punishment for using the iPad when she was told not to. It really wasn't that big of an argument, but you know how things feel when you are tired. She thinks I was too tough on her. Maybe I was. I thought she was making me look like the bad guy. Maybe I am. 

The Goddess fell asleep while we were talking and I left her on the couch. (In my defense, I had asked her repeatedly to go to bed.)

I dozed for about an hour and then I heard her screaming for me to come downstairs.

There are not many things that can send your heart racing than being woken from a dead sleep by screaming.

I threw on some pants and ran downstairs. She wasn't there. I opened the front door.

She was sitting on the porch steps, crying. There were two men standing in the yard, looking up at me.

"They are here to repossess the van."

My stomach dropped.

We aren't the type of people things like this happen to, or so we thought. We don't live extravagantly. We work hard. We pay the bills we can, usually at the last possible minute. Sometimes after that.

The van is in the Goddess' name. She had bought it before we were together. She takes care of the bills. She knew the van payment was overdue, but we hadn't had the money to pay all of our bills.

Then we had to have a stupid wedding.

But we had money now. She had just forgotten to pay the bill since we had money come in last week. We could pay it now, right?

No, we couldn't. It doesn't work like that, they said. They were here to do a job -- collect the van. They don't work for the finance company. You'll have to call them, they said.

But I can pay it right now, she said. I'll call the company and pay it and you can talk to them and leave the van.

We can't do that, ma'am, they said. We have a contract and if we don't do what we're supposed to do, we'll lose it. We have families to take care of, too. 

Besides, they said, we didn't have to let you know we were taking it. We just saw that there were children's things inside and wanted to let you take them out.

I could just give you some cash and you could say you didn't get to it tonight, she said. That way, I'll have time to pay it.

No, ma'am.

This went on for about twenty minutes, then things intensified.

The Goddess refused to empty the car or hand over her keys. She stood in front of the van, blocking the tow truck. They threatened to call the police.

She cried. A lot. There were threats exchanged. She pleaded with them. She was a good person. We have kids. We need the van to take the baby to the doctor tomorrow. She had never been in trouble before. She hadn't even had detention when she was in school.

They understood. They didn't think she was a bad person. One of them had a sick kid, too, in the hospital. The other said he had his truck repossessed when he was at work one day.

I eventually turned over the van key, so that we could get our things out. The Goddess was angry with me.

We cleaned out the van. We took out the baby seats and the double stroller. We got the kids' blankets and books and small toys. We cleaned out some of the trash, too. 

Somewhere during the process, the Goddess came completely unglued.

She ran to the backyard with some items and I followed her back there. She began throwing things. Then she started banging her head against a glass patio table. I tried to restrain her. She screamed bloody murder at the top of her lungs for several minutes. She bit me.

"I hate everyone and everything! I can't do this anymore!" She screamed more, her eyes bloodshot and swollen from crying.

I held her by the wrists for about ten minutes while she screamed at the repo men who had already left with the van and at me and at her anger at herself. She was worthless, she said. 

Once I thought she was calmed down somewhat, I let go of her and we went inside. I poured us each a glass of wine. She didn't drink hers. I finished the whole bottle while we talked.

I won't recount the whole conversation. A lot of it was personal. There was some anger and shame and blame and guilt. But mostly, I think, there was fear.

It is hard to watch someone you love so much at such a low point, even if you are there with them. 

We slept just two or three hours. She got up and called the finance company. They were not helpful. 

Can we just pay for everything now and get the van?, she asked.

No. They may just sell it at auction. They will send a letter in about a week. You can call then. Maybe you can get your van back then. No promises.

"I can't believe I've become this person." The Goddess said this several times last night. I know what she means.

We got into this because we didn't have the money. It's not that we are big spenders. We really aren't. Four kids are expensive. $1600-a-month for daycare alone is enough to break us.

And we also suck with money. I don't know if it's because we're both just artsy-fartsy, or if there is something we really are missing. I know the Goddess missed the payment because she's thinking about kids and musicals and dance. 

The absurd part is that we have the cash now, but can't solve the problem.

So we're down to one car, a four-seater for our family of six. "First world problems." Yeah, but it's our world.

This morning is just somber. I'm home from work because of a sick baby who now can't make it to the doctor. The kids don't know, of course, and haven't even noticed the missing van.

We can't even make a plan until after the holidays. Maybe we can get it back. Or maybe we'll have to get a new one. Or maybe that's not possible and we'll just have to learn to do without.

Deep down I know we don't need "things" -- even cars -- to make us happy as a family. I also know that this is just the way the world works and I guess we're just not the types of people who navigate these things well.

We'll huddle and regroup, try to organize and see what we did wrong. We'll work harder and try to get more cash flowing through this place. We'll love each other more and try not to think too much about the van and all our problems for the next week and try not to let the other four who live here know the fear that we feel this Christmas.

God Bless Us, Everyone.

I've been working a lot of overtime recently. I've been getting about 45-50 hours a week, and I make a pretty reasonable wage. I've also had a lot of gigs this month and have even more coming up. In addition, I've started writing for a local magazine and making some extra money that way.

The Goddess has started working again. She's looking for something permanent, but right now she's substitute teaching. She's also had some photography gigs, which pay pretty decently.

You would think with all that work, a family could live pretty comfortably. You would be wrong.

Payday was last Monday. On Friday I stopped by the drug store. I needed soap and I was going to pick up a bottle of bourbon for the weekend. Crystal was working the register. She was a student of mine about 15 years ago, when she was in middle school. I handed her my card.

"It says it was declined."

"Really?" I try to sound more incredulous and surprised than I actually am.

"Do you want to try to run it as a credit?"

I'm not sure what effect this will have, so I say yes. You never know.

Declined again.

"Huh. I'll have to figure out what's going on with my bank." I try to make eye contact so I don't look too ashamed.

"Yeah. Our system has been acting funny all day."

I am grateful for this young woman's willingness to go along with the charade.

What's going on with my bank is that they won't allow me to spend more money than I have in my account. Even at Christmas. They are total dicks that way.

So it's Friday night and I'm out of money. I've got a weekend and another whole week before another payday.

Only I think the Goddess has a gig Saturday night, which is good, because most of them pay cash.

"How much is your gig tomorrow?"

"I think it's canceled. The girl hasn't gotten back to me," she says.

Dammit.

Luckily, I'm meeting my editor (I'll call him Tony) Sunday morning to go over some things for the magazine. I'll get paid then, because I've done a couple of articles. And he usually pays cash, too.

Sunday morning I wake up (late, because I stayed up all night watching Christopher Hitchens debates on YouTube) and my phone is dead. I get it in the charger and then a text comes through. It's from Tony at 6:20 that morning.

"I can't make it today. Just going to bed now."

Fuck.

Okay. But I'm just finishing up four nights of gigs and the band contractor, my friend (I'll call him Joe), will pay me for the rehearsal and three shows. And he still owes me $50 for a paid rehearsal a couple weeks back.

He pays me. So I'm pretty sure I've got enough to get through the week.

Only this guy Chris messages the lead singer of my band (I'll call him X) who is also my cousin and wants to know where the money is for our rehearsal space for November and December. So X gives him my number and he calls me. I tell him I'll get it to him, but it sucks because the bassist and one of the guitar players still have to get their share to me. They both sent it Monday, but that means I have to eat that cost for most of the week until their checks get here.

Then I remember that my auto insurance is going to be taken out on the 15th, which is Tuesday.

Also, I've been ducking calls from the gas company, who I'm pretty sure is telling me they're going to shut off service at some point. I don't listen to the messages because I can't pay it right now anyway and I don't really need another automated reminder of my failure to take care of my responsibilities.

We don't live extravagant lives. We really don't. But we also are trying to live without any consumer debt right now, and we're doing pretty well there.

Childcare kills us. Since we got married, the rules have changed. The Goddess used to get subsidy for childcare. Now we don't qualify. The uptake of this is that she is essentially working to pay for childcare so that she can go to work.

She could stay home with the kids, but we're hoping her income hits a point in the future where she earns more than childcare costs.

And I gotta be honest: Christmas seems designed to remind you how broke you are. Other times of the year you can get by. But no coins at Christmas means no parties and no gifts for the people you love. If you have kids, this is really hard.

Our kids don't need a thing. And they've got lots of people looking out for them. Granny S is helping us out a lot, because the eleven-year-old wants a laptop for video editing. That's okay. I'm not an overly proud person.

But the Monkey is two this Christmas. This is really the first one where he's really aware of what's going on. I'd like to get him something -- I don't even know what yet -- just from me, or from me and the Goddess. Maybe a classic toy, nothing large. Something I bought myself that says, "You are a special little boy and I hope your life is wonderful."

I want this to be special for them, because Christmas was special for me when I was a kid. Sunday night we put up the tree and had cocoa while watching "A Very Murray Christmas." I was dancing with the Goddess and thinking just about how lucky I am. I really get that. We have beautiful kids and a nice house and none of us are starving. We could be floating on a raft in the Mediterranean right now, fleeing oppression, like some of our fellow creatures are doing. Or I could be married to an ugly woman instead.

So I guess I'll suck it up and Bob Cratchit the fuck out of Christmas this year. We say we want to teach the kids to not be materialistic. This seems like a good chance.

But at least I've got another gig tonight. I hope it pays cash.

Raising a Middle School Sociopath and the Worst Birthday Ever

I sent a Facebook message from work today to the Goddess. It said, "I need to figure out what my role is in our lives."

I had had such high hopes for this past week.

It's October. I should start by saying that Halloween is a big deal in our family. I mean, I know Halloween is a big deal in everyone's families. But I write horror and play in a horror punk band. Everyone in this house likes dressing up in costumes, even on regular days. Halloween is our time of year.

And last year was really successful. At least, I remember it being really successful. It was our first Halloween together as a family and we did this whole, "31 Days of Halloween" thing. We had an activity of some sort every night and it was so successful, we wanted to replicate it this year.

Last weekend was the first weekend of the month, and we'd planned on going to the local pumpkin farm that has a corn maze and all of these other kid's activities. It just pissed down the rain, so that didn't happen. Instead, I drank Bloody Marys and we overdosed on Netflix: Nightmare before Christmas, Beetlejuice, Hocus Pocus, and Monster Squad. Oh, and a couple of Doctor Who episodes, the ones with the weeping angels, because the Goddess decided that she wants to go as a weeping angel this year, which sounds fantastic, if we can manage to match the color of make-up to the costume.

So it was a pretty good weekend. I was looking forward to the week.

Things started downhill on Monday.

We had all stayed up much too late watching Doctor Who and we overslept. The Goddess had to take the six-year-old to school and she was late. Then I went to pay for the six-year-old's violin at work (I work at a music store) and had my debit card declined for insufficient funds. This was an especial drag as I was seven full days away from another pay day and had actually gotten a lot of overtime on the last check. On the up side, Ape had to go to the doctor and we found he now weighs 22 lbs. at just seven months. (I'm thinking of calling him "Pugsley.") The six-year-old had choir. I worked late. Then the six-year-old had a meltdown -- complete with lying in the floor and crying -- when asked to practice her violin for ten fucking minutes. I'm at a loss at those moments. I had to practice piano for thirty minutes a day at her age and I would have been beaten senseless for lying in the floor. I tired a combination of stern reproach and negotiation which was a complete failure.

On Tuesday, the six-year-old turned seven, so her biological father was picking her up from gymnastics and taking her out for her birthday. At some point, the eleven-year-old asked to use the Goddess' Macbook and we noticed him looking at his grades online -- something not particularly usual for him. So we went and looked, too. He's failing Math and English. Not only that, but he's missing assignments from every single one of his classes.

We are completely failing on this front.

His mom and I both worked in education for years. I get that school is kind of bullshit (more on that later) and that homework is largely pointless (definitely more on that later) and that middle school is like a prison, but come on man.

He's not a stupid kid. He's just really fucking lazy.

Which, you know, so was I at his age and come to think of it, some of my grades started sucking at his age, too.

But the worst part is that he lied all grading period -- nine fucking weeks -- about having homework. And we didn't double-check, because like a couple of schmucks, we believed him.

So he's grounded for like, ever.

Oh, and all three of us got to work on homework that night until about 10:30 trying to turn in incomplete assignments late.

I'm glad I didn't work Wednesday. Instead I stayed in, watched this little indie horror film called Mr. Jones, played with the babies, and then started working on my electronic music project for most of the night. My band's rehearsal got canceled, so I had some extra time for that.

Thursday, the Goddess had an out-of-town performance with her burlesque troupe, so I hustled on home and started making dinner: Chef Boyardee pizza. I thought she wouldn't even make it out the door, because she had a near-breakdown ("I just won't go. I'm going to quit.") because she needed a piece of equipment I'd loaned her and I forgot to put it back. But once she was out the door, the five of us settled in, ate pizza, and watched a couple more episodes of Doctor Who. I got everyone in bed on time (even though I skipped bathing the babies, because they both were falling asleep), and I even read a few Junie B. Jones chapters to the seven-year-old. I put on Day of the Dead and drank wine and felt like a damn super-parent while waiting on the Goddess' return.

Yesterday, we had a birthday party for the seven-year-old. The Goddess had planned all of it, but just asked me to stop by the store on the way home to pick up a few things. Then I get a call at about 4:00. The eleven-year-old got in trouble at school. Bullying.

Fuuuuuuuucccckkkk.

The Goddess' is kind of beside herself, so I did this thing I do where I go into my old middle school teacher mode and talk through the whole situation, kind of telling her how to handle it. I mean, she was asking me at this point, so I thought that was okay.

When I get home, I take the eleven-year-old aside while all of these kids are arriving. I talked to him, super seriously, about his behavior. I make him read his disciplinary referral. I ask him what is meant by the words "habitual" and "no remorse." I tell him we love him but want him to grow up to be a kind person. I write out some words for him like "empathy" and "manipulative." He listens. He looks at me while I'm talking. He doesn't roll his eyes.

Then he tells me his side of the story.

And the thing is, I kind of want to believe it, because it sounds totally believable. Only I remember that he lied to us about his homework and that I just wrote out the word "manipulative" on my mini legal pad. So it looks like we're headed to a meeting with his teachers to determine if we're raising a total sociopath.

Then it's downstairs for the birthday party. Things are going okay. I mean, there are seven six-to-eight-year-old girls screaming like mad over French pop music blaring on the hi-fi (the Goddess had decided on a Gallic theme), the Monkey is running around trying to take everyone's toys, and the eleven-year-old is obnoxiously showing off for everyone, but it's okay. Until the piñata.

We go to the front porch for the piñata and I can tell that the Goddess is going to lose her shit over this. First of all, the girls won't form an orderly line. Then, they keep missing the piñata (is this really a French word?) and manage to damage the porch swing. Then they are getting on the bouncy horse that's really designed for a single toddler, not seven-year-olds, and especially not the fat one and her friend. I'm getting frustrated, too, not just by the kids, but because I think I could probably organize this a little better.

Yeah, I know. Total asshole thing to think, especially about the love of your life. The thing is, I used to work in education and at one point kind of helped teachers work on this sort of thing. And I have a real problem thinking like a parent instead of a teacher, because I haven't been a parent that long.

So, I say a few things to her, which, you know, aren't received really well.

Then I go in with the Monkey and leave the rest of them out on the porch. It takes like 30 minutes to bust this damn thing open, so the Goddess is really irritable when they come back in.

The seven-year-old decides that she wants to have a dance contest, then has a near breakdown ("This is the worst birthday, EVER!") when she fails to force all of her friends to do exactly what she wants on her birthday. But we soldier on through a series of first-grade dance routines to "Watch Me Whip," "Uptown Funk," and "Let It Go" from Frozen.

At one point, we discover that one of our young guests has absconded upstairs. Upon being discovered, she informs us that "she just needs some alone time." My initial reaction is, "Why the fuck did you come to a party then, kid?" which I am about to say to the Goddess when she looks at me and says, "I already know what you're going to say. You're so critical."

Ugh.

So I take the Monkey to bed and pass out myself.

Which brings me to this morning, when I messaged her from work, saying, "I need to figure out what my role is in our lives."

She suggested I try blogging to work through all these issues.

So, here I am, home from work, drinking a really terrible table wine, and finishing up my first blog post. I hope to post regularly, but with a family of six, we'll see how that goes. I'd also hoped to keep the posts to blog length rather than full essays, but I've already failed on that front.

Welcome to Dispatches from Crackerbox Palace. Thanks for stopping by.