Little m Long a

I closed my eyes last night as the images of people cheering filled the television screen.  Crowds by the thousands were gathering.  Flags were being waved.  A man is dead and collectively we celebrate.  I’m not quite sure how I’m supposed to feel about that.

“We don’t kill!  We don’t hurt!  That is not who we are and it is not what we are about!”

I exasperatedly spoke these exact words to my children just this past weekend as one of the games they were playing was apparently getting out of hand.

I count myself fortunate — extremely fortunate — that the events of the past decade have only tangentially affected my life.  I watched buildings collapse and people perish as my daughter made busy with toys and the concerns of a child in front of it all.  I watched as neighbors, second-hand acquaintances and even friends left their homes, their families and their security to protect me and mine.  My children are growing up in a time of perpetual war — and yet are summarily unaffected by it.  Their days and weeks are filled with the worries of themselves.  They have asked little and I’ve offered less in explanation.  I really have none.

I’d like to think that this means it’s over.

I’d like to.

Simple as I may be though, I’m not naive.  A man is dead, and justifiably so, but I have a hard time believing that this means tomorrow will hold any more promise than today.  I also have a difficult time convincing myself that I should be celebrating.   The world is different.  Uncertainty tinged with a bit of fear will continue to cloud the mundane issues of my daily existence.

There is still homework to check, softball games and soccer practices to attend.  Piano recitals and gymnastics classes.  The laundry will still need folding, dinners will still need to be prepared.  And I’ll still be paying $4 a gallon to fill my car with gas.  I’ll keep on.

I slept last night much in the same manner as I have for the past ten years — comfortably.  I imagine tonight will be no different.

(I really have no idea where this post was going or what I actually intended to say but somehow felt it necessary to put something down.  Anything, I guess. I am now and forever will be thankful to those men and women of our armed forces that give ultimately of themselves so that I can simply continue on.  I am very fortunate, indeed. )

“I think I know why the Great Pumpkin never showed up,” Zoë offered over her breakfast bagel clearly haven given the mystery a great deal of thought.

Our Halloween festivities are a bit lagging this year as it wasn’t until Sunday night that we broke out the Charlie Brown dvds. Watching Good Ol’  Chuck officially marks the onset of the holidays around these parts.   We have the trilogy — The Great Pumpkin, The Charlie Brown Thanksgiving and The Charlie Brown Christmas and watch them in succession October, November and December.

Somehow I don’t really feel that the holidays have arrived until I get my dose of Charlie Brown or Linus Van Pelt waxing poetic about some aspect of the holiday season and how it  should pertain to my life in a meaningful way.  The Great Pumpkin reminds me to be sincere.  Oh, and that a bag of rocks does not make for the most enjoyable of Tricks or Treats booty.

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My wife’s got a new gig.  Unfortunately, it requires her to travel quite a bit.  I’m not complaining, it’s all good and it’s been great for the family.  I only bring it up to note that when she’s away (like last night) I sleep with my bedroom door open.  In case I need to hear anything in the middle of the night.  You know, like the pitter-patter of tiny feet that aren’t sleeping.

Prime example — this morning.  In the cloud of disorientation that is the early morning around Casa de Ed I heard footsteps.  Footsteps before the alarm.  Generally, this is not a good thing.  I was also able to determine with my super-spidey-senses that these footsteps were not of the pitter-patter variety.

I thought that Maura might have come home though I quickly realized she’s gone for one more day.  A quick glance at the clock and I knew.

7:11 am.

Grandma!!

Crap!!!

I had forgotten to set the alarm clock.

Again.

Having learned our lessons, neither of us wishing to repeat the past, we talked through the wall and from under the covers.  “Give me ten minutes.”

“I’ll wait in the car,” she replied.

I woke the kids with an apology and a sense of urgency.  “Get up, kids and pee on the runway!  There’s a sea plane coming in!”  In what seemed the same motion I tossed uniforms, bananas and book bags at them funneling their sleepy bodies toward the door.  I’m not sure Zia had on shoes.

Zoë looked back as she stepped outside and stated, almost asking, “I love you, Dad?”

It took nine minutes.

They may have even made it to school on time.

Albeit without lunches.

I had returned from school drop off duties last Friday morning and was minding the twins.  And by minding I mean trying to keep them from destroying the house or each other.  They are flourishing in the increased attention they receive each morning when the older kids have left for school and before they head to their afternoon Pre-K classes.  Two little personalities taking on new life unencumbered by oppressive older siblings.

The first order of the day completed, my focus shifted to our inoperable shower and the plumber that had arrived to fix it.

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