It's been an awesome year in the truest sense of the word. Just as he's different than from when he emerged into this world, I'm different from when he emerged. IEverything has changed and it has changed for the better. As Jonathan Coulton sings, "You ruined everything -- in the nicest way."
This week, the calendar pages come fluttering off the wall, and Baby B-Dub reaches nine months of age. Which means he's been out as long as he was in. And it's becoming increasingly clear that we're screwed. But that's okay. We like it. Happy nine months, kiddo.
Christmas came and Christmas went, and in the wake of Santa Jesus we found the flotsam and jetsam of a child's joy --what I'm saying is, our living room exploded and gave birth to a metric ass-ton of baby toys. And now, over a week later, I'm left rocking back and forth. In the corner.
Looking back, staring forward. Standing on this head-of-the-pin moment between two years -- an arbitrary distinction, perhaps, from when one calendar becomes useless and a new one must be hung, but a distinction just the same and a fine enough moment to pause and reflect.
Was four years ago today that my father passed away, and I wrote a little something about it in one of my e-books, Revenge of the Penmonkey. Thought I'd take a piece out of that introduction and pop it here, talk a little bit about my father's death and what that meant for me as a writer.
The hangover I suffered was as such where I felt like a room full of balloons with a floor made of nails; I dared not move for fear of expiring then and there. Every ounce of my body hurt. My brain felt like a caged rat gnawing through rusty hinges in order to escape. I knew if I did anything but sit on my bed and stare at the wall I would cry out, vomit, pee myself, and explode inside my skin.