Moving, when it's painful.

Boxing up the things, fixing the fixtures, replacing the light switch covers that you bought special just for your boys' rooms; these things are painful when a move is something you HAVE to do. These things are painful because they are a necessity, not a luxury. They don't come as the result of a new magnificent job; they come as the (hopefully) final nail in a coffin that is set to be  buried so deep in the ground that God can't see your decomposing, middle-finger-raised-to-the-sky-we-refuse-to-give-up posture. And yet, so much love is felt in the tears that my wife cries as she boxes things up, because she knows-probably more than me- that our boys will be o.k., and that this, like so many things, is a temporary trial. I don't get a lot of opportunities as a man to confront my inner most pains, a result of a lifetime of what feels like bad-luck, but is most likely the Universe saving me from catching a bullet too early (or hopefully, at all).

Is that too heavy? Probably. Is it NESSA-SCARY (ha! coin that phrase and pay me the royalties)? Yes. Period. This blog's inception came with what I thought was a short list of requirements; a) an outlet, while comical, that came with some over-burdensome "life lessons," and b) a lighthearted dream-space where I could let loose my inner-albeit more innocent-demons. What I have come to realize, after months of odd-jobs and much hand wringing in the spirit of "it'll-get-better" future planning, is that this space is mine (while owned by some internet guru with an omnipresence that I can't pretend to understand).

Have I lost you yet? My apologies, pain is so very rarely neat and tidy, being the bridge troll that it is. 

My beautiful life has come to (pardon the cliche) something of a crossroads, and I can't even fathom how to thank the friends and family that have rushed to support our little family. Here on Earth, with billions of people to worry about, and issues that possibly (definitely) threaten our entire species' existence (read:global warming), we have people in our lives that continue to sacrifice time (and yes, money) to ensure that our children grow up in a world relatively free of suffering. A slightly warmer world, but with that "homey...-I'm-gonna-be-alright" feel.

This post is for you. 

Note: If you really love me, you'll forgive my overuse of my favorite punctuation; the semi-colon (see what I just did?).

If there is one thing that I know for sure, it is this; my wife is the best wife there is. Faced with adversity and an unsure future, she did what any rational, beautiful woman would do. She danced her F@#$%ing brains out to the Pandora station that was playing on my I-phone, "Ace of Bass," and sang at the top of her harmonic lungs. Her epic battle cry? Natalie Imbruglia's "Torn." She showed my boys (and me) (too young to really "get it,") that life, however absurd and terrifying, is about celebration. The celebration of being cognizant; the celebration of rain, sun, internet videos of kitties and babies, and following Kanye West and Kim Kardashian's ridiculous cycle of being too cool for school. The celebration of life is never a celebration of solely what is good; it's a celebration of the mere fact that we get the chance to experience it. The human race is probably "doomed," in the sense that, well, we just can't get it right. But we get to be here. We get to look up and dream, and as far as we can tell, no one else has gotten to do that. 

I refuse to blame the "world" for our befallen state, but I will blame the love of family and friends for us making it through this tough time. Damn you! Damn you for being so supportive. Damn you for being there. I blame you for the love I feel in my heart, and for the relentless feeling that we can make this life successful. Damn you for ensuring that my boys, my wife, and I are cared for, loved, and protected from the worlds' most dubious plans. Damn you.

Note: That last paragraph was sarcasm. Without you, we'd be one sorry lot.