Fatherhood, Part I

            I’m not supposed to do this for a couple of reasons: 1) their mom is worried about their social-media presence; 2) this means I have to -- to hopefully alleviate future issues of confidence -- do a post about my son, too. Which is fine. I have no problem with that and will actually long for it at some point, I’m sure. Hopefully I can get to it right after I’m done composing the Facebook photo album in his name that features 10 dozen pics of him being new in the world like I did for his sister. Then I gotta figure out a way around the time-stamp issue. Oh, the miseries of making sure your second-born is treated just like your first-born.

            Anyway, my daughter’s now closer to nine than eight, and she’s so many things. She’s super-sweet and considerate. She’s empathic and considerate. She’s also wildly too old for her own age and greased with commercial-grade asshole potential that she can spray you with as though she were the sprinkler you thought you’d perfectly timed and could traverse while staying dry. It puts me absolutely off my rocker that she can literally be the best thing and the worst thing to ever happen to her little brother in the same afternoon. Sometimes within the same hour. Occasionally inside a 15-minute swing.

Dream Fiction no. 3: Damp Footage

            When representatives of the six investment groups gathered for the Splash Time ground-breaking ceremony, I remember seeing it on the news and thinking it would probably take a summer or two for me and my buddies to make the trek to Jonesboro. I remember thinking that 3,200,000 square feet of water park sounded pretty freakin’ big, but -- like most square-foot measurements -- I couldn’t picture the size. I remember imagining the ease with which a 20-year-old might blow $100 in an afternoon there, and I remember feeling anxious about the infinite number of girls a guy might meet at a place like that. On the contrary, it never occurred to me that I would become the largest news story in the destination’s history, just 14 months into its existence. All of those things turned up true.

            August 12^th had been perfect. Hank Zeller’s birthday had been circled on the calendar since late June, and our numbers rounded out somewhere near 11. This meant three cars, but three cars in comfort. We never had anything planned that far in advance, but it didn’t matter if we had a spot in mind six minutes or six weeks in advance: Who -- outside of Hank -- would drive was always a ridiculous conversation. Because he thought his ride was slick, and because he wanted to be in control, Hank always drove. Always. Plans, then -- when we had them -- would become concrete, and a seat assignment cage match would ensue. When the group was bigger than five, the excuses would come out like cellophanes of Molly at a Disco Biscuits show.