A man of few words…

I’m going to say something that I probably should have stated more than a year ago.  What you read here is not the end all, be all of the life I lead.  In fact, it’s not even a full snapshot, more a half–exposure of things that occur during our lives.  There are a number of uncomfortable and strange scenarios played out here, in public, on the internet, for all to see.  That doesn’t mean this is our lives.

I’m a notoriously private person.  I’m not really one that “shares” everything with the world.  I work in television, sure, but I’m behind the camera, not in front of it.  Not most of the time.  While I’ve made some videos, fronted some segments for Rene Syler and her website Good Enough Motherit’s still only a glimpse.  What I write in here is what I need to process for the day.  They’re the random thoughts I can’t get out of my head.  They’re the pieces of the day that stick to me and I can’t get them off not matter how much mental turpentine I use.

Today was no exception.  I found a new doctor, a therapist, for Noah.  Now . . . this isn’t belittling Noah, it’s not that he’s a bad kid.  Yes, he’s had some behavior problems and he’s had some issues at school.  The main thing for all of you to bear in mind is the fact that as much as I’m sure he’ll get help from this therapist whom I liked very much in our initial conversation, I’m the one who will benefit far more than he will.  You see . . . Noah has problems controlling his impulses, something his mother had a problem with as well.  The difference is that – in public – Andrea controlled those.  She never told us how, though.  My running theory is things bothered her to such an extreme then she’d come home and take it out on me.  It always, inevitably, happened.

That’s not to say I loved her less.  But she left, leaving Noah, Sam, Abbi and Hannah and I to deal with what happens next.  As a result, we’ve been trudging along.  I realized that even now, more than a year later, I need to figure out how to do this and I don’t have the answers.  Not all of them.  I knew how to cook, clean, pick up, have fun, even keep a straight and stern face in the wake of amazing adversity.  But this . . . this is beyond my baileywick.  I look at things now and wonder what to do.  It’s at that point I come to terms with the fact that . . . hard as it is to bear . . . I don’t always know what I’m doing.  Now, I know this, but it’s hard to let the kids realize that without closing my eyes and shuddering a little.

So these are the things . . . the minor, brief details, that stick.  Not the pretty woman who flirted with me at Starbucks.  Not the sad reality some movie got right.  Not the joy or sadness with trying to write songs.  It’s the unknown, the things I am so unprepared for that worry me.

Just be aware that not all of those will show up here.  There are a handful of people that know me intimately well…and I’m glad that’s the case.

Making S’Mores

 

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