“GUY WILLIAM ELLIS!” — She shouted in the middle of the night, waking me up abruptly.
I hate it when she uses my middle name. It makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong — or worse, like I will do something wrong. She’s probably right either way, but I don’t like having to admit it.
“I’ve been trying to wake you up for five minutes now, our daughter’s caught a cold, I’ve gotten up to put her back to sleep three times already and she’s whining again. …
I’ve previously considered if my family might need a new “man of the house”.
One of these days I might as well climb up to a terrace and shout at the top of my lungs: I’M A MAN!
Lately I’ve been having trouble convincing myself of that. To sit down in front of my computer to make up some stories is a piece of cake compared to plumbing issues and burned out electric shower heads switches. And even though I’m neither a plumber nor an electrician, some manly man ages ago decided it’s my job to figure out and fix…
“Daddy, can you help me with homework?”
“Do you have a hobby?”
“I have a few. Do you need to write about them?”
“Not exactly. I have to interview one of my parents, and I already know pretty much every answer; the only one missing is to write down a hobby of yours. The teacher told us what a hobby is, but I don’t know if you have any.”
“Write down ‘philately.’”
“I collect stamps.”
“What’s a stamp?”
“It’s something you stick to the envelope when you want to send someone a letter.”
“Why don’t you just…
I don’t know who established gender roles, but I definitely need some more self-affirmation when it comes to the tasks society expects me to be able to perform.
Yesterday I was able to tackle two challenges of classic manly behavior:
- I was asked to open a stuck lid ingrained with glue to its core, which took me quite a few minutes and two layers of my thumb skin. But I succeeded, only a few tries away from permanently losing all my dignity.
- Upon a plumbing issue, I was able to put my handyman skills to good use —…
My daughter is never satisfied before her eighth “because”.
And that started pretty early on. I remember when she was a little over two years old, I once counted how many times she would ask “why?” during what seemed like a never ending array of questions. I even had a chronometer. 14 times in a minute — that’s roughly once every four seconds!
She just turned four, and I’m still under the impression that she’s very inquisitive for her age. I remember hearing a song that exemplifies, in delightful verses, the hundreds of questions a child challenges its parents with…
I came home the other day and found my firstborn throwing a scene.
Despite still being at the garage, I could hear her scream.
Although I just left the gym and was exhausted, I climbed up the stairs three at a time, my blood boiling. I stared at the incident: my daughter, 3 and a half years old, rolling on the bathroom floor, yelling: “I don’t want to take a shower! I don’t want to take a shower!”. My mother-in-law, a saint, struggled to reason with her. Everyone who knows me knows I have little to no patience for outbursts.
If there is such a thing as astral hell, it didn’t come around for me: I’m overjoyed.
In my car, today, a few minutes past 7 a.m., after dropping my daughters off at school for the first time in almost ten months, I played my favorite rock playlist at a volume I only dare set when I’m by myself. I sang at the top of my lungs.
I’ll still miss many more shots, but the sense of agency toward my future is undeniable; and there’s still plenty of room for anything my heart and focus bring my way. I can’t…
Se existe o tal inferno astral, não colou aqui: estou felizaço.
Dentro do carro, hoje, passado pouco das 7h, depois de deixar as filhas na escola pela primeira vez em quase 10 meses, coloquei minha playlist de rocks preferidos num volume que só faço sozinho. Cantei alto.
A sensação é que os 45 trazem uma bagagem boa. Já fiz muita cagada, já fiz golaços.
Ainda vou errar um tanto, mas o sentimento de ser agente do meu futuro é inegável; e ainda cabe qualquer coisa que meu coração e foco mandarem. Não mudo o que passou, sou grato ao que…
Ontem, pensando nesta data, fiz uma viagem ao passado e me transpus para 7 de maio de 2016. Si internada na UTI, com a pressão arterial monitorada e medicada, numa vã tentativa de mantê-la sob controle (a PA e a paciente); cesárea marcada para a manhã seguinte, dum bebezinho que só teve 27 semanas para se desenvolver no útero da mãe.
Eu, em casa com as meninas, tentava demonstrar alguma segurança que não tinha. Já tínhamos passado por isto há 12 anos e sabíamos como era duro.
Na sala de parto na manhã seguinte, tudo correu conforme previsto, sem intercorrências…
BALD. Husband, dad-dad-and-daddy, bass player, rock’n roll lover, awful writer and terrible boss.