IRISHMAN FOR HIRE

I was enjoying my drive into work this morning. The weather had finally changed and it was the first nice morning we have had after a slew of rainy days, and the warmth of the sun was invigorating. I had my sunroof and windows open as I was being gently caressed by the cool air as I peacefully made my way into work. I had stopped at a red light and I was daydreaming a bit when the sound wafted into my ears, caught my attention, and brought me back to reality; “I am unwritten, can’t read my mind, I’m undefined/I’m just beginning, pen’s in my hand, ending unplanned…”

Let me digress for a moment and start at the beginning. In the summer of 2007, I was up late one night with a severe case of writer’s block. My mind was blank but my heart was racing like I had something to say; a surge of adrenalin and inspiration combined with the inexplicable inability to put down on paper what was so vivid in my imagination. I was frustrated. It was midnight and I was wide awake, yet unable to write.

So I threw myself down on the couch, grabbed the clicker and searched for anything that was worthwhile to watch in the middle of the night. As I perused the guide, I caught the title of a movie I hadn’t seen in years. It was Keenen Ivory Wayans I’m Gonna Git You Sucka and in one of the final scenes, Bernie Casey’s character, John Slade, is walking into a battle with the bad guys and as he prepares to face the villains, he is being followed around by a group of musicians. The appearance of the rappers during the preparation for battle scene prompted Keenen Ivory Wayans character, Jack Spade, to engage in the following conversation:

Jack Spade: [looks at musicians] who are these guys?
John Spade: They’re my theme music. Every hero’s got to have some.

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A week and a half ago, I made dinner for Stephanie and her friend Angie because their birthdays are a day apart. So to celebrate, I made them a Turkey and for dessert, I made Chocolate Mess. During the course of our dinner conversation, Angie turned to me and said, “We are going to have such a bash on your fortieth!”

It was the last thing I wanted to hear her say. My wife already teases me about being the “the old man” and from time to time, she will jokingly ask, “Grandpa, is that you?”

My friend Josh likes to make jokes about how I was alive when dinosaurs roamed the earth and my kids have even gotten into the act by guessing that I must be like “seventy years old.” Well, if you haven’t guessed by now, I am going to turn forty years old in 2009 and Angie has been planning a birthday bash with my wife for the better part of the summer.

Well, the other day, as I pondered being 29 and 132 months old, I looked in the mirror and realized that I have a few more gray hairs trying to pop up on the top of my head. I also realized that although I may feel like I am twenty years old, I don’t look twenty anymore. It turns out that a funny thing happened to me on the way to my mirror the other day; Life! And since our dinner with Angie, I have been extremely cognizant of my age and about where I have been in the past, where I am right now and what’s next on the horizon for me.

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I was at a birthday party for my nephews over the weekend and I overheard a conversation at the table behind me that piqued my interest. Four women were sharing stories about their husbands and the antics that take place in their daily lives. As I sat there chuckling at the humorous war stories being shared, one of the women asked the age old question, “Do men ever grow up?!”

This question has been plaguing women for years. I have heard the question posed at family functions, church, work, at the mall and I have to admit, my wife has even asked me if I ever plan on growing up. I have never answered her because I was sure the question was rhetorical but after hearing the question for the millionth time in my life, I feel like I have to answer the question once and for all.

“Do men grow up?”

“No, we don’t! Or at least not in the way women would hope.”

The truth is simple; by the standards our wives use to judge us, men don’t grow up. I can imagine guys everywhere trying to convince the woman in their life that I am wrong; that I don’t know what I am talking about, and that I can speak for myself but I don’t speak for men all over the world.

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My heart was pounding against my chest as I quickly made my way to the pediatric emergency room. I was breathing heavily as I stepped up to the counter and asked, “I am looking for my three year-old daughter, she was brought in by an ambulance.”

“Your daughter’s name?” the nurse asked.

“Chloe.”

“She just went up to x-ray with your wife,” the nurse responded.

“Which way is x-ray?”

“You can wait for them in her room, they should be back soon.”

I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to make a bee line to where they were taking x-rays of my daughter and see for myself what the situation actually was but instead, I was instructed by the nurse to wait patiently. I reluctantly agreed and the nurse showed me to the room that my little girl had been in before they took her up for the scans.

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I poured a cup of coffee, walked to the front of the house, opened the door and went out onto the front deck to sit and bask in the sunlight. It was finally a nice day. The sun was shining. There wasn’t any humidity. And after a long weekend of rain, it was nice to sit and relax with a cup of coffee on a great summer day before I headed into the office.

I sat down in my chair and took a sip of the coffee. I was looking out over the marsh across the street from my house when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed it. I immediately put my coffee cup down on the table, walked down my front steps and out to the end of my driveway and stared in disbelief at what had happened; my New York Giants mailbox was lying on the ground.

My day was ruined! I was angry; pissed off would be a better way to describe it! As I bent over to pick up the beat up mailbox, I looked around at every other house on the street and my ire at the situation grew even more. My mailbox was the only one on the entire street that had been smashed. I picked up the main part of the mailbox, brought it back into my yard and propped it up on the concrete wall next to the front steps and went back into the house.

It is no secret that I am a New York Giants fan. I have been all my life. I also realize that I live outside of Boston where the fans are extreme supporters of the local sports franchises. I understand that and if this act of vandalism had happened back in the first week of February, then I might have been a little more understanding of such a targeted attack on my personal property. It would have made sense. It would have still been wrong but it would have made sense. But there is no rational explanation for this type of vandalism to take place in August. It is six months after the Super Bowl and for my mailbox to have been damaged now defies conventional logic or explanation because the argument about it “happening in the heat of the moment” has long passed.

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The other night, Chloe, Josh and I sat out on our front porch and sang to the birds. We belted out as many tunes as we could think of and when we couldn’t think of any more songs to sing, we sang the songs a second time. It was a nice cool evening with a breeze blowing in off the water and from where we were sitting; we watched the sun set over Boston while we were having a little fun.

As it got later into the night, Stephanie came out onto the front porch and told Chloe it was time for bed. After a few rounds of hugs and kisses for Josh and I, Chloe headed off to her room with Stephanie. A little while later, Stephanie came back out onto the porch and told Josh it was time to get ready for bed as well. As he gave me a hug good night and headed into the house with Stephanie, I sat back with a huge grin on my face as I stared out over the marsh across the street from our home.

It all started in August of 2001, when our son Josh was born prematurely. He spent the first eight days of his life in the Special Care Nursery because his lungs had not yet fully developed. It was tough for us to watch him lying in an incubator with tubes down his throat so he could breath, feeding tubes in his arms, and monitors that were carefully checking all of his vital statistics. Luckily for us, Josh responded to the treatment rather quickly and was home in eight days.

Stephanie and I were happy, excited, tired, jubilant, in love, scared, and just about every other possible emotion in between. It was a tough time for us when Josh first came home from the Hospital. Stephanie and I were on pins and needles as we worried about a possible relapse that would put him back into the Special Care Nursery. But as each day passed, our fears gradually subsided.

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I want to thank everyone who has sent an email or a note over the past two weeks. Your kinds words of support and love at this time in our lives has been a blessing for the whole family.

This week, I am turning my site over to my son Joshua. Many of you have asked when I might start writing again and posting new content; the answer is “soon.” Stephanie and I have taken a step back from everything over the past couple of weeks and spent the majority of our time with the children and each other. But operations at Irishman For Hire will return to normal soon. Which brings me to my son Josh…

The day after my mother-in-law’s funeral, Josh met with his counselor. As she spoke to him about grandma and grief, she told him to tell her the story of how he was feeling about the loss of his grandmother. While he spoke, she wrote every word he said down on a piece of paper. When I read it later that day, my heart broke all over again. His words were sad, insightful, but most importantly, as I came to the end of his story, his words were full of compassion and love. I have always heard the expression, “Out of the mouths of babes.” Well, my six year-old floored me with the tribute he “wrote” for his grandmother.

This past weekend, Josh asked me if I would post his story on my website and share it with family and friends. After a lot of thought about his request; tonight, I am honoring it.

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Author’s Note: My Mother-in-law, Kathy passed away this week. This story was written three years ago and has not been shared until today; I would like to dedicate it in honor of Kathy. We miss you Kathy and as you loved to celebrate Holidays, it was a warm Fourth of July morning three years ago when I realized I had so much to thank you for!! Two of those reasons are mentioned in this article. Thank you Kathy for your love, your patience and guidance but most importantly, your friendship; especially your enthusiastic support for all of my stories. I loved sharing them with you. We all love you Mom and you will live in our hearts forever.

THE FOURTH OF JULY

I woke up to the sound of my youngest child, Chloe, fussing in her basinet. She was hungry and as I rolled over in bed, I saw Stephanie sleeping peacefully. The night before (the Third of July celebration in our town) had been a long night! We had fun with our friends during our annual barbecue, we saw an incredible fireworks display over our front yard, followed by more fun into the late evening and a little cleaning up afterward until we finally fell asleep long after midnight.

So five o’clock in the morning came earlier than usual and our six-week old daughter was hungry. I quietly snuck out of bed, picked up Chloe, carried her downstairs, started to heat up her bottle and changed her diaper. As I was waiting for the bottle to warm up, I looked out the window and saw that it was turning into an absolutely glorious morning. The sun was coming up on a quiet Fourth of July, the air was warm, and you could hear the birds beginning to bring in the new day with their songs of serenity.

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I am a connoisseur of unstylish and ugly sunglasses. I love them; the uglier the pair, the better. When I lose a pair of sunglasses, I almost can’t wait to buy a new pair just to see what intricate and unfashionable new designs they have come up with lately. But let me digress for a minute because I am getting way ahead of myself; the reason for my admission above started last week in what has turned into a common ritual in our home.

“Stephanie, have you seen my sunglasses?” I asked as I started tearing our house apart.

“No. Where did you have them last?”

“I put them on the dining room table.”

“Are you sure you put them on the dining room table?”

“I am positive.”

“Then they should be on the dining room table.”

“If they were on the dining room table, would I be asking you if you knew where they were?! Obviously someone moved them.”

“Or maybe you lost them again!”

“I did not lose them again, they were right here on the table!!”

“Sure they were,” Stephanie responded as she left the room. “You keep thinking that and I am sure they will turn up right where you left them.”

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“It’s cold, brrrrr, it’s cold, argh, it’s freezing, argh! ARGH!!!”

That was me screaming like a school child in the shower two years ago on an ordinary Thursday morning. After taking my ice cold shower, I toweled off and headed out of the bathroom only to be taunted and laughed at by my wife and children.

“How’s your shower, Daddy?” asked one of the kids. I mumbled something evil and undecipherable under my breath as I continued to go back to my bedroom to start the rest of my morning.

“I didn’t even whine that much when I took my shower this morning, tough guy,” my wife quipped when I came back into the kitchen and headed for the coffee maker to pour myself a gigantic cup of coffee.

“Isn’t everyone a little comedian this morning?” I responded. “Well, we’ll see who’s laughing when no one gets any allowance this week, won’t we?”

I am not what one would call “a morning person” and I am even more of a bear if I don’t have a hot shower in the morning to help wake me up. It’s the hot water and nothing else that helps me shake off the cobwebs and get the day started. Unfortunately for me, the cold shower I had two years ago was directly related to an issue with my Natural Gas Company.

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