Sore Spot
My friend Jeremy called me the other night to make sure I was coming to see his band The Dixie BeeLiners next week: given that I’d put in a good word for Jeremy with the Beeliner’s bandleader Buddy Woodward, I was delighted to see them. When Buddy and co moved south last year, I put them in touch with my buddy Claiborne, who’s a fantastic picker and the reason I play bluegrass to begin with.
I asked Jeremy how the move to Nashville was going and how band stuff was working out. “Great!” He said. “The album’s coming out on Pinecastle, and we’ve got tours coming up like crazy.” he began to rattle off a list of festivals, conferences, and other appearances.
“Man oh man, did that bitch fucking ruin my life,” I muttered. “It’s gonna be another 5 years at least before I can do that again.” After Sam was born, any dreams I had been pursing of being a professional musician were shattered, yesterday’s news, inoperable.
“Whaddya mean?” Jeremy asked incredulously. “You get to enjoy your son!”
“Do I?” I asked. “Do I really?”
“Well, uh… umm….” There was a pause.
“I mean, it’s not like I don’t enjoy my time with Sam, but Jeremy, I only get him 70 days each year. That’s not exactly ‘enjoying my son’. That’s ’scrambling to have any time with him at all’ and believe me, those scant fleeting moments don’t do anything at all to balance out the rest of my life, because they’re so infrequent. I mean, if I had him every day, there’d be something to say for your argument, but the reality is that no, I actually DON’T get to enjoy my son. But listen, let’s change the subject: you caught me at a bad time.”
It’s a real sore spot for me, and popped up again yesterday as well when I was working the “Kids’ Day” event my employers sponsored as part of our domestic violence fundraisers. Many of our volunteers have kids too, and they brought them out for face painting, pumpkin-face making, and other activities.
“Where’s you boy, Brendan?” one of my colleagues asked me.
“Um.. he’s up in Montreal? Where he lives?”
“Oh, that’s right. He just visits with you.”
“Yup,” I said tersely and looked the other way. Again the uncomfortable silence, until thankfully another little kid tottered over looking for face paint, and we could both drop the subject.
I think I come off as bitter and angry whenever the topic comes up: playing a wedding earlier this summer, my mandolin player asked me what Sam was up to. “How the hell would I know,” I said flatly and a little beligerently. “He doesn’t live here.”
“No, I mean, what developmental stage is he at?” the guy persisted. And then I had something to talk about, but it was all secondhand. “His mom tells me…” “Well, I heard that…” It’s a really bullshit way to live, and a crappy foundation from which to approach parenting. And since his mom hasn’t exactly been cooperative about getting him on the phone with me, I feel more distant from Sam than I ever have before. It’s gonna be pushing two months by the time I see him again.
Two fucking months to see my own kid. Two fucking months, and everything I ever wanted in life a total shambles. And when I read heart-wrenching articles like this one about the children of soldiers who’ve died in Iraq, many who were only toddlers when Mom or Dad went up in a cloud of smoke, steel and sand it gets me all fucked up.
It was the first time that Ms. Kross had shown the letter to CamerynLee, a sprite of a girl with a gentle voice and large blue eyes. “I think about him every day,” CamerynLee said as she studied the letter. “I remember cooking with him. He was helping me flip the sausages. I remember him carrying me. I wish he was still alive.”
In some cases, involving children who were very young or not even born when their mothers or fathers died, the surviving parents attempt to create memories.
I wonder if my son remembers me sometimes, and why he never wants to talk on the phone when I call. I worry that he sees his mom’s boyfriend as his parent, and I worry that her boyfriend has a greater presence in his life than I do. I wonder if she’s going to disappear with him again, giving me two weeks notice that they’re moving even farther away.
Some birthday.
Added: and what a egomaniacal dick I am comparing my grief to the grief of kids who’ve lost their parents. I gotta get a sense of proportion.
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