I don't remember the exact moment when I realized that my every aspiration was a subtly-fabricated lie. Yet the realization did come, and I buried that unpleasant little truth the only way I knew how - under miles and miles of stories. I collected them, my favorite movies and TV shows, all pressed together between two little plastic discs and neatly arranged on my bookshelf, ready to pop in to the DVD player at for a moment's distraction.
Somehow I attracted company. My wife joined me, but, as she curled her head into my shoulder during the slow parts of the movie, I never thought it appropriate to ask her whether she shared my suspicion that our dreams were just shallow puddles slowly drying up in an inevitable sun. She seemed happy enough to be there with just me for company - until, of course, the third one came.
Wesley is definitely my boy. He finds as much comfort in watching those stories play out on the television as I do, although I suspect that he just enjoys watching the pretty lights and colors. He is only two years old, and I'm so proud of my boy. He now say three words: "mama," "no," and he just learned "more."
Wes and I have finished watching a cartoon, one of his favorites. I put the movie away in its little plastic package on the shelf, and there he is, my little boy, groping up at the air and saying, "More. More." I grab his hand and try to lead him away, but he yanks himself away and goes for the boxed movies again. I reach down to pick him up, but he sees me coming, screams "No," and runs away. It must be nap time, I think to myself, so I go to the kitchen to get him a drink to put him down with.
As I stand in the kitchen, I hear a succession of noises, each an indispensable paragraph in an all-too-familiar tale. First, the small crash. Then, the succession of crashes, a veritable downpour of noisy collisions. At the climax, the dreadful silence, that most terrible of sounds. It's almost a relief when Wes finally lets out that painful cry.
It all happens so quickly, I only just had time to drop the bottle in the sink before the wailing began. I steel myself and run back through the doorway, dreading what I will see. Surely, I think, the damage can't be as bad as it sounded. Wes is only two - barely tall enough to scratch my knee. Surely he couldn't have upset such a tall bookshelf...
But, of course, he did. Every single box has fallen from its place. A few still lie, slumped and exhausted, on the shelf, but the rest are heaped on the floor. So many beautiful stories, thrown down like so much garbage. It's a miracle Wes didn't bring the whole unit down on top of him. How on earth could a little boy be so strong?
I see a particular treasure of mine - a beautiful collector's edition box of The Lord of the Rings, which packaged the movies with a limited print art book of concepts and character sketches. It's a rare item, the prize of my collection, and it's currently supporting the weight of a grabby little tyke with tears and snot in equal portions running down his face. His little sneaker slips on the cover of the art book, tearing it sloppily off, and down he plummets again. His cries get louder.
And what can I do about it? I pick my little loinfruit up, brush the back of his head, and whisper in his ear that everything will be okay. He rewards me by burying his dirty face into the shoulder of my shirt and blubbers, "Mama." We stand like that for a good five minutes, him rubbing his facial runnings all over my shirt, and me pretending not to mind. By the end, he's fallen asleep, and I'm left to silently contemplate everything that's just been destroyed before my very eyes.
I put Wes down in his crib, and then I'm back out in the TV room, carefully placing each dislodged item back in its rightful place. Some of the discs have fallen out of their cases, and I just know that they're scratched now. The art book, sadly, is beyond saving. I spend the better part of an hour re-categorizing the DVDs on the shelf. Just as I slump back into the deep, comfy cushions of my favorite armchair, I hear the slight "thump thump" of tiny fists on a bedroom door and the voice of my little Wes chanting, "More, more, more."
The easiest way to write a character seems to be to just write yourself. I try to write characters as if they were people completely distinguishable from myself, but not this time. Even though I don't have any kids, I tried to think of how I would act as a father and wrote that.
As I revised, though, I think the character got more and more depressed. So hopefully it's not TOO close to life.
Somehow I attracted company. My wife joined me, but, as she curled her head into my shoulder during the slow parts of the movie, I never thought it appropriate to ask her whether she shared my suspicion that our dreams were just shallow puddles slowly drying up in an inevitable sun. She seemed happy enough to be there with just me for company - until, of course, the third one came.
Wesley is definitely my boy. He finds as much comfort in watching those stories play out on the television as I do, although I suspect that he just enjoys watching the pretty lights and colors. He is only two years old, and I'm so proud of my boy. He now say three words: "mama," "no," and he just learned "more."
Wes and I have finished watching a cartoon, one of his favorites. I put the movie away in its little plastic package on the shelf, and there he is, my little boy, groping up at the air and saying, "More. More." I grab his hand and try to lead him away, but he yanks himself away and goes for the boxed movies again. I reach down to pick him up, but he sees me coming, screams "No," and runs away. It must be nap time, I think to myself, so I go to the kitchen to get him a drink to put him down with.
As I stand in the kitchen, I hear a succession of noises, each an indispensable paragraph in an all-too-familiar tale. First, the small crash. Then, the succession of crashes, a veritable downpour of noisy collisions. At the climax, the dreadful silence, that most terrible of sounds. It's almost a relief when Wes finally lets out that painful cry.
It all happens so quickly, I only just had time to drop the bottle in the sink before the wailing began. I steel myself and run back through the doorway, dreading what I will see. Surely, I think, the damage can't be as bad as it sounded. Wes is only two - barely tall enough to scratch my knee. Surely he couldn't have upset such a tall bookshelf...
But, of course, he did. Every single box has fallen from its place. A few still lie, slumped and exhausted, on the shelf, but the rest are heaped on the floor. So many beautiful stories, thrown down like so much garbage. It's a miracle Wes didn't bring the whole unit down on top of him. How on earth could a little boy be so strong?
I see a particular treasure of mine - a beautiful collector's edition box of The Lord of the Rings, which packaged the movies with a limited print art book of concepts and character sketches. It's a rare item, the prize of my collection, and it's currently supporting the weight of a grabby little tyke with tears and snot in equal portions running down his face. His little sneaker slips on the cover of the art book, tearing it sloppily off, and down he plummets again. His cries get louder.
And what can I do about it? I pick my little loinfruit up, brush the back of his head, and whisper in his ear that everything will be okay. He rewards me by burying his dirty face into the shoulder of my shirt and blubbers, "Mama." We stand like that for a good five minutes, him rubbing his facial runnings all over my shirt, and me pretending not to mind. By the end, he's fallen asleep, and I'm left to silently contemplate everything that's just been destroyed before my very eyes.
I put Wes down in his crib, and then I'm back out in the TV room, carefully placing each dislodged item back in its rightful place. Some of the discs have fallen out of their cases, and I just know that they're scratched now. The art book, sadly, is beyond saving. I spend the better part of an hour re-categorizing the DVDs on the shelf. Just as I slump back into the deep, comfy cushions of my favorite armchair, I hear the slight "thump thump" of tiny fists on a bedroom door and the voice of my little Wes chanting, "More, more, more."
The easiest way to write a character seems to be to just write yourself. I try to write characters as if they were people completely distinguishable from myself, but not this time. Even though I don't have any kids, I tried to think of how I would act as a father and wrote that.
As I revised, though, I think the character got more and more depressed. So hopefully it's not TOO close to life.
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