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of fathers who can't live with themselves,

fathers who just can't get it right.

0 12/3/2015 Dear Diary,

I was let go today. I am without a job. I didn’t do anything to warrant it. They just decided to downsize for financial reasons that I don’t really understand. I know it wasn’t a personal decision but I can’t help but take it personally. I performed well but the position was no longer available. Typical. I’m depressed. Not clinically, just for now. I’m anxious about having to seek employment again. Applications, job boards, everything’s automated now. I want to talk to a person. I don’t want to be sorted by an algorithm. What I’m more worried about is Christmas. It’s like two weeks away. We already bought Noah some gifts but there’s still so much more on his list. A lightsaber, a baseball, something called Imaginext(sp?), etc. I don’t know how we’ll be able to afford them. The Discover card is maxed out. I guess there’s a lot that’s maxed out right now… I don’t know how to break the news to Laurie. I can’t. Not now, maybe later. She’s sleeping right next to me. Probably dreaming of good things. She’s going to crumble. I need to force myself to see the positive in this. What’s that saying? When one of the doors closes, G-d opens another one? Well, I guess I’m looking for that door. And when I find it, I hope it’s not locked. I don’t really know what the plan is. I’ve thought about it and right now it seems like seasonal employment somewhere might be a good temp. solution. (Party City? Macy’s?) It needs to be somewhere that Laurie doesn’t shop… Safeway? Yeah, maybe Safeway. I could leave at like 8am, just like I have been. I’ll dress for my old job and change into my Safeway gear in the car. Then, I’ll just come back home whenever the shift ends. There’s always the chance she might spot the Tahoe in the parking lot though… I’ll just take off the license plate while I’m working. I’ll have to take the bumper stickers off too. I can live this lie. G-d, what am I saying. I can’t do that. I can’t lie like that. But maybe I have to. I can’t tell her. I can but I won’t. Who knows. I will. I will tell her. Tonight. But I can’t wake her up. Maybe tomorrow morning. I have to. No, not because I have to but because I should. She looks so peaceful under the comforter. I don’t know. I’ll just finish reading this Dean Koontz book. Merry Christmas to us all.

1 6/23/1995 Today was bad. It was so bad. When I go to pick her up tomorrow, who knows if she’ll want to talk to me. Who knows if she’ll like me. I know that she’ll still love me, but liking your dad is an option. You don’t have to do it. They’re probably all talking about me right now. They’re probably staying up all night talking about how gross I am. She’s probably laughing with them convincing them that she agrees and talking about how embarrassing I am. She’s probably trying to distance herself from me. I’m probably lowering her social status within her group of friends just by proxy. I don’t mean for that to happen. She doesn’t deserve that. I love her too much to let that happen but honestly I don’t know how to amend this situation. Is there a solution? Even if I show up tomorrow morning wearing a larger shirt, they’ll all remember what they saw today. How could they forget? It has to be etched in their memories. But I mean, it wasn’t my fault, right? I didn’t know. I wasn’t anticipating having to get out of the car when I dropped her off. I didn’t think she’d need help carrying her overnight bag inside. She almost always insists that she do it herself in one of those pride/independence/”Daddy-I-Can-Do-It” moments. So I didn’t dress for the occasion. But of course today was the day where she wanted my help. And I couldn’t say no. Not to her. So maybe the ball’s partially in my court. I should always be prepared, right? I should have been prepared. I should know that if my body is an Extra-Large, I shouldn’t wear shirts that are Larges, right? Sure, I can wear them in the comfort of my own home, but I should know not to wear them out. At least not as a top layer. They’re nice as undershirts; I kind of like that restrictive feeling, a snug shirt… Anyways, I goofed up. Well, it was more than a goof, really. I carried her bag to the door, acutely self-aware of my shirt’s fit, and she rang the doorbell. I heard them running to answer it, a stampede of girls excited to welcome mine into the house for their “Girls Only” sleepover night. In that moment, I had an impulse to run back to the car before they could open the door, so they wouldn’t see the real shape of my body, but I couldn’t leave her like that. I wasn’t gonna leave my little girl overnight without picking her up and kissing her and telling her to have fun. So I didn’t run. I stayed. Because that’s my duty as a father. The door opened, they all yelled out “CARLYYYYYY!!!” and rushed out to hug her. Before they could drag her inside, I told her to come here and I picked her up, kissed her and told her to have fun. While I picked her up, I’m almost certain that my shirt rode up a little bit, enough for some of my stomach to show. I lowered her back down calmly, as if nothing had happened and forced a smile to the girls, said something like, “you all have fun now”. She said goodbye and reminded me that she’d call from their house phone tomorrow when she was ready to be picked up. They ran back inside excitedly, with an eruption of questions posed to Carly: what color do you want your nails?, what toppings should we get?, how late do you think we can stay up?, did you know Leah got the new Barbie?, etc. But while those 6-year-old girls asked those questions and shut the door behind them, I knew they had just one question on their minds: why is your dad’s shirt so tight? So that’s where things stand. When I go to pick her up tomorrow, I’ll ask her how it was and I know she’ll tell me it was “so much fun!”, but she won’t tell me the truth. She won’t tell me that they spent most of their night talking about me and the weight that I’ve gained and my small, ill-fitting shirt. I need to lose weight. I need to stop embarrassing my daughter with my figure. I need to sleep. Hopefully tomorrow will be better. Goodnight.

2 5/24/2011 I received a phone call from my son’s teacher today. Payton has been expelled from Corners Point Elementary School. Apparently, the class was playing “Telephone” and Payton was at the end of the line. When the teacher asked him to say the final message aloud, he said, “Jet fuel can’t melt steel beams.” Naturally, I suggested that maybe the message was lost in translation, because, y’know, that’s what happens in Telephone, but his teacher was adamant about that not being the case. She stated that the original message had been “I love my little puppy dog,” and the child right before Payton had whispered, “I chugged a fizzy soda pop,” into his ear… I’d have a talk with him but he’s staying with his mother this week. Where does a six-year-old learn about truther theories? God help me. Please.

0 11/19/1992 I’ve been feeling really bad recently, like down and upset, and I don’t know why.

2 5.7.14 Today, I walked into my son’s room and found him writing at his desk. He was embarrassed and hid the papers when he saw me come in. I told him he shouldn’t be ashamed of writing. I was excited! I praised him for exercising his creativity. I asked him if I could take a look and after some reluctance, he handed it to me. I read it over. It was Harry Potter fan fiction. And it was highly erotic in nature. I left the room and told him to keep up the good work. I didn’t yell at him or take the papers away or have a talk about how this was inappropriate for a kid of his age. I acted as if it were normal. What was I supposed to do? If I’d reprimanded him, he would forever resent me and never want to express himself artistically again. If I don’t address it, he’ll think things like this are normal behavior. If his peers find out he’s writing erotic Harry Potter fan fiction, middle school and high school are gonna be a living hell for him. Is this some kind of a gateway drug? What else will this lead to? I don’t want him to start wearing raccoon tails or cat ears. Is that the next logical step? God. Where did I go wrong? Does he get this from me? Nothing is easy anymore.

1 1.29.14 I did it. I did what I swore I would never do. I lied to my wife. Backtracking. Earlier at work, I’m typing away in my cubicle, when my phone rings. I pick it up. It’s René, asking when I’ll be home. I tell her that I’m gonna have to work late to tie up some loose ends before the end of the fiscal quarter. She tells me not to worry and to take my time and that she’ll have some lasagna waiting for me when I get home and that she hopes it’s nothing too strenuous. I thank her. She says she loves me. (The gates open as the guilt floods in.) I tell her I love her too. I hang up. That last part (that I love her) wasn’t the lie. I love her to death, to the ends of the earth. I would do anything for René. Regardless, I lied to her. There were no “loose ends” that needed tying up. The fiscal quarter doesn’t end until next month. René doesn’t know this because she doesn’t hold a job as a financier; she cashiers at Michael’s, a selfless sacrifice, to help provide Tyson with the toys he wants and needs. I am such a scumbag. I didn’t stay late at the office. I left when I always leave, clocking out at 5:00pm, punching in my PIN (1125: Tyson’s bday), and got in my Ford Fiesta and sat there awhile. You know, I thought to myself, it wasn’t too late to call René and say nevermind, I was able to wrap things up early, be home soon, love. But no, I deserve to do the things I want, don’t I? What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. I can’t believe I just wrote that. I’m a terrible person. So. I did it. I went to 50¢ wing night. Were the wings good? Yes. Was it worth it? Maybe. Should I have done it? No. Driving home, I had a panicked moment. I ran a stop sign and I hope no one saw. Evidence! There was so much evidence. My fingertips were orange. My breath reeked of vinegar and cayenne. I probably had flecks of chicken stuck in my teeth crevices. My work was set out for me. I pulled in to the Rite Aid a couple blocks from home. Before going in, I prayed to God that she wasn’t in there. That would be the end of it, if I ran into her. I held my breath, walked through the automated door and scavenged for some Wet Ones, a travel-sized bottle of Listerine and one of those pocket toothbrushes with the little bubble of toothpaste already built in to the bristles (what a wonderful thing). I paid with cash, because who knows if she would check the bank statement, used my car as a bathroom, applied the various purchases to my corresponding evidential body parts, and drove home as a man who worked an extra hour at the office, not as a man who covertly ate wings behind his wife’s back. I hate myself. As I walked through the door, I realized my grave mistake. The lasagna. I completely forgot about the lasagna. On the table was a piping hot portion, larger than my fist. “Daddy, you’re home!” Tyson rushes me, gripping me as tight as he can… he has no idea where I’ve been or what I’ve done. René sneaks up from behind, wraps her arms around me, and plants a kiss on my cheek. I am so scared that she will smell buffalo sauce. She doesn’t appear to. She asks me if I got everything finished up at work okay and I reply with some kind of faux-exhaustion about how brain dead I feel from staring at those numbers all day. She demanded I sit down and eat the lasagna, “it’ll make ya feel better!” and asked me if I wanted Diet Coke or water. I said water. I already felt like throwing up. So full already. But I had to do it. I had to eat it all: this is the price I pay for being unfaithful to my wife. I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to clear my plate, wanting to vomit more and more with each tasking bite. I almost did. But I didn’t. I was sweating. I’m a pig. I wiped myself clean, thanked her for the dinner, and told her I was gonna go lie down for a bit. And so here I am, writing this diary entry in bed, listening to René wash the dishes downstairs, full of buffalo wings, lasagna and guilt. I don’t deserve her.

2 04/30/2004 Diary: Yesterday, I had neighbors over. A meet-and-greet, “welcome us to the neighborhood, we’re new here” kinda thing. And things were going really well. Great, even. There were some wonderful conversations. smatterings of laughter peppered here and there, many were smiling. It was nice. I had everything: fancy napkins, crudites, club soda, what could go wrong? I just wanted to make a good impression, to appear normal, to appear neighborly. Of course, things veered off course. They always do. What was I expecting? I was giving Ken (he lives across the street) some tax advice, others were circled around, listening. It felt good to be heard, to feel like what you have to say matters. I even felt confident enough to work a slight pun into the conversation (about how my work is very “taxing” haha, kind of embarrassing in hindsight.) Ken thanked me for the tips and then complimented the hummus, asking where I bought it. I told him it was ‘from Sam’s Club or BJ’s, some kinda wholesale club, I can’t remember’, pretending I couldn’t remember where it was from it in some weird attempt to appear cool via nonchalance. That was stupid. Who doesn’t remember where they bought their hummus? Strike one. Another neighbor (Lisa, maybe?) brought up how her husband coaches for the 8-12 kid’s t-ball rec. league and suggested I enroll Braxton. I told her I wished I could but that Braxton has asthma. Why did I say that? I don’t even know why I said that; Braxton doesn’t have asthma. I was trying to protect him(?). I don’t know. She said oh that’s a shame. I stammered and corrected myself, retracting my previous statement, saying that Braxton doesn’t have asthma, I was thinking of something else. "Oh, haha.“ She looked at me confused and laughed awkwardly, not knowing what to say. It’s nice to meet you, and she walked away. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Oy, she probably thinks I’m racist. I’m not racist. Strike two. As I was showing some neighbors the chandelier (all real crystal!, I said, totally making that up, I don’t know what "real crystal” means), Leah runs in holding something in each hand. They’re blue, what the heck are those things. I then realize what those things are. The horror sets in, my skin crawls, I can’t tell if I’m blushing or if my face has totally lost color. My legs begin to grow weak. Ken asks whatcha got there, little lady? She’s holding my correctional orthotic shoe inserts. Great. Now everyone knows my feet pronate, an intimate personal health issue I would never dream of revealing, especially not during a first encounter with new neighbors. I’m feeling dizzy. "Daddy’s foot helpers!“ Everyone laughs. She giggles and starts to run off. Strike three, I’m out. Literally out. That was the last thing I remembered before passing out. I came to in my bedroom, with my ex-wife over me. I don’t ever want to see my neighbors again. Being a single father is hard.