Holmeses Aloneses

This morning, The Mighty Ash and The Indomitable Henry climbed into a blue minivan with The Mighty Ash's Parental Units of Unity, also known as The Goodtimes Grandfolks. The minivan, which was blue, was facing south at the time of departure. It was, however, promptly navigated to a multi-lane highway where it could be pointed in an easterly direction, which is the very direction it proceeded to travel all throughout the day until it finally reached its destination: New Orleans, Louisiana.

I do not know what direction the blue minivan is facing at this time.

For our part, Simon the Jovial and I, Simply The Holmes, remained behind in Austin at our house, the location from which the aforementioned departure took place. It was decided that a roadtrip of such length might be better traveled without a not-yet-one-year-old. We did at one time consider the possibility of all of us going, but in truth, this is a trip for The Ash's mother's side of the family. See, while New Orleans may have become a political symbol for the current administration's domestic failures, it is still something far more profound to many people, and that is Home. And to yet many more, it is the Place From Which Their People Hail. This includes my wife and her sisters, whose mother, aunt, and late uncle grew up in New Orleans. The Ash's mother and aunt will talk endlessly about what it was like growing up there, enough to drive you insane. Her aunt, who now lives with us, left it all behind on the eve of Katrina's landing. To her, it's still home. She just lives in Austin now.

So they've all gone to spend a few days wandering around the city that their family once called home, and to which they are still linked. Or at least what's left of it. Thankfully, all the plagues that had rained down upon us over the last month lifted in time. Since we pulled Simon out of daycare, and since the grandparents are part of this big excursion, that leaves only me. Truth be told, I was happy to take the vacation days. From now until next Monday, it's just the two of us. I did have some grand designs on accomplishing all manner of projects ranging from home improvement to self improvement. And I might get to some of that. But I'm thinking instead that maybe I'll spend some time showing Simon around the city of Austin, the city that is his Home. We'll take a few excursions of our own.

365 # 89: Corey P.

I called in to work yesterday because I was as sick as one of those sick dogs we're always hearing about. I spent most of the miserable day in bed, but around 4:00, I couldn't stand to lay there anymore, so I got up and started doddering around. I decided to make myself useful and fold up some laundry. In bending down to pick up a pile, my well-rested but very not-stretched back seized up on me. So in addition to being sick, killer back pain. Score.

So yes, Corey, the first paragraph of this post that bears your name is all about me, and you don't even get a mention until this here second paragraph, but that's only because I needed that first paragraph to tell everybody about the godawful back pain I suffered, which is relevant to this post because back pain always reminds me, that's right, of you. I know that's not a very exciting thing to be associated with in one's memory, but Jesus Christ man, by 10th grade, you had already experienced as many back-related issues as guys in John McCain's age bracket. You were always missing school because you had to have yet another surgery or some such. Maybe my spasm yesterday was a bit of karma coming back to me for calling you Backflip. Speaking of nicknames, I believe it was you that christened Mrs. Ryan "Chia Pet." Very nice. Whereever you are, I hope your back's not giving you too much trouble. That shit hurts.

365 # 88: David H.

My God, did you ever love being on student council. From what I could tell, it was your absolute favorite thing in the world. You were naive idealism embodied. I wonder if you ever went into politics. Assuming you did, I wonder if you've been corrupted yet. That would be like watching "Beaver Cleaver: The Dark Years."

September has always hated me

I'm tired. Profoundly tired. Not to mention sick. If I were cell phone reception, I'd have maybe one bar showing right now. I'm connected, but not by much. And it's not just me, but my whole household as well. We tried out sending the boys to an actual daycare around the beginning of September, and we didn't make it through a single week without one or both of the boys being sent home sick. And since we're raising them right, they were thoughtful enough to bring their ick home with them. I know, I know, that's par for the course with daycare, but that doesn't make it suck any less.

So The Ash and I are dragging. It doesn't do good things for us as parents or as partners. We bicker, then remember that we're in this together and cling to one another for dear life. We are in survival mode. Simon has got himself an ear infection that has been tormenting him for the past week. The symptoms are gone, but we're still administering antibiotics, and when he screams and clutches at his ear, we place some of the drops in his ears that the doctor prescribed for pain. And we hold him until he calms down, and try to forget that we'd rather be in bed ourselves. It's all we can do.

For Henry, daycare was a horrid experience from day one. I've read other parents' accounts of having their kids in daycare and how their kids would cry at dropoff and pickup time. Rest assured he did that, but every day when I picked him up, it looked like he had cried the whole day long as well, and then he cried all evening. He woke up crying, begging not to go back. There's no way I'll accept that this is somehow good for him.

Thankfully, we've found a Montessori program for him that seems to be having the completely opposite affect. He's gone from insisting that he's never going to school again to wanting to go. He's gone from spending the morning commute in tears to singing. Ashley and I are delirious with happiness over how much good this school seems to be doing for him. So there's a bright spot.

I've got two months and some change left in a brutal semester. Honestly, it's beating the shit out of me. I'm going to finish out the semester and reassess. What am I doing? Why am I doing it? Is it worth it? What's most important? All that shit.

I'm glad September's over. Here's hoping October's better.

365 # 87: Kenneth the English Teacher

Your name was not Kenneth, but I can't remember your name and I have to call you something. You taught my English literature class my freshman year at UT -- you very much looked the part, by the way -- and I remember you strolling into class one day singing, "What's the frequency, Kenneth." You asked if anybody had heard the new R.E.M. album. The reason you still inhabit one of my memory cells is that you helped to reenforce that college was a completely different educational environment than any I'd previously experienced when I ran into you at one of my first college parties. It was at one of the many lovably rundown houses near campus. As we walked in, I heard a drunken, but still familiar voice. I know this voice, but from a different setting. I looked up and there was my teacher, holding up the wall.

"How ya doin? Your paper was great, by the way."

Welcome to college, Holmes.

365 # 86: Dolores D.

I still haven't forgiven you for that godawful mask dance you made us do at the beginning of The Empty Bowl. Even thinking about it now makes me want to commit murderous acts of stabby stab. Way to make a horrendous experience out of a perfectly awesome play. If you're going to keep directing plays, I hope you learn that you don't have to make them all into The Dolores Show.

365 # 85: Colorblind David

You once were foolish enough to let Robert and I talk you into driving your car offroad. It ended up getting stuck in the mud next to a bayou. This was in the days before everyone had a cell phone, so we had to walk back to school. Robert drove both you and I home, and all the way to your place, you seemed really worried about how your dad was going to react. Later on, we found out that you had told him that you had been kidnapped and forced to drive your car back there at gunpoint. They filed a police report and everything. The old man must've been a really scary fucker for you to make something like that up. I wonder if you went all the way with it or if your story cracked under the strain.