No Proofreads. No Edits.

Parenting isn’t fun anymore. I haven’t written in a few days in hopes that there would be something enlightening that took me out of the fog. I’d much rather discuss embarrassing moments of puberty. Not today though. Like I said in the previous post- this is NYC, year 3; not NYC, night 2. We are entering the belly of the beast.

If you could be a fly on the wall you’d describe the energey in the house as “unregulated” or perhaps “chaotic.” That is because you’re blind and you’re shortsighted and you suck at art. Have some respect, you asshole- The Gaffer is here.

The Gaffer is in the war room 24/7. She is not giving suggestions, she is executing her vision. We are losing men out there and the enemy seems to be one step ahead of us. Not for her though. She has the bigger picture perfectly drawn and saw today’s loss of morale coming before I even knew we were at war. While I sit there next to her wondering if this is going to work, she knows it will work. The Gaffer is ready to knock on the doors of the parents herself, not because she is ok with loss, but she knows that today’s loss is just one step closer to tomorrow’s victory.

Alas, each night we eat our dinner like the SEALS on the RHIBs (googled that term under search word “raft-like boats SEALs use”). We all play our part. My eldest sits silently as I know the more people being brought into this platoon has only made him feel lonlier. The girls cannot sit still. Their energy is nervous. The elder of the two shows her anxiety of being thrust into an older sibling role while the younger fears the end of the day and the thoughts that come with bedtime. Then there is the baby. A war movie isn’t a war movie unless someone pisses themselves out of fear. Baby boy has signed up for the piss but the only thing he fears is not getting his 13th chicken nugget to shove in his mouth. I’d imagine abundance is a trait he hasn’t trained for in BUD/S (knew this one, no google). It’s 6:02 p.m.

Meanwhile, The Gaffer and me know exactly what the night brings. There are no rockets red glare giving proof through the fucking night. The sun sets on civility and it’s time to deal with the capital T/Trauma. The darkness has kept us from knowing exactly when this raft will hit shore but timing and experience show that we are damn close. We tighten up our helmets, pull the slide, and meet eyes as if to say “see you on the other side.” It’s 6:55 pm.

Every night the tears come. Like bullets in the dark it is impossible to classify where they are coming from or why they started. The tears are followed by the thrashing. She moves to dry heaving and pure disobedience to all civil normalcy. The drool strains from her mouth onto her shirt until the shirt sticks to her belly like sweat in a gym. She rejects the comfort of her bed and the warmth of her mother’s hug. The only thing worse than us trying to hold her in these moments is us not trying to hold her these moments. No one is here to make it okay. The present doesn’t erase the past. It’s 8:03 p.m.

I stand there like a fucking idiot. Every night. I am no longer a soldier but a monkey with a gun waiting for instruction. I look to the Gaffer who has no time to retrain her platoon leaders. That time has passed. I freeze and forget everything that got me here. I ask God if He is sure. It’s 8:44 p.m.

The Gaffer does what the Gaffer does. She holds tight when the rope is slipping and loosens her grip when the rope is choking. She is calculated knowning what buttons to push, what threads to pull, and when she has momentum. The Gaffer is in control as she lays out command and order to all of us who stand helpelessly, stupidly in the shadows of confusion. It’s 9:14 p.m. We do this dance every night now.

It’s 9:44 p.m. … “It is going to be a hard first year,” the Gaffer tells me as the house falls to quiet for the first time in hours. Not an ounce of complaint in her voice. She has a plan. The war is made up of little battles but the little battles, individually, will not define this war.

It’s 10:24 p.m. Right now, things aren’t fun. They are still good.

You’re my Gaffer until the wheels fall off. #LLTFG