No song today.

After giving much thought, and if not a fictional story, I promised to be honest. Much thought.

Backstory: There is a baby girl, well now young woman, who may be mine. My first marriage was to a southern woman who was likely probably not a good fit. I could place blame on her, or she on me. Lord knows there was likely plenty of blame to toss around, probably even enough for third or fourth helpings. Reality, we sucked as husband and wife. No blame, just facts.

I will not badmouth anyone, but I can share truth about myself. I was not a good husband. Nothing like abuse or drugs, but I knew my parents had a marriage that was great at times, terrible at times, and way too much fighting about stupid shit. I tried to avoid that ‘part’ of a marriage. I’m shy. I don’t like to fight. I’m mean and nasty and want to win when I fight. Words can be swords. My swords are ofttimes over sharpened. I try to keep my swords in a sheath buried beneath the foundation of the house, unable to emerge.

I am almost totally successful now. My view isn’t always either the same view perceived by others, and lo and behold. Sometimes my view can be a far cry from correct. True story.

My first wife and I fought worse than any couple I’ve seen. I don’t know nor care if she or I were smarter or right. I hated fighting. I began putting some savings from my job aside to leave. I had deliberately distanced myself from my family, because when my parents were in the divorce process, things got ugly on both sides. I wasn’t directly asked to choose a side, but I certainly was strongly judged.

I chose to remain Swiss. They were both my parents. I loved them dearly even while hating what I felt were shortcomings. My perception, not necessarily reality. Some may have overlapped both.

I tended, and still tend to avoid family. The choosing of sides and manipulation began. Both mom and dad were guilty, as were likely all of us kids. It wasn’t the particular pool I wished to dip my toes, so I dipped out.

The war never truly ended, not when dad died. Mom still loved him. She cried often. She went on like 2 dates total after the split. I don’t believe any were second dates.

I stayed away until after my wife and I split, I’d had enough. I called dad and at 30 something, shamefacedly moved ‘home’, only it wasn’t. It was the house I’d grown up in awhile ago. The memories and laughter had been smashed deep into the carpet and painted over, stuck endlessly behind gawdy yellows or soothing cranberry. Except for the bedrooms and the family room, the house had always been eggshell white. You can’t go home no more.

The yard was a wreck. Burned trash littered the backyard. The grass was unkempt. Rot had crept up on the outer garage door. Symbolic? I suppose. The family had deteriorated as well.

So there I was in an all day every day fencing match of rapier wit. Talk about stress. Why all the backstory? It’ll perhaps become apparent soon. This story is for two people, one related by blood. The other?

I took a q tip with a cheek swab when I left. I didn’t have much money when I moved. I scrimped up enough extra for a DNA test. I had doubts. The results were negative. I found out I was (my paraphrasing) medically incapable of fathering a child. I didn’t take it too seriously, as the marriage was a goner anyway.

I WANTED children, or at least have the option of having one at hopefully the timing and woman of our mutual choosing. Two more tests saying no required that particular hope and wish to apparently be destined to remain naught but wishful thinking.

Meanwhile I was contacted by the woman in question. I had tickled her feet, changed a majority of the diapers, fixed bottles at 3 am, and gotten not nearly enough smiles and off key giggles. It all ended after the DNA test.

Anyway, I don’t remember if I told her about the DNA thing. I did share that due to the fertility tests, the odds were like (being hopeful) 1 in a million, but I’d happily do a current DNA test. Honestly, the swab wasn’t fresh when it was used. I don’t know if that makes a difference in the results or not.

The offer was left open. There was never a yes answer, nor was there a decline.

I can’t say for sure, but I think the contact was not with love in all sides’ heart. I don’t fight anymore on silly things. I have learned to be much more open about how screwed up life can be. How often it turns out that having something be impossible is impossible. To make it more confusing, it is impossible to say something thought impossible actually is impossible.

Gah, I sound like a logician, or even worse, an English professor preparing to decimate some of his pupils for having opinions perhaps not entirely mainstream or what the critics claim a long-dead author meant by particular wording. I’d like to think the writer did it not necessarily for the symbolism which accidentally may have come along for the ride, but instead did it for one (or an overlap of both) or two possible reasons.

Writing is akin to what someone of religious bent may find their state of mind when having a vision. Oh God, writing might be a cult. Don’t drink the flavor-aid ’cause there wasn’t any kool-aid in Jonestown. It’s all about the passion. Why do you write? Either because to not write isn’t an option or because I suck at charades.

Writing is done as a job. To get paid. It beats the hell outta manual labor. I’m sure you’ve seen the writing. Heck, you may have briefly entertained yourself reading one in a magazine while seeing a man about a horse.

Hopefully some do it for both successfully.

I fall into the first category. Sure it might be nice to get some cheddar, but I’ve written without for decades. I still write. I’d like to think they wrote because they had to, and maybe I saw a joke or insight others did not. Except Dante. I doubt the Divine Comedy will come to sit com Thursday anytime soon. I’ll probably scratch an obscene joke on the inside lid of my coffin. Nah, a dad joke.

I also avoid most fighting. Theresa has made me a better person. Talk about a cheerleader. I even rather enjoy the idea of pom poms. Mind outta the guttah. Not meant in a double entendre way.

Beware: Long convoluted details that may be mostly irrelevant coming to an end. (I might be slightly messing with some bored enough to read this, sorry. Ahem, I didn’t read it all, Dame. Cause it was, you know, long. ROFL)

So I still don’t know if she born of my first wife while we were married is my daughter or not. She has both her mom’s and my grandmother’s eyes. Italian stock both sides. She apparently chose to accept what I had as proof impossible of children. My son showed impossible isn’t.

A shame I was told politely to pound sand. One kid is wonderful and beyond words. That’s wrong. There are 3 other kids who I hope choose as much to think of me as dad as I think of them as my children. And the grandbabies. Four kids and grandbabies is wonderful. I get to be papa monster, a jungle gym AND hear fart jokes. Woohoo!!!

Would be kinda cool if there were five. I’d better start trying to do some pushups or something. Jungle gyms aren’t allowed to grow tired. They can be pretty good at distracting, however.

Peace.