Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic
My wife and I have started this little tradition since moving into our house. We call it “Sunday Supper.” We will work on making a big dinner as a coup de grace to the weekend – we light candles, play some music, open a nicer bottle of wine, use cloth napkins and just sit and enjoy a good meal. The cloth napkins are the key here.
It’s a tradition we started now so that when our daughter is older she will look forward to the Sunday Suppers as much as we do. Sunday is the day we will be sure to all come together and not be distracted by homework, or soccer practice or television. It will be like the dinner table in American Beauty, just without the angst.
And magnificently we will flow into the mystic
As Van Morrison played in the background and we were enjoying a great dish, our conversation turned – as it usually does – to Ella. She had been sick during the week, as kids are wont to do, and she had been leaking a lot from both ends.
Somehow, between the beautiful “Into the Mystic,” the bottle of cab and the delicious Italian dish, we got on the subject of our daughter’s diarrhea.
When that fog horn blows …
In that moment, the song turned into my life.
Here I was, without a compass, sailing into the mystic. I have no idea what the future has in store for me as a father. I don’t know if I am going to continue to be reluctant in attending to crying or nightmares. When I turn my cell phone to “Do Not Disturb” during the night, my body goes into the same mode. If I get up to console a four-year old over a monster in the closet, will I lay on her bed and fall back asleep, leaving my kid to shudder through the night?
As I sat at our dinner table, wondering when my daughter is going to feel better, the words made more and more sense to my situation. The fog horn was the diarrhea reference, obviously.
… you know I will be coming home
Rather than wondering “When will I get some more me time?” I need to just let go – let my soul and spirit fly into the mystic. There is no more me. There is only us.
Along with my wife, we will magnificently flow into the mystic. We have each other. We are blessed. There aren’t words to describe the amount of support we have for the other. The future will be magnificent.
As someone who lived in three cities during his childhood and spent much of his twenties traveling and job-jumping to bigger and better opportunities, the idea of home means so much to me. Perhaps that’s why I look forward to our Sunday Suppers all week. It just feels like … home. It feels secure.
And, yet, there we were, enjoying our wonderful meal, listening to The Man, faces illuminated by 40 watt bulbs and candlelight … talking about our daughter’s poop.
I stopped, sipped my wine, and laughed.
Those are the moments when the name of this blog really makes sense to me. It’s more of a rhetorical question than a statement, really. So, this is fatherhood?
As Van closes the song, my question and his ellipses fill in whatever blanks are left.
Too late to stop now …