I was sitting on the balcony watching the sun drop behind the courtyard building across the street. The September heat finally loosening its grip as the sun waved bye-bye. The bourbon in my hand was cooling against a single ice chip, doing its job as much as I was letting it.
One by one, the Shepkids wandered out to check on their Oldman. Each with their own little request, each reminding me that even on quiet nights, fatherhood doesn’t punch a clock.
George poked his head out first. “You okay, Big Man? Can you make some popcorn for me?” That is George, checking in, steady as he goes, with a snack request that is as much ritual as his favorite snack is on a Friday night.
Hazel followed, asking if I could make her dinonuggies. The girl knows what she wants and sees no reason not to ask for it.
Then Fritz came out, not with food in mind but a shower. Typical middle child move... practical, reserved, and somehow the one that is stuck to be the glue of the family.
Fritz sat down a moment to shoot the shit.
I had shuffle running on Spotify, playing through my list of favorite tunes. Fritz paused, listened, then asked, “What are you listening to?” I told him it was the song I played every time his mom was giving birth to him, his brother, and his sister... Kate Bush’s “This Woman’s Work.”
It was my shorthand way of saying that this was the soundtrack to your arrival into my life. He blinked, then asked, “You actually listened to this song every time Mom had us?”
Truth is, the song played when I was asked to leave the delivery room while the epidural was happening.
Why ruin the poetry of it?
I let him believe the tune was pouring out as he squeezed his way into the world. Damn if that late-’80s song doesn’t still make me cry, still make me run the reel of what-ifs in my head, but screw the what-ifs.
Those three days, each birth, were the most magical days of my life. Kate Bush nailed the feeling better than I ever could.
Someday, I will tell them the whole story. That the one born on July 24th was conceived while their mom and I wore Halloween costumes, her favorite holiday. That the two knuckleheads arrived out of Thanksgiving spirit, which has always been my holiday of choice. Those details can wait. For now, I’ll let the myth live a little longer.
Fritz got his shower.
Hazel settled for a yogurt and a banana instead of her nuggets.
George munched on Orville Redenbacher.
And me?
I finished my bourbon, leaned back, and let the stars shine over Riverside and the Divorced Dad District. It wasn’t about popcorn or showers or Spotify or dinonuggies. It was about them showing up, one by one, orbiting the Oldman with their simple asks. Proof that in all the things I should’ve done, there is one thing I never failed at...
...I always showed up for them.
Saturday brings rugby and the halfway point to Saint Patrick's Day. If you don't have anything to do... Go out to Lemont and watch the Blaze ruck or go to The James Joyce and hear the bagpipes fill the air. 1983 is Flashback on XRT today.
