Reversion to Form

I was sort of hoping by now I'd be out of reasons to try to learn too many new things. Don't misunderstand, I still want to learn new things. Self-imposed intellectual and social stagnation is the kind of thing that can lead to an accidental isolation in old age as the culture passes you by. I'm already experiencing some of that right now as I have no idea what a Dua Lipa is or how the TikTok works, the latter of which of course is a shame as all the times I've used my phone to record myself dancing have been wasted on this audience of one.

It's not true in every case, but by my age, what I call "late-early middle age," there should at least be the option somewhere to continue in the career you already have, with the family you have, with the responsibilities you have until you've earned the right to set the responsibilities aside and focus on the things that really matter to you in your twilight. In America, of course, that means finding whatever menial secondary job you can find that will supplement your Social Security income enough to keep you above the Cat Food Line of solvency. You know: the golden years.

My youngest turned 18 this year, graduated high school, all that stuff. I figured, with no small amount of melancholy, that the active dad-phase of my life was well over. The melancholy of course is more than tempered with joy and pride at the men my boys have become and, in no small part, the luxury of disinterest I've earned in how their bodies work and what might be leaking out of them. I did the infant and toddler years where it was my job to catch every damned thing that fell out of them and dispose of it responsibly. For you non-parents, you'd really be surprised how much ejecta ends up being your problem even when you're well past the diaper stage and into the double digits.

At a range of 18 to 22, we're good now though, right? Turns out no. The youngest had his wisdom teeth out today. The other two had them all done at about the same time as one another, about four years ago, but there's a mental trick that happens in parenting where the really gross stuff immediately self-destructs out of your memory like Mission:Impossible instructions as soon as you're done with the active application phase. I forgot this could be icky too. With my boy stoned out of his gourd on totally legal, professionally administered goofy juice, followed up with regular codeine chasers, I found myself up to my wrists in blood and slobber for a goodly portion of this Thursday (I took off from work!) as I swapped out (or actively supervised the swapping out) of gauze in bloody jaw sockets.

But I also got to talk him through his anesthesia fog, fetch him soft foods, oversee administration of medications, even spontaneously whipped up some mashed potatoes as a savory dinner following a full day of yogurt and ice cream. We bummed out on the couches in the living room and came dangerously close to watching The Fast and the Furious (the original! I told you he was high) before deciding instead to binge all the way through Invincible on Amazon (he hadn't seen it). It was a full day. Real dad shit. I don't know how many more of those I get, but I think back to the guy with three kids under five complaining about all the dad shit and I think... well, he was right to complain. There might be some things you like, but that doesn't mean you want an avalanche's-worth of it, fucking hell.

It'll pass though. The same kid already got a job. He starts Saturday (face-swelling willing). He'll make his own money and there will be one less thing he needs me for. And I'll pretend to lament it, as I have everything else, but also know that it's awesome and a giant relief. We'll start to make the transition from me being a resource for him to him (and his brothers) being a resource for me. Like for example helping me figure out that one Joker meme means.