Death Comes To Town

I'm sort of all milestone-d out. Once you have kids, everywhere you look, something's a fucking milestone. Conception, birth, smiling, rolling over, sitting up, standing, walking, solid food, talking, potty training, first day of school, graduating kindergarten, graduating elementary school, graduating middle school, graduating high school, first drink, first date, first STI, first arrest, first restraining order, alcoholism, cirrhosis, death by jaundice. All big days in any growing boy's life.

This past year or so, I've started to pass from the growth-curve milestones to more of the decline-slope milestones. The ones that augur things that impend, that loom, that fucking portend. On the way up, there's a whole parenting-industrial complex designed to support, mostly by wedging a bit of fear in to separate me from my disposable income. Every sneeze is probably encephalitis, so thank god I've got my handy copy of Dad's First Book of Baby Diseases, vol. I for convenient reference. The best ones ease your terror enough, but not so much you aren't definitely going to skip buying Dad's First Book of Baby Diseases, vol. II - Let's Explore Thrush.

Those milestones reach out and give you a smack, but you're well prepared. They land, but on the front part of your body, where you can see them coming. They exist in a context colored heavily by the bias toward keeping the child-thing alive and intact. At a certain point, the child-thing becomes too old to interest kidnappers and then... they just move out? They fucking kidnap themselves. I mean, I know it's supposed to happen, but all the other milestones we did together, as a team, or more specifically a team where I GOT TO SAY WHAT HAPPENED AND WHEN. Now, what, dude's just going to up and leave and take care of himself? That milestone lies in ambush. It waits until you walk past, slowly, cautiously, badly hidden so you can stare it down the whole time, and still you're not ready for it as it pounces from behind like a nimble, silent felid. The kind of felid that carries two-by-fours and knows how to swing 'em.

The oldest moved out (for the most part. He's currently down the hall in his room watching cartoons on his laptop on his summer break) a year ago in September. That shit fucked me up. A week from today my second child--also formerly a helpless baby--starts his final year of high school, like I need more of that shit. So I'm trying to brace myself, knowing it won't do any good if experience is any guide.

So I've got a lot to think about, which is why I haven't really given a lot of thought to the fact that this week constitutes the 10 year anniversary of this blog.

Yes, it's an interesting milestone, but I'm a little conflicted as to what it means. In context with all this life shit, it seems kind of small. And as far as writing achievements go, writing an anonymous blog for 10 years doesn't really feel like a lot of forward momentum seeing as long-form personal blogging on a platform like this has been socially and professionally moribund since about the same time as MySpace went tits-up.

But a friend with some skin in the writing game reminded me recently that the discipline required to write every week isn't a small thing to be dismissed in the cloud of self-deprecation and cynical suspicion that we Gen-X types kick up as a defense against encroaching earnestness or commitment. So yes, there's an archive here, a flag in the ground signifying... something. Mostly that I don't have a lot going on most Thursdays.

No, see, that was a cheapshot at myself again. I'll be honest, the process here is so ingrained that I pretty much forget what I write anymore as soon as I hit PUBLISH. That means I can go back and read old entries pretty objectively. The typos that remain are tiny stiletto punctures to my leaky, leaky soul, but the rest of it, I have to admit... it's not all awful. I can feel a thing akin to pride probably. Eventually. As soon as we get my SSRIs balanced.

Seriously (yes, I can do it) there would be no blog without you, the reading audience. Just because I can't see you and you almost never comment and I have issues with obsessive-compulsive behavior so I couldn't stop now if I wanted to doesn't lessen the fact that I do this with you in mind. According to my built-in Blogger traffic stats tracker, most of you are Russian bots, but you've been loyal and persistent Russian bots, so all I can say to you is, all you dear readers, from the bottom of my heart: Cпасибо. I mean that.

Nope, that was disappointing, I'm sorry. I can't help but cut, cut, cut. I have to listen to my encouraging friend. Or friends, actually, because there is more than one of you: there's value and genuine good in the world and in my contribution to it. Be less of a nihilist. Which is good advice, Because none of it really matters anyway.

Thanks everyone. If I'm still doing this in ten years? Intervention. Please.