wake me up when september ends.

I remember early on feeling that It was my job to provide.   I remember being in 9th grade, writing some silly ass paper in creative writing and taking it pretty seriously, that I was going to have a wife and kids someday and it was going to be my job to make sure they had a roof over their heads, food on the table and clothes on their backs.     I sound like I’m being dramatic, but I can remember the exact moment.  The desk I was in.  the  blue lines on the paper, and the teacher standing in front of the room. The feeling I had as I wrote it.    Funny, I didn’t know that very moment would stick with me.   Maybe moreso than any moment in my life.    Providing for my family is my job.

It’s not some macho bullshit.   If my wife ever wanted to work, I wouldn’t have some ego trip about it.   She’s never asked, and I’ve somehow been able to eek out a living.  Sometimes we’ve kicked ass.   Sometimes we’ve looked at foreclosure and had U-Hauls in our driveway and tried not to think about the memories of kids we’ve raised in the home we lost.   Thoughts of little girls in new school dresses in front of trees we planted with our own hands.   Bringing home babies to new cribs.    Problems overcome.   Neighbors we gave a shit about, and some we didn’t.  Starting new endeavors.  Struggling together.  Winning and losing together.   Each time, figuring it all out and moving on.

But every time, I’ve felt the weight of making sure we could move on.   Making sure that I had some sort of decision to share and to believe in.     It certainly hasn’t all been me, my wife has supported, fought and busted ass right along side me.   calling me out when I needed to be, and defending and moving ahead with the plan.      Adjusting the plan.

I hope someday my daughters will look back and remember their tattod Old Man who fought to give them a life.    I’m sure they’ll marry men different than me, but I hope they find someone who at least has the same quality as me.   I may be a lot of things:  Impetuous.  Impatient.   Loud at times, understanding at times.   But I’ve never given up.    Not on them.  Not on my wife.  Not on our life.  Certainly not on my responsibilities.     It’s why men die earlier than women.

I’m so thankful that I found a woman who’s got the same moxy.   Robyn, I love you.