Full Circle.

Like I said earlier, it’s flipping awesome that Britton is playing baseball. There are a lot of reasons that I like baseball so much. The fact that my six year old nephew and I might have something like baseball (or frisbee or model trains, it wouldn’t matter really) that we can do together and talk about, really excites me. I wish I was home for that. My only concern is that some punk kid or group of punk kids will ruin it for him the way they ruined it for me when I was younger. There was about nine or ten years where I didn't want to have anything to do with baseball or sports in general because I couldn't watch baseball or talk about it without thinking about those punk kids or their punk fathers. Anyway, I hope playing baseball is a source of fun, and fun only, for Britton and that he makes friends and enjoys himself. Hopefully that enjoyment will last longer than some of my hobbies did when I was his age and maybe we can play together when I get home.

For about five years I was a real jerk. I'd like to think there were legitimate reasons for me to be moody and grumpy and impossible to please. I'd like to think so but it may not be true. I’d like to think all of that is over, that there is nothing of that left in me or still going on at times. I'd like to think so but it may not be true. I’ve been known to spit nails and have done so recently. Junior high was really hard for me. Did I make it harder than it might have been otherwise? Sure. But it was hard. I was angry, I was lonely, I was unhappy and I was all of those things at the same time, most of the time. Looking back (which is a phrase I don't like to use) I think one of the reasons I felt that way is because I didn’t have an identity that I liked. Maybe nobody does and I was taking it the wrong way. I don't know. But I tried really hard to please the people around me, to be whoever I thought they might like me to be, and it usually didn't work. Which in turn made me angry/lonely/sad. Looking back, the only people whose opinions should have mattered to me are Matt and my mother. More often than I'd like to admit, they had to deal with a lot of my nonsense. My mother should be immediately considered for sainthood and Matt deserves a lifetime of my respect and gratitude and friendship. I'd walk around a lot less embarrassed about the things I said and did over those five years if I had realized sooner that they are people too, not characters in a melodrama starring me. It took a while to realize that, it took a while to recognize that the world is real, it is real to everyone and everyone exists within the same world. I’m not sure how I missed that. I have at times had difficulty with my perception, both visual and metaphysical.

Where is this going?

Britton was born on December 7, 1998. I was in tenth grade. Completely unbeknownst to him then and now and maybe forever, he had a lot to do with helping me realize that the people in my life are people, and they are no more characters in my reality as I am a character in theirs. I didn't imagine Britton coming into existence and then he did. It was completely outside of my control and understanding. Being there, or close to there, as someone comes into the world is an incredibly complex and routine thing to wrap your head around. The odds of something that fragile surviving, because or in spite of all we can do for them, seem insurmountable.

When Britton was born, it was the first time in a long time I thought about someone other than myself. That's hard to admit. Things came slowly to me. He's real. Not a doll. Not a prop. He's cold and afraid. He doesn't know us. What if he doesn’t like us. What if he wanted to be born somewhere else. He could be allergic to everything in this room. He could be sick already. He will be held all day every day for the next year at least. Someone is going to drop him. Someone will take him. Someone will lose him. He might not learn to walk. His eyes are sensitive somebody should turn the lights off. Did I wash my hands? I don’t want to hold him. Kindergarten is a training ground for vultures. When he is six not everyone he invited will come to his birthday party. When he is six Melinda Drinnen or someone like her will ask someone else to go down the slide with her. He will spend a quarter on a toy gun instead of a drink like he said he would and feel sorry for the rest of his life. When he is six he will be made fun of and realize it for the first time. He might not understand and be embarrassed to ask. He might want seconds and be embarrassed to ask. He will be cheated out of something that he deserves. He will hate someone and be burdened by the weight of it. He will watch his parents struggle and be confused. He will fall in love and someone will crush him.

When I got to age six, I left the room and started pacing around in the hallway. I made a mental list of all the things he should never hear, things he should never see and never know about. I thought he might need me. He might need me and I'm not the type of person who can help him. I'm not the type of person he would like. He wouldn't ask me.

He's six now. He goes to the very same elementary school I went to. He's an Eastside Golden Eagle. He rides the bus to school sometimes. Don’t even get me started on public school busses (a.k.a. giant yellow vessels of evil.) He has school friends I don’t know. He watches TV shows and knows when something is funny and knows when it isn’t. He likes the Ninja Turtles. Some things never change. He has his own bedroom now. He gets report cards with numbers instead of letters.

When he was born I decided I wanted to be one of the good things in his life and not one of the negative ones. There are plenty of negative ones everywhere. Hopefully he will ask me questions and I will have answers. Hopefully he will feel like I understand what he’s going through, even if I don’t. I feel like I have an advantage over other, older uncles. We’re only 15 years apart. I was a kid when he became a kid. I don't see him very often, even when I am home, but, at the very least, when he thinks about me he knows I’m not a jerk. When he’s old enough to understand why, I’ll thank him for that.