In a moment of spontaneity fueled as much by our desire NOT to watch Barney all day as it was by our desire to be together, my son and I decided Saturday afternoon to go to the movies. He chose Herbie: Fully Loaded, which was playing in only one theatre in the entire county, so we punched the minivan to the extreme outer limits of its capacity to haul ass and got to the theatre just in time. And there we sat for 90 minutes, The Champ watching the car drive upside down and over water, and me trying to look at anything on the screen other than Lindsay Lohan’s freakishly large boobies. I presume the use of the words “fully loaded” was intended as a double entendre.

The movie theatre we went to is in the same neighborhood in which Hot Wife and I lived when we got married. Across the street from the shopping center that houses the theatre is a large man-made lake around which Hot Wife and I spent many a night walking and talking and holding hands the way newlyweds to until they have children and TiVo and piles of laundry so high that they block out the sun and cause everyone in the house to wear the same milky complexion as Casper, The Friendly Ghost.

After the movie, The Champ (or The Artist Formerly Known as Left-Handed Power-Hitting Son) and I walked across a bridge to the lake, where I presumed he would throw rocks at the ducks and sit in goose crap, which would predictably end our evening in a perfect storm of tears and screaming and soiled clothing.

As we walked along, we came across a dude who was fishing at the west end of the lake. The Champ has never been fishing, and he was taken by the rather stunning visuals he saw. A surferdude with a fishing pole. Live bait fish being impaled in the mouth by a hook and then being cast 50 feet out into the lake. The telling forward arch of a fiberglass rod with a “fish on.” We sat and watched for a while, The Champ asking an endless litany of questions about why the fishing surferdude did things and why things look a certain way. It was fascinating to watch his fascination. I wanted to be my son at that very moment. I wanted to feel so awestruck and enthralled at the world.

After about 15 minutes, the fishing surferdude reeled in a 12-pound bass. He grabbed it by the edges of its mouth and held it out so The Champ could touch it, which he did, reluctantly at first and then with his hallmark enthusiasm and a passionate cry of “Sweeeeeeet!” I nearly wept. Watching my little boy discover this new corner of his world here after having spent so many important hours of my life on this very lake was like coming full circle in some strange way.

I have written often about my disdain for and deeply entrenched skepticism of organized religion. Sundown tonight will bring the arrival of the Jewish New Year, and with it for me comes the internal cringing about a holiday where synagogues charge their congregants for tickets to services – a tradition I find incomprehensible. But I also choose to look at this annual religious milestone as an opportunity to reflect on who I am, what I have and what I have accomplished.

Who I am today, on the beginning of this new year, is a proud and grateful dad. Watching my son that afternoon by the lake reaffirmed that. I guess it’s safe to say that I’m in the throes of an identity crisis, at least professionally speaking. I spend eight hours a day questioning if I have it in me to break out of the safe, secure corporate bullshit – to throw caution and conformity into the shredder, sacrifice financial stability and do what comes naturally: write. It’s a stressful existence and a pattern of self-reflection that sometimes breaks me down and makes me feel weak and small. But when I get home, beaten and tired though I may be, I see those two little kids and something inside me just wakes up.

Whatever one’s feelings are about religion and faith, it’s hard to look at your kids and not feel something spiritually knee-buckling. In the new year, I pray that I can feel that buckle often. Even if it means sitting through movies about big-breasted racecar drivers and cleaning goose poop off of little shoes that light up when you run.

Comments

Loud and clear... I hear you loud and clear.

Yeah that on the laundry piled up to block the sun.

Amen on the corporate bullshit and wanting to break out and drone on, I mean, write.

And I think being witness to the wonder of childhood IS my religion...

But I'm afraid I can't agree to goose poop. People have to draw the line somewhere, I guess mine is at goose poop.

You write, Dad Gone Mad. Just chuck the corporate bullshit and WRITE.

That is awesome.

I would SO buy your book, DGM. As long as you mention poop, and the title contains the word poop, and you discuss the act of pooping, and a character in the book embarrasses him or herself in some capacity by pooping in public, well then I'm a fan.

As lucky as you feel to have such wonderful and amazing kids, those kids feel just as lucky to have such a cool dad. My dad would have told me not to touch the fish, lest I wish to become diseased and die in my sleep. You're way cooler than that. And you buy your kids shoes with lights, and if that's not the tell tale sign of a bitchen parent, then I just don't know what is.

That sounds like a wonderful afternoon. I love your sense of humor, too!! Too true.

A question about shoes that light up... I see these on just about every child under 4' tall, and I wonder: They surely saw these shoes in the store, were awestruck by the fact that they light up, and had to have 'em. My question is, do they even realize they light up 3 days after you buy them? Does the novelty wear off quickly?

L'shanah tovah (Even with a last name like Patrick I can throw a little Hebrew),

There is nothing better than those moments that your child is utterly overjoyed. It could be as simple as touching a nice slimy fish, or getting the shoes that light up. I'm so glad that you've been able to find the simple things (like Lindsay Lohan) that can bring that kind of joy.

I was so hoping that writing was the possible path out of corporateville, and not that hooey about therapistagoogoo. (Not that you wouldn't be a good one, but writing...yeah, that's the shit.) Uh, no personalized pun intended.

Tajalude... No, the novelty does not wear off. My son reminds me daily that his new Spiderman shoes do NOT light up like his Incredibles shoes from last year did and it's just not fair because his sister's CareBear shoes light up. And Oh my goodness...when Grandma put his Incredibles shoes through the washing machine (silly Grandma) making one no longer light up, you'd have thought that the world was coming to an end.

On the up side...light up shoes are the bomb when you're sitting around a campfire in the dark. You can still see where your kids are at in the dark.

DGM, I feel you. And think, with all you have written here already, it's the equivalent of a book or three.

DGM, I always seem to read your blog at the perfect moment! I seemed to have forgotten about that knee-bukling feeling when your nephew threw-up all over me tonight. Thanks for reminding me! I sure missed everyone tonight!

Beautifully written. Poop aside, you are a fabulous writer. You have the ability to connect the average with the extraordinary. Your writing has something special...if anyone can leave Corporate America and just write you are the man. Happy Jewish New Year...Listen to your heart and follow your dream and all that other pop music crap.

My God, Danny, that was just beautiful. I love to laugh at your silliness each day; but when you write something like this, something so lovely and heartwarming, I have to stop and breathe, and wipe the mist from my eyes.

Thank you for writing so openly, for sharing so much of your heart today.

God bless you and yours, Danny.

Shana Tova. Now fork over the membership dues.

Great post.

Oh my, that was beautiful - the day and the way you wrote about it.

Awwwww.
WRITE. We will all support you*.

*Um, emotionaly, I mean. I'm freakin' broke.

You have such a commanding presence in the written word, such an awesome and unique voice.

Hey, you were being gooshy, so now I'm being gooshy, just for a minute. It's only fair.

Amen. And... Kein yehi razon.

There are very, very few talented writers left in the world. You are one of them. Go forth and write.

L'shanah tovah. I hope the new year is good to you. Reflecting is what it's all about, whether you do it at temple or in your barcolounger after your kids are in bed.

YOU FUCKING ROCK!!!!!!!!!!!!
My only son is 2 1/2 yrs old and the last time I took him camping, right around sunset, he kept telling me he wanted to "walk to the light". I had no clue what he was talking about. Turns out he wanted to hike out to the bay to see the sunset. There truley is something greater than us out there. LIFE!!!!!!!

Okay. Just so I'm caught up - we're now calling Left-Handed Power-Hitting Son "The Champ"? Is this forever? Because I don't want to get confused when we're talking about Jon Voight.

You win, Danny. You have found Lake Wobegone.

If that doesn't stop you from being a writer, nothing will.

my only questions is how come they don't make BIG shoes that light up when you run? My kid has some buzz light year sandals that glow amazing colours - the more incandescent the faster he goes (hehe, i said incandescent) and I am eternally jealous...