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I should close this blog.  I should shut it down and walk away.  Perhaps this place these words my chronicled expectations are the jinx that prevents me from becoming exactly what I want to be.

I’m dangling.  I’m done. I’m done wondering when I get to be a Dad.

Oh yeah sure I know I know how I’m Silas’s Dad and like it’s all okay because you know it’s just fine.  You’re strong, you’re okay you’re going to be okay you’re doing great.  All true, except the Dad part.  Not that.

Got home at 2am tonight.  Got a ton of shit to do tomorrow.  I’ll probably go to bed at midnight tomorrow night after finishing everything I need to do.  Not that it matters;  my schedule is mostly my own.  Lu works hard, too. All the time she’s on the go getting shit done to run her business.

We do it because we can, and because we have to.  There is no Silas to dictate our lives.  In our hearts he’s there of course, but we don’t have to do anything at all to hold him there.  Out here in the apartment it is just cats and work and time together to eat and sleep and garden and read.  It looks placid, but that is because we’re good at this now.

I’ll sleep flipping over and over and over.  I’ll dream and maybe remember snatches.  They’re always the same these days.  They are always about the unattainable.  The dreams are about friends I can’t see at concerts that never happened.  Complex interactions and events cascade through my sleep and I flip and flip and flip over and over and over.

I’ve learned how to not clench my hands when I sleep.  Everyone should try this.  When you sleep, lay your hands flat against the cool sheen of the sheet.  Spread your fingers wide.  Lay your hands between the pillow and the mattress.  Sleep with your hands wide open and flat because it feels good and right and smooth.

I lay flat and I flip from back to front to side to back again.  No Silas.  Not a Dad.  This page is a mockery of everything I want.  It is an affront to reality.  I’ve gone for the hope, for the belief, for the obviously easy because everyone around us is clearly okay to make and have babies.  To be parents.

Elm City Guy.  Elm City Roaster.  Now maybe Elm City Bartender but Not in New Haven so Not Really Elm City Either… Guy Who Does Lots of Things Besides… Well… You Know… Being A Dad.   Elm City Douchebag.  Elm City Fuck You.  Elm City Leave Me The Fuck Alone Because I’ve Got Shit To-Do!

Phew.  I’m glad that’s out there.  I hope that didn’t hurt anyone, but damn that felt good.

Maybe I’ll be a dad someday.  Until then this blog is named as it is as a hope for what could be.  If anyone is listening/reading that can do anything about this, all I have to say is seriously, stop fucking with us.  We’ve had enough.

I’m going to be a dad.  Lu is going to be a mom.  We are taking actions and steps far beyond what most people have to do, but we’re doing it because it feels right and because once it finally happens I’m pretty sure we’ll be pretty good at it.  And that’s not bragging, that’s hope.

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