Check out this link to my interview with local boxer Sergio Garcia, it is in the current issue of the High Plains Reader.

My new gig is the same as my old part-time job working with my physically and developmentally disabled clients, but I am now taking care of people professionally for forty hours every week instead of twenty-six hours every other weekend.  So is this the end of my parenting?  Has The Daddy Dispatch reached the end of its run?  I think not.

For one thing, my roles and responsibilities are not changing dramatically, since my forty hour workweek occurs in a forty-one hour period (I do get to sleep a little bit at night, but it is still a marathon shift).  Janelle continues to be our primary breadwinner while I will continue to be the primary homemaker.  Even so, things will be changing for Dylan (5) and Julia (2) as they begin their first day of pre-school this week.  The seasons march relentlessly onward, as we seek to grow and change along with the times.  Wish us luck in our new phase and enjoy the coming spring!

We have been dealing with rounds of sickness and pain here at the big house in Moorhead, but with the dusting of snow and the bright sunshine we went ahead and had an adventure anyway.  Dylan’s health improved after a week of high fever and orneriness, then Janelle suffered a pinched nerve and was out for a few days (now hobbling and trying to stay limber), next Julia began to run a temperature and leak facial fluids.

After sled rides in the yard we loaded up in the bicycle trailer for a quick trip to Northeast Park and enjoyed an hour of sliding (and falling) on the rinks.  There were other families out enjoying the day, and we were able to make friends with another dad and his kids who were learning to skate.  Julia was looking red in the face and more than a bit snotty, so we went home for hot chocolate and bathtime.

Will the snow manage to stay on the ground for another day or two to make it a white Christmas?  I doubt it.  The previews have been nice but the real whitewash will soon arrive, turning our beautiful brown landscape into a fond memory.  Dylan asked Santa for a Wampa (an ice creature native to the planet Hoth doncha’ know) for Christmas, and I reckon we will be able to recreate the scenes from The Empire Strikes Back in bone chilling accuracy within a few short weeks.

Early in June, my bridge dislodged from the lower front region of my mouth.  An apple was the proximate cause, but decay and time was the real culprit.  The original injury occurred roughly twenty-three years ago during a playground football game.  A teacher rang the handbell, signalling the end of recess, so I stopped.  The other players did not, and I ended up with a broken tooth, which led to multiple infections, root canals, an oral surgery, and all of the financial distress that accompanies dental work in the lower middle class.

Julia, who turned two recently, has been fascinated with my fangs.  I would occasionally place the broken bridge on top of the twisted remnants of my teeth when I felt self-conscious or to perform in public as a juggler or wedding officiant.  I called them my “talking teeth”, which the Juje translated as “talk’n teeth”.

“Did you have your talk’n teeth, Daddy?  Your talk’n teeth are broken,” she would recite while sticking her little fingers rudely into my mouth.  I told her a moment ago that my talk’n teeth were going to be pulled out, and that it made Daddy a little bit sad.

“No, Daddy,” she replied, “You’re not sad, you’re just a little bit sick.”

She is partly right.  I am a little bit sad, and a little bit sick.  There is something profoundly human and mortal about losing a piece of your body, even an artificial one like my bridge, even an imperfect one like my fangs.  My talk’n teeth were a part of my life for so long, went all of the places and said all of the things, and now they will be yanked from my jaw and exposed as the lifeless bits of enamel and pulp they are without the rest of me.