Day 3 Athens

Day 3

Athens

*click to enlarge

 From the roof deck of our hotel. I always thought Acropolis and Parthenon were the same thing. 

No. 

The Parthenon sits on the Acropolis. 

You already knew that.

Serious drama

There's not a lot of shade up there

Some things just look better in black and white. Don't know why.

It was a highly amputated society. Hard to get to old age with all limbs intact.

We practically had the place to ourselves

Bye Ladies! I'm going to Galatas.

Adopting a New Way of Being

I didn't know how much I didn't know. I had no idea how tough it was to become an adoptive parent, in fact, from a distance it looked a lot easier and less painful than enduring a pregnancy and giving birth. Couldn't we just go through a catalog and pick one out? But every province, every state, every country has different rules about adoption so there was a lot to learn. We started by attending an adoption fair - I know, I hadn't heard of them either - where there were booths set up by various agencies with poster pictures of smiling families.  The Ministry of Children and Families was there to promote adoption of foster kids and offered discounts for adopting 'special needs' kids. In talking to various professionals we learned how expensive and lengthy a process this was going to be.

It goes something like this: to adopt a child you have to be approved by the province to get a license to adopt. To get licensed we had to open our lives to multiple intrusions into our private affairs, our bank accounts, our social lives, our home. We were interviewed (a 'Homestudy') as were our teenage children and extended family. It's an excellent time not to have a criminal record. To guide you through the process you need an agent and that's who'd set up all those booths at the fair. We naively chose an agency in Victoria thinking that would expand our hunting ground. We could keep our ear to the rail in Vancouver to see if there was a baby coming our way and our agent in Victoria would do the same. It didn't take long to figure out he/she wasn't going to come from either one.

Infants are the most sought after by would be adopters. Any mother unable to have one naturally, naturally wants one anyway they can get it. Most of us don't consider kidnapping so adopting one is the only (legal) option. My sister gave up her baby in the early 60's because good Catholic girls didn't get pregnant outside of wedlock. It was taken immediately after birth and it was given to a 'good' family; she didn't actually see her daughter until 30 years later. But today the only babies available are born of mothers that value human life so highly that they would rather give birth and give it away than have an abortion. That moral structure is closely aligned with most religions and consequently, if you were going to adopt a baby here you probably belong to the same church as the mother.

But god, religion and I hadn't been on the same page in decades. I could have gone back just to get something out of it that I wanted but you and I both know that would have been wrong. In retrospect, most people attend church or refer to themselves as Catholic or Jewish because they get something out of it. For some it's the sense of community, for others it's the belief that god knows who shows up on Sunday so if you want him to smile on you be in your seat. So after a year of local looking we expanded our horizons to find that moral mother that would accept Deb and a heathen like me as parents for her child. We did it but it took a lot of time, a lot of money and one false promise.

When it looked like it wasn't going to happen here we looked first at China (they had a booth at the fair). There were lots of girls available as the result of their one child law and most people wanted their one to be a boy. But the youngest would be at least 8 months old because the bureaucracy with China is extensive and time consuming. We met some people who'd adopted from Guatemala and they were so happy that we joined the Guatemalan Adoptive Parents Assoc. We looked at the Ukraine and Russia but post-natal care was suspect and again, they would be close to a year before you brought them home. Anywhere in the world any baby already born was going to be at least 8 months old before you got to hold it. Except Illinois.

Deb found AdoptionLink, an agency in Chicago that connects would-be parents with mothers that haven't given birth but have already made the decision not to keep it. They're mothers-to-be that want to choose the parents of her child and with whom she can develop a relationship that could stretch into the future. We could even be there for the birth if we chose. Illinois laws give the birth mom a three day window to change her mind after the birth but that's a small risk if you've developed a relationship and she's remained unwavering in her decision. And there's the fly in your soup.

Not long after our agent sent our package to Chicago we got a call. An expecting mother liked it and wanted to know more so a teleconference was arranged. She liked us enough to say yes and a correspondence grew as her baby grew towards its arrival date which was still half a pregnancy away. All moms at this agency were African-American though all the staff and all the adopting parents were white. Kinda weird. It may have been because the disparity in wealth between white and black was stark enough that there just weren't sufficient resources for black moms before or after the child was born. Which would have meant more black babies available and the need for an agency just for them. I don't know that for sure. I never asked and maybe didn't care; we just wanted a child. A healthy child so pre-natal care was discussed including drugs/alcohol, sufficient food and support.

As the baby grew so did mom's love of the creature within and shortly before the birth she disappeared. No more phone calls, no more emails and the picture and letter that had come the old fashioned way sat on the desk smiling at me. I've never had a miscarriage so don't know the physical pain but the sense of loss was profound. We moped for a few days wondering "What next?" and "What about those thousands of dollars we sent them?" It wasn't long before the phone rang again and it said "We found you a new mom". As we got to know her we were sure we'd taken a step up. She was a computer programmer, her mom and dad were both doctors. She was healthy, smart and single but was on a career path that didn't include a child. The correspondence resumed and we moved slowly forward to the day when she stopped responding as well.

"Maybe we need to re-think this. Maybe an older child is the way to go. One that already has a  healthy track record and mom's already out of the picture" And then we got THE call.

Day 1 Paris

Day 1  

Aug 6, 2018

Do I look like a tourist in these shorts? 

We touched down at 8:00am and went straight to the bike tour company, dropped our bags and went for a gallon of coffee. Then pedalled. And yeah, it was 2am Vancouver time.

Our teeny weeny loft was easier to book than find. But find it we did and after a few zzz's headed out into the night.

We found a train, found Montmartre and a bottle of wine.

And thus began an epic, 10 week journey that took us through France, Greece, Portugal and Spain.

Day 2

It took a week to get over the jet lag but as we did we wandered.

Took pics.

Then edited the shit out of them.

Took this from the top floor of the D'Orsay.

Where I saw the original of a painting I'd seen a hundred times.

On our way to the Louvre we passed this old church. Notre Something.

Which had a cool window.

But some things look better without colour.

We skipped Mona in favour of Venus.

Then it was time to chomp on the Champs Elysees

No regrets.

We couldn't not see that big tower at night

We couldn't not take its picture

You can click on any of these pictures to enlarge or go full screen. I finished the last blog with "And then the call came". I'll tell y'all about that next time but just realized I can post pix for the first time and kinda excited ( a picture says a few million words) so now I can mix it up with pix of the trip...

Giant Leaps

There'd been a lot of prep. In getting ready for my new identity I'd done aptitude testing, exploration, volunteering on a crisis line, bought a house, reversed my vasectomy (not by myself) and got engaged. But the two biggest steps were still waiting for me; changing my vocation and my parental status.

The wedding was still a few months away when the day came for my fertility test. It was out at UBC in a nondescript office on the main floor of the hospital.  The sample needed to be fresh out of the gate in order to get a good sperm count so it was delivery on demand. The young lady behind the counter provided the necessary cup and whispered "there's some magazines in the drawer..." My face got warm. I cleared my throat and avoided eye contact as she pointed me in the direction of a small, private room. It was tiny with a metal desk and a chair as its only occupants. The four blank walls could neither distract nor encourage vigour but the old Playboys were in the drawer.

I took the result to the lab and the guy asked me, "You wanna see?" "Hell yeah", I said. He prepared a slide and there they were, sliding around, looking for somewhere to go.
"Hey, you know where we're supposed to go?"
"Nah, but I don't think we're even in the right neighbourhood."
What shocked me were the number of broken boys in the mix, lying there dead before they were even born. I assumed everyone (or no-one) would be swimming by but lab guy assured me it was normal and I was back in the game.

But the big game, my job, was still under consideration. I'd whittled it down to something in mental health and the testing had said it would be a good fit but I'd never done anything like that and I still hadn't seen a job that wasn't self-employed and achieved with just a few years of fulltime school. Volunteering at a crisis line seemed like a good place to try myself out and they provided some excellent training. I learned about empathy and active listening. I learned not to give advice and how to coax people to give themselves advice. I learned how to set boundaries to rein people in and learned how to identify key issues and let people run with them. I learned how to call police while keeping the suicidal caller on the line. And I loved it. So the testing was right, I was in my element, now if I could only just find someone willing to pay me to do this I'd know where was supposed to go.

Just had a quick insight into the workings of crisis line therapy. In writing this piece I referred back to some of the stuff I wrote in 2008 about grief and reread the piece on writing as a tool for recovery. I wrote that the therapy lies in the time spent with fingers hovering over the keys thinking about how you feel. That introspection gets written and edited until you get it right. The pressure drops as you sort through your fears and take some of your sadness and put it into the computer. The crisis line worked the same way; it allowed people to speak their thoughts and staff responded with what they heard. The caller would then clarify (edit) and rephrase to get close to what they were feeling. It helped them to sort through the confusing emotions and unload the weight. Grief is a shitload of weight to carry and whether you choose analog or digital to download the result is the same.

While the fertility testing told me what I wanted to hear, a year later we were still childless. The fertility doctor we waited 6 months to see looked at the file for the first time then looked at us and shook her head. "Just enjoy the sex...". Her remark was patronizing and stupid but mostly just sad and the truth we feared sat on the desk between us. Undaunted, Deb began researching adoption and she set her criteria for a baby. She wanted a baby. A real baby baby, new to the world and unattached to anyone. Too young to have suffered post-natal neglect, someone that would grow up to have only known us as her parents.Boy, girl, White, Black... it didn't matter so long as he-she was a baby and healthy. There were a lot of steps, a lot of money and a lot of waiting - years -  but we got started.

Deb knew someone who knew someone that worked in a profession I'd never heard of; psychiatric nursing. A little research revealed there was a program at Douglas College that graduated wannabees after three years who then wrote an exam that, if successful, made them Registered Psychiatric Nurses. So I went to their open house.  Instructors gave talks on various aspects of the work their grads did, what the pay was like, and what was needed for a successful career. I was hooked. My years of coaching myself through grief and loss could be turned outward and put to good use for others and now, myself. I could use my past to shape my future.

The program was three years, a year more than I'd hoped for but a little flexibility was needed if I was going to get where I wanted to go. To keep the mortgage paid we took in homestay students and I took part time work that related to my approaching field. Six months into the program I hung up the real estate license I'd clung to like a life preserver for 16 years. They say you have to lose sight of the shore to explore new horizons so I turned 180 degrees and sailed my ship in a new direction. And then the call came.
👫👪👫👪👫👪 👪👪👪👪

The House I'll Build for the Wrens

Three years after meeting, falling in love and marrying Deb I was still selling real estate. I had reversed the vasectomy in the hope of creating our love child and shortly after signing a year lease on a beautiful home in Marpole we decided to buy our home in East Van. We'd been dating all of five months when she came to meet me at a new listing I was trying to flog. It was a Sunday afternoon and my Open House went until 2:00 or whenever it didn't look like anyone was going to come. It was 1997, the market was still soft and I was happy to have whatever company came through the door. I think I bribed her with a promise of a nice lunch if she'd drop by.

She did drop by and as she sat on the couch in the front room the warmth of the building's heritage seeped into her imagination. It still had the original wainscotting and fireplace. She firmly believed that beneath the wall-to-wall carpet lurked an original wood floor begging to be refinished. The kitchen and bath were dated from the 60's - maybe even the 50's - but it had lots of room to accommodate the two teens with us along with our hoped for addition. "We should buy this house" says she.  "Uuhh" says I, "$359,000 is a LOT of money." Buying a house was the last thing on my mind. I was still focussed on a career change and school time and making a baby and nobody else was buying, why should I?

As we talked, another couple came in accompanied by their Realtor. I gave them a brochure and answered their questions but the sales job was up to the their guy; if he was going to get half the commish he was going to have to make it happen. I was hoping for my own buyer to just walk through the door and say "I want it. Write it up". Which is exactly what happened except I was engaged to the buyer. Well the Realtor did his job and called me a few hours later to say "I have an offer". Deb and I had talked more over lunch and came up with a number that we could afford and hoped the owner would accept but now we were in a competition. The process goes something like this: You tell the owner that there is more than one offer and they get to hear all the details of all offers before deciding to accept one or proposing a counter offer to the one they like. So Deb and I had to talk some more.

My assessment put its value at somewhere around $350,000 and anything she got would be a windfall. She and her husband had paid $6,000 many years before but as a widow for many years the maintenance and size were too much for her. I didn't know what the other couple was going to offer but I knew we only had one chance to put our best offer on the table so none of the typical  '5-10% less than ask and see what happens'.  We decided to offer full price.

The other offer came in at a reasonable $345,000 and boy were they pissed. They felt I had an unfair advantage which is probably true as she was my client (I had also sold her mother's home) but the bottom line was I offered more money. Their complaint to my manager got a reasonable "They offered more money" response and quickly faded away but now the real problem screamed in my face - where was I going to get $359,000?

As I contemplated that I also contemplated on how things were developing below decks. I'd had the operation and the boys had resumed their previous size and maybe some vigour so maybe it was time? Doc says "Give it another month. I'll set an appointment for you out at UBC." I didn't know what that meant at first but the truth took shape over the next few weeks and I built up a vision of what the room would look like.

Of all the roles we play our job is the prime contribution to our identity. Well, personality but then the job and I was still working on that. I'd done some aptitude testing that suggested a lot of things but when placed against the template I'd formed from my criteria - two years of training and a job with a paycheque at the end of the rainbow - an area revealed itself. Health care was something I'd always been interested in but in my young distracted days it didn't happen. I was a father at 22 with three more right behind so my days were spoken for, but now? I could be a nurse in 2 or 3 years but my 40 year old body wouldn't take the rigours of that noble profession for long and really, I was more interested in people's mental health. A psychology masters degree could take 6 years or more. A psycho-therapist could be trained and accredited after 2 years but they were mostly self-employed or working in low-paying (but warm and fuzzy) jobs. And heck, I didn't even know if I'd be any good at it. Somebody said "The crisis line is looking for volunteers".

So I found the $359,000 and I'll tell you how. I didn't have much in the bank but I had a credit card and a commission. Deb already owned an apartment and sufficient income to maintain it but didn't have any loose cash lying in wait for an opportunity. I'd written the offer subject to approval of a building inspection and got the report a few days later. There were suggestions on there about the roof and furnace and I came up with a number, $9,000, to get the house through its biggest expenses in the near future. I went back to the owner and said "Here's the inspection report. It says the roof and furnace are about to go. If you knock $9,000 off the price I can use that money to get it done and my growing family won't be living with rainbuckets and without heat next year." She said she'd already decided in advance of receiving the offer that she was prepared to accept $350,000, exactly what I'd told her it was worth. I suggested that instead of lowering her price she pay a bonus of $9,000 on top of my commission. That would give me access to the money I needed for repairs and help keep property values in the neighbourhood up which would make all her neighbours very happy.

It also gave us a downpayment for the house. The credit cards took a beating as we paid Property Transfer Tax, appraisal, assessment and legal fees. And the loan to value ratio was still too high for us to qualify for the payments. And unless we got the mortgage for 75% or less, it would have to be insured by CMHC and the cc's were bursting at the seams. Deb's mom gave us a second mortgage that was registered on title and reduced the first mortgage to an affordable level. We hoped there was a little more life in the furnace and roof but kept the rainbuckets and a load of firewood on hand as we headed down another road.

Going back to school fulltime with a fulltime mortgage was going to be a challenge. We knew we couldn't retire until it was paid off so set an aggressive path. With uncomfortably high payments we could have it paid off in 15 years (Freedom 55). That didn't happen. But lots of cool stuff did that made the extra 2 years of mortgage payments worthwhile and I'll share test day and the rest of the steps I took to redefine myself later.

It Made a Vas Deferens

When we’re young we make big decisions in a heartbeat: “I think I’ll be a Realtor”, “Buy a pub? Yeah, I’m in”, “Wanna get married?”, “You’re pregnant? That’s cool.” You’re immortal in the first half of your life so it doesn’t matter what you do, you can always change it later because there’s lots of later left. When wife #2 said we had to get married - she didn’t want to live in sin anymore and the last guy left after a few years of co-habitation – I shrugged and said “Okay”. I figured I’d been through divorce before and it wasn’t that difficult or expensive. Not a good starting point but I didn’t want to move and felt there was a 50/50 shot at things working out (see my piece on luck). I was still sub-40 and the end of time wasn’t on the horizon yet.

But it was making its presence known when I contemplated becoming a father at 43. I walked the beach and stared at the ocean. I talked to my brothers and other friends about it, the same people that told me I should absolutely not get married just because getting divorced was easy. But I didn’t take their advice then and was probably only asking because I wanted to think out loud and show myself I was actually thinking before making a big decision. It was my brother Peter who said “Looks like you won the lottery”. He said it was exactly what I was looking for: a fresh start. Divorced from the mother of my children, there was no ‘co-parenting’, no discussions on what we could/should do in any situation regarding our children. As the non-custodial parent in the early years I had no say in what school, what activities, what anything. Here was an opportunity to be the father I wanted to be and I wasn’t going to count on luck, I was going to remember the mistakes I’d made and do everything necessary to make this work. I had the vasectomy reversed.

I explained to Deb, in business-like fashion, that I was willing to provide the sperm she was buying each month, that I was warming to the idea of being a father again and that I saw us creating a family and a future together. In exchange for my genetic material and support of her cause I wanted some sort of assurance this was going to work and the only mechanism I envisioned that could give me that was a wedding. Perhaps the most unromantic marriage proposal, ever. Her response was intriguing: “You sure you want to do that?” A cryptic yes followed by a note taped to her door when I went to see her the next day. It said “Ask me again”.

Vasectomies are covered by our medical services plan and can be done in your doctor’s office in about half an hour. I had mine done by an ancient vasectomist in West Van who said “Bring a jockstrap” and “Don’t forget to shave…everything”. In our pre-procedure conversation I mentioned that I’d read an article about prostate cancer and the suggestion that there was an 80% increase in those who’d had a vasectomy. “Yeah…well…” He hummed and hawed and suggested that it was more likely due to guys being seen by a specialist such as himself are more likely to be diagnosed, or some such thing. My brain was saying “You gotta think about this”. My mouth was saying “Okay”. A half hour later wife #2, who was convinced children would conflict with her tee times, was driving me home. It may be the poor memory but I recall little pain or even discomfort and I was back at work the next day.

Vasectomy reversals are the polar opposite. It’s not covered by MSP, it’s not done in a doctor’s office and there’s no guarantee it’ll actually work. But, convinced I was starting down a new path, I ponied up the $1500 and made an appointment at Lion’s Gate hospital. It was a few months away so I didn’t think about it much until the day of. Upon arrival at the appropriate counter, I was sent to a nearby room and told to strip and put on one of those ridiculous gowns. I slipped on the slippers and waited and let the anxiety build. The sounds, sights and smells of a hospital were giving me pause, this was a big deal and I was going to be awake. The nurse tapped on the door and I asked her if it was possible to have an Ativan before we began. She said she’d ask the doc but he declined. Dick. I shuffled into the operating room and I assumed my position with feet in stirrups, legs spread and torso leaned way back.

Three doctors hovered, chatting about their golf games and the optimal number of stitches for reattaching a vas deferens. One lifted my testicles and inserted a needle. Then another, and another. Most guys are sensitive, even protective of their boys. Me, I’m a pussy. I even think about my boys getting a bump and I feel a gut punch. And he kept going. Ten, maybe 15, injections to freeze me well enough to start cutting and then they started. That’s when it started to feel like a dentist visit. You’re frozen, so there’s no pain but he bangs around in there and you feel the vibration and squeak and smell and try to think you’re somewhere else. But this wasn’t my mouth, he was pulling on tubes in my groin and I couldn’t put my mind elsewhere. A few times it caused a knee jerk reaction as I tried to protect myself so one of the docs held down my leg, gave me a frown and asked me “How could that hurt?”. I’d like to yank on his tubes.

A couple of hours later I hobbled to the waiting room to await pickup by the woman who was hoping to benefit from the new plumbing. Unlike the vasectomy, recovery from this was also a big deal with the biggest attraction being the boys. They were now triple their usual rotundness and wanted to be left alone so they and I lay back and waited. And waited. The sun arced across the sky and my bed became a sundial as its rays came through the window and moved up my left leg. I watched it inch its way up my leg five times before I risked putting on pants and sitting down. But I recovered and was told that in a few months I’d be well enough that I could get vigorous with the equipment and produce a sample that would tell us if it was worth the effort.

So...a new address, new living companions, new roles and new plumbing. Big strides down the road of change but more were needed to get to the destination. And the destination was defining itself as I went.

 Stay tuned.

Chrysalis

The dust is beginning to settle. I landed with a Whump last week, back in Vancouver, and raised a dust storm of things to do as I thudded into the unknown. Three months into retirement and the pension cheque still hasn’t arrived. Airbnb needs a little more nudging to provide the refund they promised. My car engine seized, it was towed to the dealership two weeks ago and they’re still trying to decide if the warranty is valid. What do you mean we’ve paid full cable, internet and phones while we were away? And on and on. 

Putting out fires has filled the void where work once engaged me but I’m not a fireman, I’m a nurse. I thought a lot about retirement beforehand but think I thought more about what I wouldn’t be doing than what I would be doing. Not getting up in the dark and sucking chocolate/sipping coffee to wake up then joining the morning river of angst to work. The week has passed, the fires are dying and I’m finding time to write, time to think of who I am now. The early part of retirement will be finding a new identity. 

We don’t change identities every day, some people never do. But I’ve done it. Identity isn’t just what you do for a living, though it’s a major part. Identity is all the roles you play - father friend husband - as well as how you see yourself and how others see you. In my late thirties I went on an existential ride and started questioning what I’d done, who I was and was I happy? If not, the time for change was running out; the classic mid-life crisis but ridden over a span of years like an curiously long wave to a surfer. Precariously balancing myself on a board of family and work I peered ahead, not knowing what was coming but looking for new possibilities. I was a full blown adult in an unhappy marriage, a realtor scraping by in a soft market, missing my kids and full time fatherhood. 

I started reading newspaper ads for employment just to see what other people were doing for a living and to see where I might fit. I realized almost immediately that anything worthwhile needed a few years of training so I needed to set criteria. How much time could I invest? How much debt could I take on to get there? What were the job prospects when I finish? I’ve been self-employed my whole life which can be wonderfully free while incredibly restricting;  showing houses took precedence over seeing soccer games but I could see a mid-week xmas pageant. I wanted a feel-good job, something warm and fuzzy that made me feel good about what I did and I wanted a paycheque at the end of the day. Sometimes I shared a client’s joy when they bought or sold property but mostly it was just business with overhead and being on the make all the time. The first criteria I set was: I don’t want to be self-employed. The second was I was willing to invest 2 years of fulltime study to launch a new career.

Not surprisingly, my equally unhappy wife said “Not on my watch”. So the first step in renewal was departure. She was pretty happy when we met, when the market was strong and money was plentiful. But the market turned south in the mid 90’s and my income was cut by half. She was particularly unhappy whenever my kids were around and always felt she played second fiddle, that I was happier with my kids than with her and that their needs came first. How sad if it wasn’t true. My youngest daughter was now on a waitlist for a lung transplant and as her health failed, her mother felt a need to spend more time with her boyfriend. I know, it didn’t make any sense to me either but here was the opening I needed to move in another direction. I told wife #2 that wife #1 was struggling with three teenage kids and that I needed to take custody of the older two (15 & 17 years) so that she could focus on the well-being of the youngest. With them as leverage, I avoided the whole discussion around our mutual unhappiness and we parted (mostly) amicably. It was November 1996.

And thus began the most difficult period of my life. I’d taken a 2nd job to make sure the bills were paid so started at 6am M-F and went til noon delivering packages for UPS. Then it was put on a suit and tie to play Realtor until 9pm, the unofficial shutdown time for cold calls though actual contract writing and negotiations went until after midnight. Saturdays and Sundays were Open Houses or driving prospective buyers around so there was little time for a social life though there was a huge gap to fill. I was lonely. And busy and worried and frustrated at not being able to move ahead being so weighed down in the present. The present was meeting the needs and enduring the hostility of teenagers while watching my daughter wither. I have a strong memory of that time: I was kneeling on the living room floor, exhausted physically and emotionally. I wrapped my arms around myself for comfort and sank back. My head dropped forward and I slowly curled myself into a ball. I fell to my side and brought my knees up as high as I could. I wanted to be as small as possible, to compress myself into insignificance, to disappear just for a moment and wallow in the weightlessness of my pity pool.

Then the call came; a boy had been hit by a car while riding his bike home from school. He was dead but his organs breathed new life into other children including mine but it didn’t come easy. Rachel was the youngest lung transplant they’d done and a first at Children’s hospital. I could (and probably will) write pages about that experience but not now, this is about transforming myself.

I kept putting one foot in front of the other hoping I was headed towards somewhere I wanted to be. Leaving #2 was a self imposed catalyst but it didn’t have the impact of, say, a meteor hitting the earth and wiping out the dinosaurs. That pushed change into another direction

Whoa! Those words were written 10 days ago and then the ‘puter crashed. Kinda. Turns out the charging cord wasn’t uptodate so battery died, laptop shop shrugged, nephew in law says get a new cord, Amazon delivered and here I am. I also put a new (used) engine in my car.

So where was I… Right, single dad, struggling, hoping for change. And waiting for that spark, that something, that person that could ignite the desire-fuel I’d stockpiled. I know, kinda cheesy but there I was and then she came. She told me straight off she wanted a baby. I said “I had a vasectomy”. And “I already had 4”. “That’s ok”, says she, “I’m going to a clinic”, “Every month”.

Gimme a couple of days. I’ll tell you more…