The Rock

For illustration sake, think of a large rock.   Here's the thing about a rock.  You can hide under it.  You can be squashed by it.  You can climb it.  I'm sure you can do several other things with it too - but for this post I am focusing on the 3 items mentioned.

I've been hiding under a rock for a while.  Have posted once in the past month and read only just a few of other people's posts.  That's not because I have not been interested in doing either of these - it's just that the rock I have been hiding under has been squashing me a bit lot.

Realizing this is a running blog - admittedly where there is often less about running and more about other stuff like my family exploits and the seemingly odd science experiment that is my creaky, broken, old body - this post is a tough one to hit "publish" on.

If you are reading this - I guess I did post it - if it is just me reading it, then I am just writing it for therapy for myself.  I am a very private person - so in putting this out on the World Wide Web - admittedly to an unknown amount of anonymous people and very, very few that I know is a public step of awkwardness on my part.  Am I crying out for sympathy, for acknowledgement, for help, for understanding?  Yes.  No.  I don't know.

My wife and I have filed for divorce.  That is the rock that is squashing me.  Yet for a few years I have been hiding under a rock and avoiding what is going on at the home front.  Colorado rules mandate that it takes about 90 days or so for it to come to official.  So, by early February - unless her heart changes - I will be divorced.  That will suck.  I don't want it to happen.

Right now the rock that is squashing me looks unmovable, unavoidable.  My 3 kids will be greatly affected by this.  That sucks even more.  One thing that I have realized during this time is how much I love them and what they mean to me.   The other thing that I have realized is that I have turned my back on another rock.  Because of the world we live in I won't mention names of who that rock is - but I will ask that those of you who call upon the One who has a name that includes "The Rock" - I ask you to include me in that conversation.  Thanks.

Running with Birds and Bees

(Conversation from a few weeks ago......)

Dad: Hi, ummmm Son (name removed to protect the innocent, poor kid from any further embarrasment from his dufus Father), I, ummmmm think it is time for us, ummmmm, to ummmm, have a, ummmm, talk.   (Really, I wish it was your Mother who would do this - it was her idea after all and she has been bugging you to do this for months and months now.  Why should I do it - I'm just the poor kids Dad - my Dad didn't have a very good talk with me about this - at least my memories of it aren't good at all).

Son: Sure Dad.

Dad: (Oh crap - I was hoping he didn't hear me or was too busy having too much homework to do).  Ohhhhh....... cool.  What do you want to talk about?

Son: Huh?

Dad: (Groan - I was hoping he would start.  This is not going to be easy).  Ummmm, I mean, I kinda think we need to, ummmm, talk a bit about ummmmm, you know......

Son: Know what Dad?

Dad (Well, this is going well so far you idiot - if you don't stop saying ummmm and sounding like a cow - you never will.  Step up you coward).  Weeeellll, I think we need to have a talk about, ummmm (again, really?), Soccer.  (Huh?  this is how you are doing this.  Nice job).

Son: Why?

Dad: I don't know.

Son: Okay.

Father and son talk about soccer for a few minutes.....

Dad: Okay, that really wasn't what I was thinking we should talk about.  (Okay, it's go time, now or never - I choose never, wait.  I choose your Mother to do this.  Wait - I have to do this).  Let's talk about SEX.

Son:  Ohhhhh Kaaaay

Dad: Yeah - this could be fun huh?  (Fun?  I feel like I am about to fall off a bridge).

Son:  Ohhhhh Kaaaay.

Dad: Yeah, fun is probably not the right word.

Son:  Ohhhhh Kaaaay.

Dad: Want some ice-cream?

Son:  Ummmmm, sure.

Dad and son get some ice cream - absolute silence for a few minutes as Dad has no idea what he has started, what he is doing, or what he is supposed to say.  Finally, ice-cream is eaten.  The moment has arrived.  Dad will talk to son about........SEX.

The Son can't wait for this to be over.
The Dad can't wait for this to be over.
The Son can't believe this is about to happen.
The Dad can't believe this is about to happen.
The Son can't wait for this to be over.
The Dad can't wait for this to be over.

Dad: Soooooo, what do you think about, ummmm, girls.

Son: Ehhhh, they are wierd.

Dad:  I know right?  Who is the wierdest girl you know?

Son: My sister (name also witheld to protect the innocent).

Dad: Okay, who else?

Son: My other sister (name also withheld).

Dad: Anyone else?  (I hesitate to ask - knowing what is coming next).

Son: Mom does some wierd and crazy things at times.

Dad: No kidding (like making me have this talk on my own when clearly I have no clue about what I should be saying here).

Dad: How about kids in school?

Son: _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (name withheld to protect the wierd girl in middle school and just in case her parent ever reads this).

Dad: Why is she wierd?

Son: Cos she's stupid.

Dad: Why?

Son: Cos she is.

Dad: Is she pretty?

Son: Huh?

Dad: Is she pretty?

Son: No.

Dad: Why is she stupid or wierd?  (Dad is looking for any excuse not to talk about sex with his Son).

Son: eeeeh, she does does wierd stuff.

Dad: Oh.

Son: Yeah.

Dad: Hmmmm.

Silence.

More silence.

Dad (Crikey, now what?  Maybe that is enough for today?  Unfortunately not).  Soooo, are there any pretty girls in school?

Son: No.

Dad: Really?

Son: No.

Dad: Surely there are some pretty girls there - I have seen some.  (Oh God - now I am starting to sound like I have been stalking 8th grade girls.  I really haven't).

Son: Nah - not really.

Dad: So, no girls in school are pretty?  Do you think any girls are pretty?

Son: Ehhhhh.  Naaaaa.

Dad: Not even your Mom?

Son: Sure she is pretty.  But she is Mom.

Dad: I think she is pretty too.

Son: yup.

Dad: How bout your sisters?

Son: What about them?

Dad:  Do you think they are pretty?

Son: No - they annoy me.

Dad: Aren't they cute?

So:  Ehhhh, I guess.

Dad:  So, Mom is the prettiest girl you know.

Son: Sure.  Can I get some more ice-cream?

Dad:  Sure. (maybe I should take up drinking alcohol).

Dad: What do you think about Mom is pretty?  (Oh oh, this could get wierd to have your kid describe his Mother).

Son: She is just pretty.

Dad: So, if there were any pretty girls around, what would make them pretty?

Son: (with look of befuddlement on his face) Ummmm....

Dad: maybe their face?

Son: maybe.  I guess.

Dad: Their smile?

Son: Sure.

Son is thinking "what am I doing here"?
Dad is thinking "what am I doing here"?

Dad: Anything else that makes a girl pretty?

Son: If they can play soccer.

Dad: Okay, (this could be another chance for a rabbit trail - hold it together Dad - try to go somewhere with this), not sure about girls playing soccer that makes them pretty.  But, do you see any pretty girls playing soccer?

Son: Ummmm, I guess _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (plays on US Womens Soccer team but name withheld cause it's wierd my Son thinks she is pretty - I just don't see it).

Dad: How about _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (also name withheld in case she ever stumbles across this blog and files a lawsuit against me for being a creepy old man).

Son:  I guess she is pretty.

Dad:  Okay, good.  Why do you think she is pretty?

Son: Ehhhh, I just said that to stop us having this conversation.

Dad: Nice try son.

Son giggles

Dad: Try again.

Son: Cos she pays soccer.  (Giggles some more).

Dad:  Nice try again.  What else?

Son:  Cos she is pretty.  (Now laughing)

Dad: (where is your Mother?  I am getting nowhere).  Son, you are not making this easy on me.

Son: (laughing).  I know.

Dad: Punk kid.

Son farts

Dad: Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh nooooooooooo !!!!!!!!!

Son laughing uncontrollably.
Dad is gagging.
Finally, after a few minutes of rough housing......

Dad: Let's get serious.  We need to have this talk.

Son farts again.
Dad farts too.
More gagging and rough housing.

Dad: Alright kid.  Lets talk about sex.

Son: Can't we talk about soccer?

Dad: I wish, but your Mother won't let me.

Son: Just tell her that we did.

Dad:  Okay.  No, wait.  We need to have this talk.

Son: Don't worry Dad, I heard it already at school in class.

Dad: You did?

Son: Yeah, it was gross.

Dad: Did you learn anything?

Son:  Waaaaaay tooooo much.

Dad: Like what?

Conversation withheld to protect the Safe For Work blog that this is (or was).  After a while - conversation is over.

Son: thinking - phew, glad that is over.
Dad: thinking - phew, glad that is over.

Mom: somewhere else is thinking - I bet he didn't have the talk.

Dad: thinking - there is no way she is going to believe me.

Son: thinking - there is no way Mom is going to believe Dad.

(What has this got to do with running you ask?  Nothing - it has taken me 3 weeks to sort of get over it.  Thinking I needed therapy to get it out of my head - realising that running helps clear my thoughts - but that conversation will never run away from my mind though).