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(Ed. note: You all have the hots for my wife. That's fine, and honestly I can't blame you: she's at once infinitely hotter and immeasurably cooler than I'll ever be, and the fact that she's deigned to spend this much time with me is a profound and inexplicable mystery on a par with "Is there a bigfoot?" and "Who let the dogs out?"

So: I had a birthday the other week, and she chose to mark the occasion by writing something for this dusty little corner of the internet. She shared with me; I share with you; and thus, the circle of life is complete. The following words – except as noted – are 100% hers.)

On your 40^th birthday, I reflect on back on the fact that I’ve spent close to 20 of those years with you. You’re an amazing husband, friend, Dad and more. From spending half of our lives together (and because 40 would take too long), here are just 20 of the reasons I love you…

1. You make me laugh every day. An off-beat comment, email, facial expression… you get me every time.

2. You are the best writer I know. Hands down. Your TwoBusy voice is funny, sarcastic, ironic, poignant, breathtaking, beautiful and brave (and all that usually in one single post). And your amazing talents as a professional writer are strategic and creative, yet seem effortless (making me incredibly envious).

3. You have awesome hair. Still black (or really dirty blonde) with no hint of graying. Thick and slightly wavy. You’ve dodged baldness despite overwhelmingly bad hair heredity. Why such nice hair is wasted on a guy, we’ll never know, but the legend of your hair awesomeness is true. (Ed. note: You all thought I was lying, didn't you? Faithless SOBs.)

4. You are cute. You hate when I say cute, as if I mean like a stuffed animal or small pet. You’re a combination of (Ed. note: a universally beloved and deeply handsome actor to whom I bear absolutely no resemblance) and (Ed. note: another popular and ruggedly handsome actor who looks as much like me as, say, your typical blue lobster). How can that be a bad thing? Most people don't get compared to successful, appealing movie stars every day. Suck it up. You’re cute. So there. (Ed. note: I should point out that my wife has the worst eyesight of anyone you know, and subsequently your skepticism on this observation is well-founded.)

5. You know stuff. You’re an information sponge. You’re everyone’s obvious #1 draft pick for any Trivial Pursuit team. I dread getting a Sports or Entertainment question. (Who could possibly know this stuff? Turns out you do, and you thrive on it). I consider you my personal IMDB and Google all in one. And because you know so much stuff… people ask you the most random things fully expecting you’ll have the answer. Remember my dad pointing to houses for sale in the neighborhood and demanding, “How much is that one?” or at Kings Canyon National Park pointing to the giant redwood trees and asking, "How old is that one?" Even if you don’t know, you could make up a reply and everyone would have 100% confidence in your answer. (Ed. note: translation = you're skilled at BS.)

6. You know what music and books I'll like even before I know I want them. You’ve introduced me to some of my favorite authors (Lee Child, Harlan Coben, Janet Evanovitch, Kate Atkinson) and music (the relentlessly poppy styles of Motion City Soundtrack, Dashboard Confessional and Jimmy Eat World, which grate on your nerves but you feed my habit nevertheless).

7. You are a vomit magnet. Your track record for getting hurled on by our sick kids is both uncanny and tremendously endearing.  Somehow Mommy’s role ends up being to cuddle with the kids post-vomit and you are left having to start laundry, scrub the floors and take a shower at 2AM. Works for me, thank you.

8. You have a great voice. It was one of the things I liked best about you when we first met and still is.

9. You indulge my love of action movies. Predator, James Bond, Steven Seagal (in memorable films that allow you to say things like Steven Seagal “IS Out for Justice”, “IS Incredibly Overweight," "IS an In-Action Hero,” etc.). Remember the old tagline of TBS action movies? “For Guys who Like Movies?” I'm not a guy, but I'm their target audience. (Ed. note: How many of you are married to a woman who hums the theme to Predator? I'm a lucky man.)

10. You are handy with a snowblower. Turns out this skill comes in handy in the Boston suburbs (especially this winter). You may feel like Sisyphus constantly digging our out driveway only to have to repeat it a few days later… but I love that you take care of us. Not that you don’t complain about it, because you do. But it’s your perogative as MAN and HUSBAND and DAD and BOSTONIAN all wrapped into one and you accept it… and fire up the snowblower with each winter storm while the kids and I stay cozy in the house.

11. You hate to dance. I do too. Enough said.

12. You have an ability to spring out of bed from a deep sleep at the smallest cry from one of our kids. This came in handy pretty much every night for a hazy 4-year period where you’d spring to life and rush in to respond to the slightest cry or stirring from any of our 3 kids. My approach at 2am was to hope the child would fall back to sleep… or hope you’d deal with it. Which you did, every time.

13. You have great taste. Despite your daily uniform of jeans, sneakers, and sweatshirts over a beer T-shirt, I trust your opinion. When I ask, does this look okay? Or, should I get these pants? Or, what color should we paint the living room? Your opinion is gold to me.

14. You are the spirit of Christmas. Christmas stresses me out. I have been known on occasion to get annoyed by the excesses of the season. Without fail you start your shopping in October, and by the day after Thanksgiving are already plotting your arrangement of holiday lights and reindeer display for the front yard. You’ve turned Christmas lists into a serious computerized process, helping each child build über hyperlinked documentation of their toy desires. You buy bags of toys and stuffed animals for the kids (and I groan and say they don’t need all that!), and always manage to delight. You’re overly generous and are the very spirit of Christmas… and I love that about you.

15. You can survive on 3 hours of sleep for months at a time. This was tested after the birth of our twins, when you worked full time then came home and did full-night shifts with our twins.  The agreement was that you’d let me sleep from 9pm to 2am, then wake me for my shift. That never happened. You knew I was wobbling on the brink of insanity and fatigue after full days with the screaming babies, and you let me sleep extra each night.  Bless you.

16. You are the (self-proclaimed) CEO of Thanksgiving. Starting in October you start prepping. Buying supplies, researching recipes, stockpiling bottles of Madiera and Willams-Sonoma gravy goo. You plan and delegate the side dishes (never the important stuff – the core essence of Thanksgiving – the turkey, potatoes, stuffing and gravy are never outsourced). You always name your bird (Birdzilla, Albaturkey… too many to remember) You baste lovingly and roast to glorious perfection. You chat occasionally with the guests… but the turkey and tasks keep you in the kitchen. It’s always been about creating the perfect feast. And when it’s over the clean up begins in a frenzy of hand washing wine glasses and dishwasher stuffing. Then we send everyone home and collapse, and start thinking about next year’s feast.

17. You research everything. This may be a large part of how you know stuff (#5). The mere prospect of a big purchase (cameras, TV, cars we’ll never afford), a vacation, a night out (which restaurant to pick), a new job for me, and more will cause you to launch a full-scale Internet search. Within hours you’ll have mastered the pros and cons, the costs, the technologies, the menus, the maps….which you’ll share with zeal to help us to make the best decision.

18. You pack stuff. You have an uncanny ability to look at roomful of suitcases and know exactly how you’ll wedge everything into our trunk for vacation. It’s a skill that translates to knowing if a couch or bookcase in a store will or won’t fit.

19. You are supportive and loyal. Through stressful jobs, hard pregnancies, the arrival of twins, a diagnosis of Autism and more — you’ve been a rock at my side. You pump me up when I’m down; you help me see the forest for the trees. You are the best husband and partner I could ask for. (Ed. note: this is true. I'm completely awesome.)

20. You seem to like me. That is a wondrous feeling that gives me confidence, happiness and joy.

• • •

(Ed. note: for the record, I feel kind of ridiculous about posting something that's basically a list of reasons why I'm wonderful. But I was really… well, you can imagine how I felt when I read this, and since my wife wrote it as a post there's no possible way I can justify not pushing it live. Anyhow: please feel free to leave a comment detailing how much more you love her than me and why she should just kill me and take over this site. I guarantee you: she'll read every word.)

You cannot look to the beginning without looking at the end. Eyeing both warily, as though by measure of arc and shadow you might determine the distance from one to the other, and know where you stand in between. The end, of course, is elusive; intent on not being seen, or known. You tell yourself: nothing is predetermined — but knowing it is there, somewhere, is enough. The anticipation is enough.

Playing the odds is a loser's game. But you study the numbers and weigh the variables and realize that here, now, on this day, the odds tell a story: of the road behind suddenly stretching longer than the road ahead. The sensation of climbing is still strong – each day, every breath, feels a labor of love and struggle – but the numbers whisper that the crest may already lie behind, lost to the restless tumbling of hours. You picture them a night sky alive with stars and snowfall: each intricate, drifting moment weaving its way through the darkness, hoping to catch the light and – in that instant – attain significance for its strange geometry and immeasurable weight… before collapsing upon the landscape below. Transforming it, tiny moment by tiny moment, with mounting and relentless certainty of purpose.

You had imagined that sky infinite, in its motion and capacity for beauty.

Numbers are hateful things. Unforgiving, where language may be shaded by nuance and sculpted by careful hands into gentler instruments, so even the brightest blades may feel like a mother's touch, brushing the hair from your face, soothing as they cut, deep and true. They are absolute and yet offer no absolution — the immaculate faith of numbers on a page, the wicked angles of one contrasting with the smooth, self-fulfilling prophecy of its mate, clean and clear and pure and revealing, if only in half-truths. Knowing: the distance traveled is only half the equation.

Or more.

It is February, a harsh and bitter month in the midst of harsh and bitter winter, and as you step outside you hear the trees sway and moan and ache in the weak sunlight, straining against the compression of ice and time toward the sky, and the promise of warmer days. Days when distance is not measured but savored, with an explosion of joy and potential and the sudden rush of wind in your hair and the laughter of your children and the sensation of speed growing with each breath that fills your lungs and the pounding of blood in your ears and beneath your skin and your wife at your side her eyes so blue and huge and wondrous and all is in the moment in the becoming in the journey

the world spinning, drifting, beautiful in such small and lingering ways

passing the hours before that long night, when your children dream a sky empty of stars.

It is a shocking blue. Clean and clear, in a way that days upon days of thick clouds and rainshadow leave you incapable of believing possible. Has the sky ever known this shade of blue before? Was it always like this, and we simply never noticed? Perhaps it's the sharp chill of the morning; an acknowledgement that autumn has passed and a new season has arrived. Winter.

A fat crow settles into the tree above me as I walk out to start the car, its wings a lustrous blur of oily black. It barks its ragged crow caw, announcing its presence, the branch swaying and straining beneath its weight. "Good morning," I respond. It seems the appropriate thing to say. I turn the key and the engine strains to life, coughing with bluster and exhaust. I ease the door closed and walk back to the house, knowing that from somewhere on high black eyes peer from a maze of dark feathers, following me along this path.

• • •

They move quickly up the small hill, their brightly-colored backpacks bobbing like buoys on a choppy sea. I pull away, glancing into the rearview as I watch them recede into the woods, to the promise beyond of safety in numbers, in structure, in rigored days of small desks and the slow, steady, watchful tick of wall clocks. It's not long since they asked to be dropped off rather than led by hand: to be abandoned to the tender mercies and frantic rituals – hopscotch and tag, the dizzying blur of tire swings whipping through cold air at breakneck speeds – of morning.

They adapt so quickly to life without us.

At the end of the block I step on the brakes, and the inertia lifts one of my daughters' plush snowmen out of the safety of a booster seat and into the back of my chair. I hear the blunt force trauma as it collides, and I smile as I imagine the impact blunted by its fluffy Santa hat. Better – and more stylish – than a bike helmet.

I pull into traffic, the transmission shifting into higher and higher gears, the engine humming and purring with warmth and fuel, and my mind shifts with it. The day ahead. Places that must be seen. Things that must be done. Words that must be exchanged.

There is no sense in delay.

My smile fading, I take a deep breath and pull my phone from my pocket. I glance down, find the right number, hit redial. Stare out through the windshield and wait for the ring.

Was the sky ever this blue before?

• • •

Hello?

Hi. It's me.

Beloved son!

One and the same. So…

So.

So. Do you want me to come today?

Well. That's up to you, really.

Well, no. It's up to you. I want… I wanted to guage your comfort level. With me coming, me being there.

That would be fine, but I don't think it's necessary.

I know, but… we talked about this. About what needs to be discussed.

I know.

We've spent a lot of time not talking about this. We can't do that any more.

I know.

I mean… correct me if I'm wrong, but it's my impression that when you've met with the neurologist before, it's only been to discuss the walking thing, right? The lack of mobility, balance, motor planning?

Yes.

And you haven't… you haven't really talked about the other stuff.

Well, I've mentioned he gets a little foggy sometimes…

So… you've… understated things, more or less.

We probably have.

And maybe haven't given the doctor a full picture of what's going on. The memory issues. The lack of socialization. The withdrawal.

No.

These are important things.

I know.

And the fact that things seem to be… accelerating.

I know. You're right.

It's just… really, if she's going to help us understand what's going on, and maybe help him – and you – figure out a plan of action, or some strategies… she can't do that if you're not totally clear about what's happening with him.

I know. I know. You're right.

I'm not trying to make things uncomfortable. For you, for him… but. We can't… we have to start figuring things out.

I know. And I'm ready to talk to the doctor about it.

Really?

Really.

Okay. Well, that's why I wanted to call. It's not that I want to impose my presence on you, or on the meeting, but today is when we need to start asking these questions and figuring out some answers.

I know. I think I'll be fine. You don't have to come.

Are you sure? Because I can put off work. I can come. This is important.

No. I'll talk to her, and then I'll let you know what comes out of the talk.

All right. I just… I'm just trying to help, here.

I know.

I'm just trying to help you. This all falls on you.

I know. And I appreciate it.

Alright. So. You'll call me later?

Yes. Now get to work. Try not to get pulled over.

Any day without a moving violation is a good day.

We taught you well.

Okay. Talk to you soon.

• • •

(there are things we do not say.)

(words we try not to think. terms that whisper of loss. and finality.)

(of fluids, building within the column and flooding the caverns. exerting pressure. crushing the tender folds and muting even their simplest wonders.)

(or of plaques, cleansing a rough and rugged landscape into something smooth, featureless. silenced. tabula rasa. cities lost beneath the shifting sands.)

(some things cannot be reclaimed.)

(we both know this.)

• • •

I sit in a small office. A small keyboard, and a small screen. I type, in my own fashion, doing the work they pay me to do. It is not difficult, and I do it quickly. I glance toward the corner of the screen and note the time.

This is the law of the hourly wage: pace yourself appropriately.

I slow my typing. Go back. Rework, massage. Double-check a detail. Complete a section, then lose my train of thought. My fingers dance, and I'm online — following conversations I am not a part of. I listen, but do not participate. Wondering if I should contribute. Doubting my instincts. Determining the interruption would be unwelcome, unwanted, unnecessary. Knowing it does not matter.

The world moves so easily without us.

The office has a slender window, and from my desk I can see a sliver of sky and a tangle of leafless branches. They look so brittle, suspended against that infinite sea of blue. Abandoned. Undefended. They shiver and sway, and while I do not hear it I know there is a cold wind brushing against the wood. A whisper of days to come, when the full press of winter descends and the air turns crystalline, the branches aching and groaning against the slow passage of months. The grooves in the bark filling with frost and ice. The fingerprints smoothing, then vanishing.

A slumber that stretches onward to forever.

More mad genius from mad genius Adam P. Knave, whom I adore more than is probably appropriate.

More evil genius from evil genius Adam P. Knave…

 

(forgot to mention: this would not have been possible without the deviant android nature of Jen O.)

Yeah. So… anyhow.

Some other things I've been doing when I've been doing nothing here:

• Polite Fictions — Envy
The newest fiction series over at PF was developed by Mr. Lady — it's called Heaven or Las Vegas: Seven Sins and Seven Virtues. Each writer gets to pick the sin or virtue of his/her preference and get all creative about it. I chose Envy, and while I was initially pretty happy with how it came out… I'm not sure that it's having the desired effect. Check it out for yourself and let me know what you think.

(and then read the other posts in the series. please.)

• MamaPop — That whole Marie Claire debacle
You heard about this, right? Some delusional, traffic-baiting writer/editor team at Marie Claire's website decided that it'd be cool to write a post about the (really mediocre) sitcom Mike & Molly and focus on how disgusting it is that it features two fat people who love each other. It was a truly remarkable display of good writing and common sense, and I responded in the only way I know how: with some helpful suggestions.

• MamaPop — Everyone loves zombies
I mean, seriously… who doesn't love zombies? Nobody, that's who. Which is why I offered a list of great TV moments that would've been made even better by the inclusions of Zombie-Americans.

• MamaPop — My wife loves Daniel Day-Lewis
Whether she loves him more or less than zombies is debatable, but the combination of 1) me being on deadline to write a MamaPop post; 2) me having no ideas of what to write about; and 3) the fact that Last of the Mohicans was on cable on Tuesday night resulted in this post.

• • •       • • •      • • •

Anyhow. That's me. Feel free to ignore all that, however, and move on to some of the great things that some of my friends have written recently — all of which are worth your time:

• Mr Lady dropped my name in a post about her… uh… *handsweep*

• TJ over at Studio 816 dropped this gorgeous slice of heartbreak in one of those "30 Days of Truth" posts.

• Speaking of which: Stacy over at Jurgen Nation has been working through that same series with such steady, deliberate, devastating power and impact that – frankly – it's intimidating enough that I won't even attempt it, because I know that nothing I do is going to come close to what she's produced. Just staggering. Start here and work backwards.

• Do you read ByFlutter? You should. If not, start here and tell me you're not blown away. I dare you.

• And lest I forget: Team DadCentric (minus yours truly) is engaged in Movember — growing moustaches for charity. It's an awesome effort – in any and all senses of the word awesome – and well worth your support. Anything you can do to help makes a difference. Thanks.

• • •       • • •      • • •

I know there are other things I'm missing – great things, worthy of your attention and love – but that's all I can think to mention right now. Sorry.

::retreats to shadowy grotto::

I'm not saying I'm breaking up with you. I'm not. That's not what I'm saying. But clearly… I'm not giving you the attention you deserve. We both know that. But I'm just not… present, not here, in the way I should be. And that's not right.

You deserve better.

Back in the day, when it was just you and me? Throwing words on a screen, clicking that little green button, and announcing myself to an indifferent world? That was… well, it was stupid, and it was a waste of time, but it was also kind of fun (occasionally) and interesting (less than occasionally) and – most of all – necessary, as an outlet for all the everything that was flying around the inside of my skull but had no other way to get out. And we all know what happens if you don't start boring holes and letting the evil spirits out: madness and doom. MADNESS AND DOOM, Y'ALL.

Now, don't get me wrong: there's certainly an appeal to madness and doom, but having travelled varying lengths down that road I thought I'd explore an alternate avenue. So I typed. I sat alone, and I typed, and it made very little difference to anyone but me. And, y'know, in some ways that was okay, and in some ways that kind of sucked.

But. After a while, I found I wasn't quite so alone. I found that there were other folks out there who not only were sitting in the dark, typing on their own – albeit to a legit audience, more often that not – but who actually responded to the stupid things that I typed. And that was enough to keep me typing. To keep me here with you.

Until the day when it wasn't just you. When I was asked if I wanted to take my talents to South Beach type elsewhere, as well. And without thinking – humbled, abashed, flattered beyond all comprehension – I said yes. And in the blink of an eye, there were suddenly many elsewheres, all demanding my attention, all rewarding my nimble fingers and tenuous grasp of punctuation and sentence structure with that sense of contact, and connection, and the insatiable hunger for more. Always more.

You. You were left here. Alone, more often than not. Never forgotten, but never… well: rarely, first on my mind. On my agenda. Because for me – or the me that became here and there and everywhere in this strange little world – there was only so much time, so much energy, so many ideas that I had, or could access, or could generate.

I discovered: there are only so many places I can fail at any one time before it starts to bother me.

So I pulled back, a bit. Other homes that had welcomed me in – kindly, graciously, with open arms – but I had to step away. And still, even after that: three other places beyond this (beyond you) that I continued to call my own. Each one more than a space to think and write, but a collection of incredible people who I felt honored to know – to whatever degree – as friends and colleagues. I never felt less than an outsider, but knowing that somehow there was a place at the table for me…

It gave meaning to this. To all of this.

And you waited here. Patiently. Quietly. Without judgment.

You deserved better.

And now… even now, even as limited as I am and have become… it is still, somehow, too much. I feel myself failing everywhere, all at once.

I don't know what to do with this. I don't fool myself into believing it matters – to anyone, probably not even to me – but I don't know what to do. I've seen so many of my friends drop off and drift away over the past few years… some of my earliest friends friends here, others whom I came to know only much more recently, either drifting away with the pull of time and family and work and indifference, or choosing to actively drop the mike and walk offstage, once and for all. And I miss them, y'know? They float in and out of contact, but…

I don't know. I don't know what I'm saying, what I'm thinking. I don't think I'm deciding anything, necessarily. But I know it's not right, and I know it's not you. It's me.

And I'm sorry.

Just because.

And yes: once again, this is the work of Adam P. Knave, madman and genius.

…as illustrated by evil genius Adam P. Knave.