I became a father twice in my life. The second time was a two-fer.
As our oldest daughter approached her second birthday, my wife and I started to consider whether we wanted to have one child or two: one or two, two or one, one or two. Somewhere along the line, we decided that two would be the way to go. Little did we know; twins make three.
Our son and daughter were born three years after their sister. What followed was a dizzying rush of long nights, blurry days, absurd schedules, lots of silliness, and much enjoyment. As our kids grew, we met people who also had kids of a similar age. We traded kid stories back and forth; at work, in the day-care parking lot, after school functions, in grocery stores, at picnics, on soccer game sidelines.
Hearing myself retell our stories, I realized that I should write them down before they were lost. I did, in a sense. Not a finished written account, a diary, or a blog; blogs hadn’t even become a thing yet. Instead, I was accumulating a series of scattered thoughts, jotted down or written out, and kept in an unruly collection. With each addition, I would devote myself to sorting through it all and making something out of it. Inevitably though, small voices saying “Hey, dad” would send me off in a totally unrelated direction.
In other words, being a parent was the perfect cover for being an easily distracted writer.
Today, our oldest is quickly approaching college graduation while her brother and sister are making their way through year-two of college. My brain is slowly starting to clear; in the same way that smoke clears after an explosion. The time to begin unpacking the collected thoughts of this scattered father feels right. I can only hope to remember them all.
Just as nobody tells kid stories in chronological order, this blog will not abide by a timeline. I simply want to sit down and thumb through a collection of the snapshots that got me here.
Sorry – got to go. More later.
For writing samples – and voice over work – of a “commercial” nature: www.joelmurphywriting.com