working on new stuff, will come out soon. till then, here’s a piece the NYTimes said they “had no idea existed.”
It’s all relative — compared to his play-doh ball of a sister who stares up at his nest of blonde curls backlit by morning sun, he is a giant. A golden god who rules this porch of a kingdom, bestowing upon his people daily bubble parties of whimsy and mirth. "BREAK ON!" he screams, and with the push of a button, whirs into motion the strawberry-shaped, battery-operated machine that shoots bubbles directly into the cheeks that make up his sister’s face. She laughs, he laughs, we all laugh. For bubbles. “He's getting so big,” everyone says, and they’re right. We’ve spent the last three years with this tiny person and he’s become a giant. Our son, the sun, around whom our lives revolve. Always in extreme close up, his face takes up the entire frame in that fisheye lens sort of way, uncomfortable if it were anyone but your own kid, special in that way you’ll only understand once it’s gone. "BREAK OFF," he screams, turning the machine off. To my feeble mind, one would swap the ON and OFF but what the hell do I know. I am but a guest, here at this bubble party, and what a party it is. All this bigness belies another, more surprising truth — that he’s still so unbelievably teeny. Like last Tuesday when I watched him trudging through the backyard with his giant blue backpack on, the one with the droopy dog ears and his name written on the front pouch. “Wilder.” Was I crying because it was his first day of preschool? Maybe, but mostly it was how little of the frame he took up, there by himself in our not-very-big backyard, a blobby blue bubble set against a super wide shot of the land, minuscule and yet with all the trappings of an adult. The backpack bigger than his body, white dad sneakers, pants made to look like jeans, his little yellow shirt. I cried big tears watching his little legs, choosing on their own which way to step through the mud he’d himself created — first this way, then that way, then another that way and back this way, all the way, floppy dog ears bouncing with every step. According to his teachers, the first week of school was a success. Corroborating this fact proved difficult. When asked how it went, he’d answer “I just don’t know.” That “just” is so funny to me. Where did he learn that? And what did it mean? Exasperated? Frustrated? A southern belle hiding something? I just don’t know, and that’s the point. There are things I no longer know. His life that is separate from us has begun, here and there, lasting a handful of hours, if that. Relatively speaking, it is nothing, and yet the pain of it feels absolute. Is this the bittersweet pill of parenting I keep hearing about? That as he takes up all the space in our minds and everything else recedes, so too will he, becoming a his own person by separating from us? And is it the role of the parent to bear this burden so the child can enjoy his bubble party? I’ve spent my life on the other side of the divide, oblivious by design to the pain my parents felt and feel about my being so far away. Their son, so tiny, so brave. But not as far, not as of recently. My family — Lauren and the kids — moved three months ago from California to the east coast. Whenever I tell people that, the word “family” snags in my brain, like it still feels off the way it did to call Lauren my wife or Wilder my son. It is still so new, this family, relative to the one with whom I’ve spent 36 years. Everything is relative, except relatives. Relatives are family. Good luck! As a last hoorah for summer, we spent last week at the beach. Every morning, I’d take a cup of coffee and Emma June out to the water and we’d sit, me in a lawn chair, her on a towel in the sand, awaiting dawn. Every day, dawn came. And with it, a bubble party. Today, the blue wand. I’d unsheath it and spin the wand in a circular motion, slow at the top, fast follow through down to the bottom, slow again, fast back up to the top. Two little parabolas of bubble party madness that would produce, on a good pull, a few big boy bubbles each. I’d also spill the bubble juice everywhere but in EJ’s eyes, that’s simply the cost you gotta pay to be the bubble boss. We both stared up at the bubbles, buoyed by the waves and salty ocean wind, soaring through the first glimpse of morning. This was life now. This and yanking shells out of EJ’s mouth. Sand too, she was eating so much sand. But that was it. Bubbles and no shells and no sand. And spit up, from all that sand. The bubbles went everywhere: behind us into the trees, straight up into sky, and one, a bold bubble, made its way out into the ocean. Why wasn’t it popping? How? I was transfixed. It just kept going, further and farther both, intact somehow and perhaps getting stronger? Surely it’d pop soon, no? No. It kept going until all I could see of its soapy film walls was a single pocket of reflection, shining bright blue like a hummingbird flapping its wings, fast and free, further, farther, mother, father into the distance until, finally, too far now to see, it was gone. Did it pop? Or just keep going? I just don’t know. “Me? A patron of the arts??”That’s right, you, yes you there good sir, fair madam, and even you tiny Tim, you call can be patrons of the arts by supporting Both Are True. You see, dear folks, this newsletter, nay, this very writer’s livelihood, rests upon the generous patronage of souls such as yourselves. Should these musings bring joy, consider dropping a coin or few into mine coffers. Now let us away, to the next chapter, patrons and sinners both! Remarks
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