Life’s better with the right words.

My problem lies in reconciling my gross habits with my net income. 

~Errol Flynn

This is an exciting time in life; my family on the brink of a shift.

Most of it’s wonderful, but like any move from blue ribbon to better, there’s little reward without any stairs to climb.  

Sweet isn’t near as sweet if you’ve never known sour.

Some of the vinegar in the emigration to full time writer, is this long middling, when the idea of being a chooch frequently worms its way between my ears, lays eggs, then wiggles down my spine to settle where I sit. 

Psst… Writer Dad.

Sigh.  Yes, incessant voice inside my head?

Most readers don’t know random Italian slang.  You only got yours because you read the forward to Mario Puzo’s, “Fortunate Pilgrim.” (Not that you actually read the book.)

Oh, incessant voice.  Good point.

A chooch, according to Italians, is someone who allows their family to fully indulge in their eccentricities, even though they don’t lay a single crumb on the table. 

I’d rather have teeth breaking through the skin on the side of my face. 

I love writing.  It’s harder than breathing, but easier than doing the dishes. 

If I can carve out a living for myself, and my loved ones, by letting my fingers dance across these keys, then I’ll bow down and count myself as one of the lucky ones.  But I can’t stand the idea of pouring over piles of syllables, belaboring every single page and paragraph of a novel that might take another year, and designing rhymes that no one will ever enunciate, when there’s a stack of bills that need to be paid (and quickly). 

If I’m a writer, than my responsibility is to not only produce content that makes me smile, my family proud, and audience happy, but that also puts food in our tummies and fattens the college fund. 

I don’t want to be the guy who goes to his garage with three drunk buddies and plays off key oldies, mouthing off about one day getting a gig, while his family’s inside passing a tub of popcorn and saying, “Where’s Daddy? 

I want to write. 

I want to write chapter books for my children, and a love story for my wife; something funny and tragic for my mom, and maybe a western for my dad.  Perhaps I’ll pen something dark and quiet, cynical and sweet for my sister. 

I can’t wait to write a book on raising children or running a pre-school, and I’ve got an awesome idea for a sci-fi novel.  I’ll probably start on it as soon as I’m finished with the book being written right now. 

I don’t need a Costco sticker covering up the last letter in the title of my tome, but my time must amount to something. 

I just can’t stand the thought of being a chooch.

Writer Dad

Disclaimer: Daisy does not endorse this post. I have read it to her three times. One had this really hilarious ending that was far better than this one. But I digress. Daisy doesn’t think that I could ever be a Chooch, and poses a strong objection to the word, especially when used in relation to myself.

If you enjoyed my words, please subscribe.  I promise I’ll be back tomorrow.

If you liked that, you’ll probably love, “Here’s a Macbook, Go Make a Million,” “Sink or Swim,” or “Your Baby’s Born in the Rough Draft. You Raise it in the Rewrite.”

“If a fellow isn’t thankful for what he’s got, he isn’t likely to be thankful for what he’s going to get.”

~Frank A. Clark

“Is it going to hurt?”

Max furrowed his tiny brow.

“No,” I said.  ”It’s going to pinch.”

“Like this?”

He pinched me, certain I’m sure, that he sent my forearm into burning agony, but it’s more like the whisper of a dandelion settling on my skin.

“No,” I said.  ”Like this.”

I gave Max’s arm a nip; a close approximation to what the shot might feel like.”

“Ow.”

“Did it hurt?”

“A little bit.”

“Not too much?”

“This much.”  Max squeezed his thumb and pointer, leaving just enough room for a ladybug to slip through, but only so long as her wings were folded.  ”Why do I have to get a shot.”

“Because they put a few tiny bad guys inside you, so like a million good guys can beat them up and tell them to never come back.”

“Then I won’t get sick?”

“Right.”

“I’m not going to cry,” Max said.  He shook his head.

“It’s okay if you do.”

“Yeah….” He held the last syllable like a note on a trumpet.  ”I don’t think I’m going to.”

We’ve been stuck in the tiny room with the long sheet of butcher paper for the better part of an hour.  Just me and the three year old.  We have a trio of books, and we’ve read each several times.  I’ve already made the tongue depressors dance, and fashioned a set of chicken balloons from the disposable gloves.  I know I should stay out of the doctor’s stuff, but forty-five minutes is a long time.  

I start to wonder what it’s like to have the seemingly infinite power of a doctor.  I picture him next door, flirting with the nurse, or maybe dinking around with his iphone.

We had an appointment, and there was no one before us.  What’s taking so long?  

Forty-five minutes waiting in a tiny room with a three year old is like an afternoon in an elevator.

“What’s taking such a long long time?”

Max’s question is reasonable, but it’s turning into a whine.

“Sorry buddy,” I tousle his hair, “I’m sure the doctor will be here soon.”

“Okay.”  His shoulders collapse and he crawls in my lap.

I feel about doctors as I do about contractors.  I’m not happy I have to bend over every time I want to do business, but I accept it.  

They went to med school, I didn’t.  They have a skill set that I do not.  

But don’t make my three year old wait without a good reason.  

That’s not cool.

I tell Max I’ll be back; he promises not to budge.  I step into the hallway.

The nurse has misfiled our paperwork, and the doctor doesn’t know we’re waiting.

Grrr.

Fifteen minutes later, the derelict nurse enters.  He says, as he displays the needle, “Sorry guys, this is my first day.”  He then approaches Max with the self assurance of a tourist without a map in a country without vowels.

“Have you given a shot before?”  I shift my body.  The nurse has to stop.  I’m not trying to be confrontational, but I’m quite suddenly unhappy.

“Not on a kid.”  He won’t look me in the eye.

“I’m sure you’ll be an ace someday,” I said.  ”But we’ve been waiting for an hour, and I think we need another nurse.”

“Sure thing,” he said.  

He shuts the door and I feel angry with myself for not giving him the benefit, but I’m doing the right thing.

The door swings open a minute later and a woman walks in who looks like she was giving shots back when they were wiping out polio.  

“How are ya little guy?”  The nurse smiles and every one of her hundred wrinkles reach for the ceiling.

“Good.”  Max laughs.

“This is going to pinch a little, okay.”

Max looks at me and whispers.  ”I’m not going to cry.”

“Okay, buddy.”  I offer my palm.  ”Do you want to hold my hand?”

“Yeah.”

“Look at me, okay.”

“Okay.”

Max holds my gaze as the needle breaks, then enters his flesh.  His eyes widen, brighten, then glaze.  The nurse finishes her work, and removes the needle.

“All done,” I said.

Max turned to the nurse with two dry cheeks.  ”Thank you for my shot.”

This sounds like the most polite sentence ever whispered.

The nurse spins in surprise, clearly trying to determine an appropriate response.  But, “You’re welcome,” is all she can manage.

Five minutes later, we’re at the front desk with Max being fawned over.  He’s given not one, but one of each kind of sticker scattered at the bottom of the ‘sorry we had to stick you‘ box.

“Did it hurt,” I asked as I lifted him into his car seat.

“No,” he shook his head.  ”But it took a long long time.”

Writer Dad

If you enjoyed my words, please subscribe.  I promise I’ll be back tomorrow.

If you liked that, you’ll probably love “But Daddy,” “Bye Bye Butterfly,” or even this.