“My Dad is #1”
THURSDAY, January 28 – Don’t have a clue what I meant when I wrote down last night’s terms. Can’t remember much about yesterday. What on earth does Auschwitz have to do with Sander’s half-birthday? Jennifer perfected? Dammit! I’m losing my marbles.
Well, maybe that’s not such a bad idea. A chance to catch my breath. Maybe that’s what I need most at this point.
I quickly, however, reject that idiotic idea. My mission, my life task, could not be clearer: the children. Nothing but the children. And then myself. I have to take care of myself and it was a good thing that I gave in to my fatigue, left the dancing letters to their own demise, and went to bed.
I found Eamonn in my bed. During and probably because of my absence he had become upset and vomited all over the stairs. Sander called me during the meeting. The babysitter assured me that it wasn’t serious. ‘Entirely psychosomatic’ was my diagnosis, and I hung up after suggesting that Eamonn might want to crawl into my bed. That helped.
This morning he came downstairs with a poem, written specially for me. Tears immediately came to my eyes. ‘It made me cry, too,’ Eamonn said. It’s called ‘My Dad’.
“My Dad
Is #1.
I love
To hear him hum,
His meals
Make me say yum.
My Dad
Is #1.”
I hang it on the wall.
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Diary of a Widower 