Saying 'Goodbye' to a Best Friend

Dear Aurora,
   You'll never remember yesterday, but I'll never forget it.

Saturday, November 19, 2016, will always be just another day for you--a day filled mostly with napping, eating, smiling, and pooping. (To be fair, at eight months old, that's most of your days.) Saturday, November 19, 2016, will never be just another day for me--it was the day my best friend was buried.

Chances are, Aurora, you'll have a best friend someday. Chances are, you'll laugh, play, grow, and cry with her or him. But the chances aren't good, I'm afraid, that this person will be as wonderful as Andy Marble. (Or, as many of us know him, just Marble.)

Your Mom and I brought you to a funeral yesterday mostly because of feeding logistics, but also because we thought you might add a little joy, a few smiles, to a very sad day. You took a little nap during the service, so let me share part of the eulogy I struggled to deliver in front of an overflowing room of Marble's friends and family:

In 30 years of knowing him, I've honestly never heard a negative word uttered about him. I bet you haven't either. Take five seconds, right now, and think about it. Think about all the words you've ever heard to describe Marble. Everyone, absolutely everyone, liked him. 

People were drawn to him for many reasons. Three things stand out, I think: His passion, his easygoing demeanor, and his toughness. 

Let's start with passion: A lifelong learner, this is someone who read the Guinness Book of World Records, from cover to cover, at the age of 8. More than simply curious about the weather, he gave many of us in this room the daily forecast over the intercom in middle school. Driven to succeed, one night, before law school, he brought his LSAT Review book out to the bar. (The ladies stayed away that night; no one cared.) And, maybe above all other passions, sports -- both playing and watching. He was a gifted athlete, especially in baseball where he was a T&G All-Star, and he loved college football more than you love pretty much anything. 

Easygoing? With Marble, your preference was, almost always, just fine with him. He was always up for anything, patient with everyone, and handled good news and bad news with equal grace. That attitude came with a unique kindness, too. Even at the end, as he laid, in pain, in a hospital bed in his parent’s living room, he said, “Thank you” after a nurse increased his medication and “I’m sorry” after a particularly loud sneeze. 

Lastly, toughness, or, as Marble liked to say, intestinal fortitude. He was sacked more than any high school quarterback, maybe ever. And he got up every time. As recently as a year ago, his calloused hands were shooting 100 3-pointers before work to sharpen his basketball skills. And, sadly, as recently as a couple weeks ago, he was rating his searing, non-stop pain as a "6" on the pain scale. He didn't say 6 to be macho. He said 6 because his 6 is our 12. He said 6 because he knew there was room for the pain to grow. He said 6 because, frankly, he didn't want people to make a fuss about him and he believed someone else needed help more than him.

Sounds pretty great, doesn't he, Aurora? And he was. I'm really sorry that you and your sister didn't get the chance to really get to know him, but rest assured that I'll tell you lots of stories -- about the first time we hung out, banged heads, and retreated to our mother's legs; about the time we created fictitious blackberry companies while we gorged ourselves in a berry patch; and, when you're older, about the time he introduced some of my college friends to something called Yucca.

As I mentioned, the room was very crowded. And many people shared their condolences with me, knowing how close Marble and I had been for the last three decades. Those wishes were kind, thoughtful, and humbling. But I'll be okay. I suspect his other friends will be okay, too. (Together, we all lit up Marble's Facebook Memorial Page like a Christmas tree of stories and memories.) I'm sad and I will be for a while, but he and I packed a lot of life into the last 30 years, especially the first 15. He made me who I am today and his wisdom will ring in my head forever. I consider myself lucky.

But now, his beautiful wife, Paola, needs the support. (By the way, Aurora, I hope someday you find a love like they had.) Now, his parents and brother need the warm thoughts. (By the way, Aurora, our family will always love you as they loved Marble -- intensely and unconditionally.) Returning to a "normal" day-to-day life after something like this is a tall order. (You can go here or here if you want to help.)

No, Aurora, you won't remember yesterday. You won't remember the tears, the stories, the tears, the laughter, or the tears. But you did your job of creating some smiles. And on a day like November 19, 2016, a smile goes a long way. So, thank you, for being adorable, sweet, and happy yesterday. I really appreciate it.

Love,
Dad

Discussing Tuesday's Election with a 3-Year-Old

"Do bad guys win sometimes?"

It was one of those moments when you could see the words physically leaving someone's mouth. Together, the five words and the question mark hung in the air. For a while.

As far as conversations with 3-year-olds go, this was pretty deep. Sure, we talk about "good choices" and "bad choices," about right from wrong, and about the importance of preseason college basketball rankings, but this was a new category. Deep, important, lasting.

Like most everyone who reads this blog (I suspect), Tuesday night wasn't what our house expected. What seemed like certain victory around 6 turned into doubt by 8, disbelief by 10, and sleep-stopping anxiety by 12. We woke up early on Wednesday in a hazy stew of uncertainty, anger, and sadness.

Annabelle, on the other hand, woke up with a smile, concerned mostly about what dress she was wearing that day. (That, you may know, is a typical conversation in our house.) She and I had talked a little about the election (Tuesday, on Facebook, I shared Annabelle's somewhat guided sentiments: "Trump's a bad guy), but she's 3 and we're still working on learning the days of the week.

"Is it Tuesday?" No. "Thursday?" No. What's in between Tuesday and Thursday. "Tuesday ...?"

Anyway, Bridget and I told Annabelle that Trump won and Hillary lost, but it didn't seem to affect her much. Why would it? After all, she's 3. But that's the tricky thing about dealing with a 3-year-old. You really don't know what is going to stick. For example, putting her shoes away when she gets home just isn't happening despite 181 (and counting) reminders. But her "bad choice" of coloring on a chair with a pen has stayed with her for more than a year.

So, I thought we needed to talk more about Tuesday and what had happened. Annabelle put on a somewhat fancy princess dress, gathered her favorite pink wand, and we, along with Aurora, headed out for a walk to our local bakery. (Annabelle, by the way, really likes cookies.)

We brought the double stroller, but, as usual, Annabelle wanted to ride on my shoulders. It hurts my neck sometimes, but, like any Dad, I'd let her ride on my shoulders while I ran a marathon if she wanted.

"So, Annabelle. The election was last night and Trump won. That means Hillary lost. That's why Mom and I are a little sad today."

Annabelle: "Did we vote for Hillary?"

"Yes."

Annabelle: "Then why did she lose?"

"Well, because more people voted for Trump. Actually, that's not quite true, there's this thing called the Electoral College ... let's just keep it simple, yes, more people voted for Trump. So he won. That's how elections work. But, listen, you have nothing to worry about, princess."

We walked into the library to return a couple books and the conversation drifted to other things. We played a riveting game of "I spy with my little eye," made faces at her sister, and argued about the best episode of Doc McStuffins. (Ben/Anna Split is the obvious answer.) She used her wand to spread some magic dust on her sister and point to her favorite trees.

We passed the town hall where we voted the week before, which triggered a memory for Annabelle.

Annabelle: "Why did Trump win? I want Hillary to be President."

"More people voted for Trump, hun ..."

Now, I'm not suggesting that she really understands what happened. She doesn't know the difference between Trump and Hillary, Democrat and Republican, or the economy and climate change. (For parents who have children that do know those differences, I'm sure this was a very difficult week.) But this seemed like a good opportunity to explain to Annabelle that A) you don't always get your way in life and B) only you can control your reaction to that disappointment.

We gathered some treats at the bakery and headed down the hill for home, with our cookies, wand, and Bridget's ice coffee (a requirement) in the top of the stroller. I asked Annabelle if she wanted to talk any more about Trump and Hillary.

Annabelle: "I don't like Trump. He's a bad guy."

"Yeah, I mean. He's said some bad things. He doesn't seem very kind or empathetic, does he?"

Annabelle: "No. But bad guys win sometimes. Is that right, Daddy? Do bad guys win sometimes?"

After several thoughtful seconds, I answered.

"Yes. But good guys, and good girls, win sometimes, too. That's just how it works. All we can do is try our best, be nice to other people, and things have a way of working themselves out. We didn't vote for Trump, but lots of people did and we need to try and understand why so we can move forward together."

I was afraid I'd lost her. "Does that make sense, Annabelle?"

Annabelle: "Yes. Okay, wand, please."

"What?"

Annabelle: "Wand, please." She pointed at the wand in the stroller.

"Here you go, princess. I love you."

That was the end of the election discussion. And that was just fine. Quite frankly, I would much rather talk about wands anyway.

Failure to Make the Braid

Annabelle dressed as Elsa for Halloween. If you have a daughter, there is nothing surprising or interesting about that sentence. (She's adorable, though, isn't she? I mean, look at that smile. That pose! What a cutie!)

Because she was Elsa, Annabelle needed something, something I, as her father, am totally unequipped to provide to her. I could handle the dress, the Frozen-themed trick-or-treating pail, and the shoes. But the braid, well, that's not my area. And not just any braid--an Elsa braid.

Look at this thing:

How would I ever be able to do that? It's insane. 

Let's not get ahead of ourselves, though. Let's stick with a basic, run-of-the-mill braid. That should be easy enough, right? Wrong. It's impossible. Impossible? You're being dramatic. I am not being dramatic. I cannot do it. Period.

Being able to do Annabelle's hair (and some day Aurora's, if she gets any) is important to me. Like any father of daughters, I see the commercials and the all-star dads doing all sorts of elaborate things (like using a vacuum) that put the rest of us to shame. I picture myself in that Dad's shoes, coolly crafting the perfect 'do.

But then I try. And it goes horribly wrong. More on that in a second. 

Ponytails were challenging, but doable. Here's a picture of my first one. (The mustache binky is a bonus.) I figured out that technique because it's really just brushing hair and wrapping an elastic. If you've wrapped up a bag of chips, you can do a pony tail. 

And so I thought the transition to braids would be possible, even easy. I asked Bridget to show me how to do one. Her ninja-liked hands moved no fewer than 70 MPH, I blacked out, and Annabelle had a braid. Not good. So I asked her to show me again, slowly. And she did. Three strands of hair, over, under ... then I lost it again. 

I figured she was just making it look too complicated, that if I got my hands on the hair, it'd be easy. (You know how women complicate things, right? Right?!) Anyway, that wasn't the case. I somehow managed to get the small strand of hair in my ring finger (an accomplishment, I thought!), but it was all downhill from there. I was all thumbs and quickly called an audible: "How about a nice pony tail, Annabelle?"

I stood and watched on Halloween night as Bridget did her (winter) magic. (The braid was quite good, but we never snapped a photo of it.) And now here I am. One or two mornings each week, Annabelle will request a braid and I have to tell her that I can't do it, that we'll have to wait for Mom, who, by the way, has almost 30 years of braid-making experience.

On a unrelated note, headbands are awesome, aren't they? Maybe Disney should go with a headband for their next princess. Until then, I am a man defeated. Stupid Disney.