I've Loved You So Long

I was driving home yesterday afternoon and my head was swimming in the sad French film I had just seen (Kristin Scott Thomas is devastating in it). And after a long train of thought, I spoke the following words out loud:

"Boy, did I fuck up!"

I was more surprised that I had actually said these words aloud than the words themselves. The voices in my head usually stay there, especially when I'm by myself. The movie got me thinking about all of the mistakes I've made in my life and how things could've turned out differently.

Specifically, I kept thinking about what would've happened if I hadn't married my wife. Would I have been happier? Would I have been more successful? What type of woman would I be with today? Where would I be living? Would I have done all of the things that I've always wanted to do? Would I feel any more fulfilled?

All of this foolishness stopped when my phone rang. It was my oldest son.

Going Down Fast

You may have noticed that I've taken a little break from the usual domestic tragedy and have lightened the fuck up. It's been about a week since I last told you anything substantive about my older son and nothing has really changed except that I stopped telling you about it.

The truth is that I was going down fast and needed some type of relief before it swallowed me whole. Some funny person (probably Woody Allen) once said, "Comedy is tragedy plus time." It just gets tricky when you throw in multiplication.

And that's not even factoring in the original equation of how to make you fall in love with me. It hasn't been easy finding the formula for that bat-shit crazy, mysteriously wonderful feeling and perhaps the solution lies less in math and more in chemistry. It's certainly worth a try, although it's not like I haven't been trying.

I've opened up to you like never before. I've shared my most intimate thoughts and feelings. I've shown a certain amount of kindness and intelligence, as well as a decent sense of humor. I've even been on a goddamn diet! So what's the problem?

Who do I have to blow for you to fall in love with me?

Black Friday

For me, "Black Friday" is a Steely Dan song (When Black Friday comes, I'm gonna dig myself a hole, Gonna lay down in it 'til I satisfy my soul). But for most everyone else, it's an excuse to satisfy their soul by laying down what little money they have left on one-day-only bargain crap.

How can I resist? Well, for the most part, I hate to shop. On the few occasions when it's absolutely necessary, I do my thing and am in and out of there in a flash (and that shouldn't be taken as a metaphor for anything else).

I can think of two exceptions. I can spend hours at the Apple Store (I'm usually the one without the piercings). Or a whole day at the mall with you!

We can go into any store you'd like, although I've been known to get antsy in women's shoes (especially Uggs). And I really don't mind if you wanna try stuff on. Hey, there's a Victoria's Secret. You kinda remind me of Heidi Klum a little. I know you gotta have that Twilight T-shirt at Hot Topic. And then let's share one of those cinnamon pretzels that smell so good.

This is so much fun, making believe that we're together. I do it with my wife all of the time.

A Few Sappy Words

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. It starts with Snoopy and ends in the bathroom and other than watching the pathetic Lions, it's pretty much a perfect day. There's also supposed to be a little something about being thankful, which, to be honest, I've often overlooked.

Sure, I got the whole fortunate to have food on the table thing and being with family and friends instead of alone. And someone, probably my father-in-law, would always say a few heartfelt words to that effect and it would stay with me right up until the first forkful of sweet potatoes.

I've since found my own few sappy words. What I've learned this past year is that there's nothing like the fear of loss to make you fully appreciate life, and that's what I'm thankful for. I'm thankful that the people who I love the most are still here with me today.

My Favorite Part

My younger son came into my bedroom this morning to discuss something very important.

"Dad," he said, "do you ever watch Dexter? I just downloaded the first season and it's fuckin' awesome!"

"Definitely! The first season's great, but I liked the second one better," I said. "The current one has just been okay."

"Yeah, that's what happens with all of these shows," said the noted TV critic. "You know what my favorite part is?"

"The opening credits," I said.

"How didja know? They're genius!" he gushed. "Now that I've taken all of these video classes, I can see how intricate each shot is."

"When did you become Hitchcock?"

"Who?"

"Nevermind," I said. "Where are you with it?"

"I'm only on like the third or fourth episode and the Ice Truck Killer is leaving Dexter all of those little dolls and his sister was just transferred to Homicide," he explained. "I also love the parts when they flashback to when he was a kid and we get to see how he became who he is."

"Should I tell you what happens?" I teased.

"Only if you want to be a dick," he said.

Where It Goes

I was having a rough time composing my thoughts today. For whatever reason, I got stuck on revising the shit out of everything in my head until I became paralyzed. And for me, there's nothing worse. I knew I'd just have to push through and see where it would go.

Unlike my life, blogging is a piece of cake. Most of the time, I know exactly what I'm gonna write about, although I'm not always so sure where it's gonna go. Like this morning. I was talking to my sister and in the back of my mind thought that I'd write about our conversation. So while she was spilling her guts about her kids, I was scribbling it all down until it hit me that I wasn't really listening to her and how fucked up that was, considering how she listens to my tired bullshit everyday. And I didn't tell her any of that until right now.

Or when I opened iChat earlier and read the following on my older son's Away Message:

I never know what to get my father for his birthday. I gave him a hundred dollars and said, 'Buy yourself something that will make your life easier.' So he went out and bought a present for my mother.

I didn't know what to make of that, so I IMed him a few minutes ago.

Dude, where did that joke on your Away Msg come from?

hahaha. jenna!

Was funny!

thought so too, reminded me of you!

The Silver Lining

The first thing I saw when I went online this morning was today's forecast -- mostly cloudy -- and, for a change, didn't take it personally. I don't know about you, but I don't know anyone who's having a particularly good time right now. A few of my friends are out of work, a few are dealing with cancer, a few more are (like me) suffering with a troubled teen and we're all royally screwed with the economy from hell. Whoever said misery loves company didn't know what the fuck he was talking about.

I'd give my left nut (and for me, that's saying quite a lot) to hear some good news, from anyone. I was watching the season finale of True Blood last night and some new character named Eggs told Tara (who I'd also give my left nut to), "Sometimes good shit happens too."

Sure, good shit happens on TV (congrats to Vinny for landing the Scorsese flick!), but real life is another story. Just because shit stuff happens to you doesn't necessarily mean that good stuff will follow. If that were the case, I'd be swimming in blowjobs. Life is random; blowjobs even more so.

Being the optimist who you've come to know (and possibly love), however, I'm constantly looking for the silver lining and here it is: things could always be worse.

Namaste 2

My newly-limber wife just came home from yoga and was happily demonstrating some of her favorite poses.

"This is Downward Facing Dog," she said, lifting her hips up to the sky while stretching out her legs.

"Of course it is," I said. "Lemme see some more!"

"This is Balancing Table," she said while doing some funky stuff with her arms and legs. Then she moved into a Crab pose and finished with something called Child.

"This is so turning me on!" I said. "Do you wanna see my Doggy Lipstick pose?"

"I've seen your Doggy Lipstick pose," she said wearily.

"What about the Frasier Crane?" I went on. "Or I can show you my Half Moon?"

"I'll pass," she said.

"Namaste," I said.

Mr. Softee

A friend, who is now the joyous subject of another blog, recently reminded me of who I used to be. She always makes me happy when I see her, although she usually does most of the talking. I don't mind it a bit because she's the best kind of kooky, charming as all get-out and a singular force of nature deserving of her own You Tube channel.

She's also extremely sympathetic and to that end, let me do most of the talking when we had lunch the other day (and my guess is that this doesn't happen very often). After I exhausted both of us with my latest tales of woe, she recalled the time when we first met nearly 18 years ago.

"You were like this cool guy," she said, "who made really sarcastic comments all of the time."

"That was when I was more of a persona than a person," I admitted.

"But you had these two beautiful pictures of your kids on your desk," she remembered, "and right then I knew that you were really a Mr. Softee on the inside."

"Now I'm just a Mr. Softee," I said, "without the sprinkles."

"No problem, honey," she said, flashing what has always been the most genuine of smiles. "Sprinkles is my department."

Comedy Night

At the end of each parents-of-kids-on-drugs meeting, our cheerful therapist reads the results from last week's urine tests. When he called out our son's name and said "negative" last night, my wife and I had the same reaction. We both laughed. We said that there must be some mistake. Or that he somehow figured out a way to beat it. Another mom in the group tried to encourage us by saying that her son told her that our son told him that he was really trying to cut back, and we laughed again. The therapist looked at us like we were crazy.

Of course, we are and have been for some time, but there's also a method to our madness. We're scared to let down our guard because we don't want to be disappointed again. And again. And again. And to steel ourselves from the ensuing pain, we live in continual psychic pain and therefore can't be hurt any more than we already are. This routine works like a charm, except for in reality.

For instance, my older son came downstairs to the kitchen around eleven o'clock a few nights ago and my wife just happened to still be up and her heart started to race because she was thinking that maybe he was gonna ask her to drive him over to his girlfriend's house. As it turned out, he was looking for nose spray.

So we laughed last night, but it was the shitty kind of laugh, the kind thoroughly devoid of hope. And without hope . . . there's nothing. Without hope, there's no possibility for change. Or for joy.

When we got home last night, we were starving and went straight to the kitchen where our younger son was already making himself a bagel. He asked us how it went and I told him that the parents group is mainly a whole lot of crying and my older son said that the teen group is mainly a whole of laughing. And then he told a story about some Xanax-addicted, Indian kid who knows our younger son, and they were both laughing their asses off and so were we.

"Tonight's comedy night!" said my younger son, and for the first time in a long time, it was.

Bad Vibes

Sometimes I can see it coming, sometimes not so much. Like last night. I was feeling okay, almost a little too okay, when the dread crept back in. It's strange because things have been kinda quiet these past few days. Maybe that was the reason, and if so, that's really depressing because there's gotta be a difference between the quiet and the storm.

The anxiety started off in my chest and emanated throughout my body until I was consumed in bad vibes. I was watching Criminal Minds and it was annoying the shit out of me (and it wasn't just because Jason Alexander was the guest psycho). During a commercial, my older son popped his head in to say that he was taking his meds earlier than usual because he was going back to school tomorrow and, I don't know, I just started thinking about all of the things that could possibly go wrong. What if he hates this place? What if the teachers bug him? What if the bus ride makes him sick?

My mind was racing with "what ifs?" and every time I heard his door open last night, it sent me round the bend. What's he doing now? Why is he still awake? Aren't the meds supposed to knock him out? Why does he keep going to the bathroom? Why is he pissing so much? Why I am thinking about him pissing? What the hell is wrong with me?

Believe it or not, this was after I had taken an Ambien! I finally turned on a portable fan, hoping that the white noise would eventually overpower the dark voices in my head. I lay there freezing until I fell asleep.

Good One

My younger son got his first quarter report card yesterday and other than an A+ in Creative Writing (apple/tree), he pulled straight Cs. He's always been a pretty good student without really trying (remember, we're the only underachieving family in the nabe), and we've never really busted his ass about it because we thought there were more important things in life, although I'm hard pressed to tell you right now what we thought those things were.

That's really bullshit. The reason we never got on his case about grades (or anything, for that matter), was because he's always been the "good one" (apple/tree again), and we've always taken that goodness for granted while focusing our attention on our older son's not goodness. And of course that kills me, but that's another story for another time.

"So what's the story?" I asked my younger son as we were driving to school this morning. "What's up with the sea of Cs?"

"I don't know," he said, looking out the window. "The shit is just harder this year. I really don't know."

"Anything I can do?" I asked. "Do you need tutoring or can you go in early for extra help?"

"I don't know. I mean, I know it's all up to me, like if I wanna go to a good college. I guess I'll just have to work harder," he said and paused for a few seconds. "I spoke with my guidance counselor yesterday and he said that he knows that I have a lot of stuff goin' on at home."

"Does that effect your school work?" I asked.

"What do you think?" he shot back.

"Stupid question," I said. "Sorry."

"It's all right," he said as we pulled up to school. "Have a good one."

One Piece Missing

It took my wife, with a little help from our younger son, less than three days to knock off a 2,000 piece jigsaw puzzle of the New York City skyline. Personally, I just don't get it, but I've never been much good at solving any type of puzzle.

I guess there could be some satisfaction in making all of the pieces fit together (especially if they don't in your life), but the whole idea of it just makes my ass tight. You start with a mountain of oddly-shaped pieces and then divvy them up into smaller piles by separating the edges from the inside pieces. Most people begin to assemble the border next and then fill in the rest of the picture according to shape and color and it all seems very logical and methodical, and a gigantic waste of fuckin' time.

Whatevs. My wife's obviously getting something out of it because she always calls me to proudly show off her completed work. Or nearly completed, as was the case a few weeks ago. She had just finished Van Gogh's Starry Night, but there was one piece missing. She was sure that our older son had swiped it just to piss her off.

"What's the big deal?" I asked. "What do you get out of this?"

"I don't have to think," she said and then began to break apart Van Gogh's swirling sky.

Hidden Meaning

I don't know why I'm so obsessed with my older son's Away Messages. Most of the time, it's just a lyric to a song he's been listening to, but I'm always looking for some hidden meaning. I didn't have to look that far today (again, courtesy of Warren Zevon):

I was gambling in Havana
I took a little risk
Send lawyers, guns and money
Dad, get me out of this

Heartbeats

My wife can always tell when my older son is not himself. She can feel it in a heartbeat, albeit a skipped one. He'll come downstairs to the kitchen and she'll know there's something up just by the way he reaches for the Captain Crunch.

Nine times out of ten, that something is a fight with Jenna, his girlfriend. In fact, most of his problems involve women and you don't have to be a brain surgeon to figure out that it all stems from being adopted and feeling abandoned, which in turn fuels a desperate need for connection. Unfortunately, when that connection is broken, so is he.

And that's the way he was walking around all weekend long, although he was less angry than he's been in the past and maybe that was the meds working, I really don't know. I really don't know anything, although when I got into work this morning, I saw the following on his Away Message:

i'm sorry tonight was really messed up. ive just been holding back for the past two weeks n it all came out at once. i really do love u n would do anything 4 u. ull c how much i can do for u. im sorry i didnt say sweet things to u b 4 u went to sleep n now i regret it.

At the end was an emoticon of a heart, which made mine skip a beat.

My Worst Nightmare

Every time I think my older son has hit rock bottom, a trap door opens and we all go sliding deeper down the chute. All the experts, including my wife, insist that reaching this low point is critically necessary in order for my son to finally understand that there are consequences to his foolish actions.

So we need to sit tight (as if there's any other way), do nothing and let nature (rather than nurture) take its course. Because if we continue to intervene, if I continue to try and save him, how will he even know that he's being saved? I believe the AA affirmation for this is "Let go and let God" and I think you know how much I struggle with both of those things.

I totally get why we need to get there, but it scares the shit out of me because it's also my worst nightmare. I've long had these recurring dreams where horrible shit happens -- someone (it's usually my wife or kids, although one time it was Jennifer Aniston) is about to be shot or stabbed or crash into another car -- and I can't do anything about any of it because I'm completely paralyzed (and in most of these, my teeth are also crumbling) and all I can do is watch until I'm jarred awake.

Well, I'm good and jarred right now and all I can do is watch and it's a living nightmare.

Little Good 2

"So what didja guys do last night?" I asked my older son when he came into my bedroom earlier this afternoon.

"Nuthin," he said. "Just hung out at Paul's."

"Listen," I began, "I want you to think about something."

"What?" he said, immediately defensive.

"You have this unbelievable opportunity ahead of you for a do-over," I said.

"I'm walking away now," he sing-songed and turned around to split.

"Dude, just listen to me!"

"I've heard this all before, Dad."

"I know you've heard it all before," I said and hesitated for a moment before blurting out, "Meanwhile, I smelled pot in your room and in the attic."

"I'm not the only one in this house," he declared in what has become a familiar non-denial denial manner, and walked away.

I followed him into his room. "Dude, that's not fair," I said. "I'm trying to talk to you."

"I know and I don't care," he said, on the verge of anger. "Get out of my room!"

"Don't talk to me like that! I don't talk to you like that."

"Well, I don't like to listen to you saying the same things over and over," he said, staring into his laptop.

"I guess I need to develop some new material."

"Maybe you do," he said, now IMing with a friend.

"I think you know why I keep saying the same things over and over," I said. "You know where I'm coming from, that I'm concerned about you."

"Dad, I keep telling you," he said, looking at me again, "you have nothing to be concerned about!"

"I know, but like I keep telling you, when you're a parent, the concern never ends. I'm always gonna be concerned. No matter how angry you get at me," I told him. "That's just the way it is. Until I die. Someday when you're a dad, you'll find out."

Neither of us said anything for awhile. "I don't have any more words left," I said finally.

"Good," he said and then it was my turn to walk away.

Little Good

When I came home from work last night, I went right upstairs into my older son's room. He wasn't there, but it didn't matter because he didn't need to be. I smelled pot as soon as I opened the door. I need to talk with him today although I'm not sure what to say. Not that anything I say will do him any good.

I'm frustrated and disappointed and sad and all the same tired stuff that I keep telling you I am. This is my life and I have to be here, but what's your excuse? At this point, I can't imagine anything I say will do you much good, either.

Which isn't to say that I don't love that you keep coming back for more, but there must be something better to watch on TV. This wasn't what I had in mind when I first set out and suggested that this would be as good a distraction as any. This can't be what you were looking for. Dr. Woo, my ass! It should be Dr. Boo Hoo. Or Dr. Rue. Or Dr. Blue. Or Dr. Jew.

That last joke, I admit, did me a little good.

What I Didn't Tell Him 2

Yesterday was a good day. My son was placed on probation and if he doesn't fuck up again, will have no criminal record. Our lawyer said that he couldn't have done any better if he was representing his own kid.

When we got home from court, there was a message from the learning center place informing us that my son had been accepted and can start right away. We really had a good day, but all I could think about was the other night, and what I again didn't tell him:

I can't believe you fuckin' got high! You've been home for five fuckin' days! What the fuck were you thinking? You didn't even try to fuckin' hide it! Did you think we wouldn't smell it in your room? Did you just not care?

I can't believe that you'd jeopardize everything that we've all worked so hard for -- yourself included -- just because you needed to smoke! Did the last few weeks mean anything to you? Has nothing sunk in? What about all of those promises you made in the hospital? Was that all bullshit? Did you just say what you thought I wanted to hear so you could get the hell out of there?

You're throwing everything away here! It's all connected to this shit! If you continue to get high, you're not gonna be able to go to this new school and that means that you're not gonna graduate and you're not gonna be able to go to college. And if, no not if, you got rid of the if . . . WHEN you test positive for pot, that means that you've broken probation and the court can throw you into rehab or into jail! Didn't you hear what the judge said? Do you wanna go to fuckin' jail? You watched Oz, you know what fuckin' happens in there! And what about what the doctors said in the hospital? That pot fucks with the meds and makes them useless? Are you hearing what anyone is saying to you?

I keep telling you everything can be fixed, but the big secret is that you're the only one who can fix it! Not me. Not Mom.YOU! It's all up to you! I can't make you, Mom can't make you, the drug place can't make you. You have to want to do it! This is your fuckin' life. It can be a great one, you can have it all! You're so fuckin' smart, you can be a success at anything you put your mind to! Or it can all go the other way and I can tell you that the other way is fuckin' painful and yes, it'll hurt me to watch you go through all of that horrible shit, but it's going to hurt you even more. And you know that I don't want to see that happen, but it's not in my hands anymore. It's all up to you!

SGNS

As we were driving to court yesterday morning, I couldn't help but notice two vanity license plates on the road. The first one read HV FAITH.

"I wonder if that's a sign," I said to my older son.

"Probably just some Christians," he said.

We were stopped at a red light a few minutes later and the SUV in front of us had a plate that read RU STUPD.

"Now that's definitely a sign," he said.

It's Like Bam!

"I'm gonna tell you something, but promise me that you won't say anything right now," said my wife ominously while we were eating dinner last night.

"Don't do that," I said, knowing full well what was coming next. "Just tell me."

"I will. I just don't want you to say anything tonight because tomorrow is court," she said. "I don't want to mess things up."

"I know," I said. "Tell me."

"When I went into his room before," she said, "I smelled pot."

And even though I knew it was coming, even though I knew it was inevitable, I was still momentarily stunned. "Every fuckin' day is like another punch in the stomach," I said finally. "Each time I feel the slightest glimmer of hope, it's like bam!"

"I know," she said. "That's the roller coaster ride the guy in the group keeps talking about."

"Everyone keeps saying how there's gonna be setbacks, but don't you need to move forward in order to have setbacks?" I asked.

"We are," said my wife. "He's been taking his meds and pretty much cooperating with everything else."

"I guess it was unrealistic to think that things could really change so quickly. I guess I just wanted to believe that they could," I admitted. "I need to believe, I need to be able to make some sense out of all of this."

"It doesn't make sense," she said matter-of-factly. "Nothing makes sense."

We talked for a few minutes more and the one good thing about all of this is that it's doing wonders for my diet because I couldn't eat another bite. So I went upstairs, crawled into bed and vegged out in front of House. My wife came up a short while later and asked me what was happening with Cuddy and Wilson, and I just shook my head and told her that I wasn't really paying attention. She changed into her pajamas and surprised me by snuggling up close.

"When life gives you lemons . . ." she joked, while gently running her fingers through my hair.

"Same punchline for when life gives you AIDS," I said, quoting Sarah Silverman.

"God only gives you what you can handle," she said sarcastically, still trying to make me smile.

"God help us," I said and then we just held each other until the end of House.

Mysterious Ways

I know things are bad when I start asking God for help. I've also been asking my dead mom and Clarence the Angel from It's a Wonderful Life. The closest thing I've gotten to a response has been an email from someone named Angel who asked me if I wanted to communicate by email, Skype or real dates (yes!) and then if I was interested in penis enlargement (God, yes!!).

Now my idea of God has always been the Terry Gilliam animation in Holy Grail, so I've always pictured Him with a twisted sense of humor, which may explain why he's ignoring me now. Or maybe it's because I've frequently ignored Him. God's such a baby!

In truth, the only times I've ever reached out to Him is when I've been in dire straits, but I guess you can be in other bands, too. I'm probably better off praying to Bono! And God called the light day and gave us all sunglasses! Anyway you slice it, this "mysterious ways" bullshit has really got to stop . . . unless it involves two hot women kissing.

I've often heard that God helps those who help themselves, but that just sounded like Him being lazy. If I could help myself, why would I need His help? Hello? And what's up with Him being in the details? I never understood what the hell that meant, especially since the same thing goes for the devil. The only thing that any of us can really be certain of is that Keanu Reeves is on this month's cover.

Well Played

I play tennis every Monday night in an instructional program called Tennis Kinetics, which is really just a fancy name for running around until you can't breathe while holding a racquet. Actually, there are plenty of solid players in this group and I'm probably the worst of the bunch, and that's the way I like it. We take over two courts and work on ball striking and movement skills for about an hour and then break into all kinds of fun games for another hour, usually finishing up with doubles.

My doubles partner last night was one of the teaching pros and we totally kicked ass. We high-fived after the final game and everyone complimented us on how well we played together.

It was like the thing with my wife and him a few years ago had never even happened.

Losing It

I'm so goddamned bummed! I couldn't find my monthly train ticket this morning and had to buy a new one! I guess it just shows where my head has been at 'cause I hardly ever lose things. In fact, I've always been the best finder, but today I found dick.

I know I'm blowing this thing out of proportion and that usually means there's something else going on beneath the surface. And I guess it's obvious what that something else is. It's just that when I went looking for the ticket in my wallet this morning, I was inexplicably overwhelmed by an emptiness that I hadn't felt since my mom died almost 25 years ago. I just felt lost.

And the funny thing is that I know I'll find it. It's probably in my other jacket or in a shirt pocket. I'm not so sure about everything else.

Everybody's Talkin'

My wife and older son aren't talking to each other. And last night, my wife and I weren't talking to each other either. Everybody's still talking to my younger son because he's the most well-adjusted person in our house, but I don't think he really wants to talk to any of us, which is what makes him the most well-adjusted.

My wife apologized to me this morning and I really didn't even know what it was for. I know she's still very angry with my older son and just assumed some of that had gotten on me. Whatever. And then, naturally, the first thing we talked about was her not talking to him.

"How am I gonna get him to therapy tomorrow? Or to school on Wednesday?" she asked. "I don't care if he doesn't talk to me, but we need to be able to sit in the same car together."

"I'll talk to him," I said and then went upstairs to his room.

"I need to tell you something," I began and sensing a serious tone, he put down his bagel and took off his headphones. "You need to figure out a way to peacefully coexist with Mom. I don't care if you guys talk or not. I mean, I'd like you to, and that's up to you guys, but you do need to cooperate with her."

"Okay," he said softly.

"Okay," I said, taking a small bite of his bagel and left it at that.

On the First Day

I was gonna write this sweet, sad thing about our ride home from the hospital yesterday afternoon and how I made a Warren Zevon playlist and how we sang "Werewolves of London" and "I Was in the House When the House Burned Down" and I think you would've really dug it.

Instead, I need to tell you what happened when we got home. Both kids lit up (no, not that kind) when they saw each other and for me, there's no better sound in the world than when they're laughing together. After a few minutes, my older son came downstairs, gave me a kiss and said that one of his friends was coming to pick him up. I then went out to run a few errands and that was when the phone calls started.

I could tell that my older son was agitated as soon as I heard his voice. He said something about how my wife had told one of his girlfriends (who she saw at Bed, Bath & Beyond the other day), that they shouldn't see each other anymore and how that girl went and told his other girlfriend some shit and like in some twisted version of Groundhog Day, both girls weren't talking to him again. And because of my wife not minding her own fuckin' business, he said that he wasn't gonna follow any of the rules that he had just agreed to follow when we did the exit interview at the hospital no less than two hours ago. And no, I'm not making this up.

I called my wife at work and she said that she didn't say what my son thought she had said and then I called my son back and told him that and he became angry at me for taking her side, and said that he wasn't coming home, wasn't gonna take his meds and was gonna get high.

I explained that if he chose to throw everything away, he was going to suffer some harsh consequences this time and we went back and forth until I suggested that maybe one of the girls told the other girl some shit because she was trying to get him all for herself and that maybe he should trust and believe me and his mom more than his girlfriends. Click. Dial tone.

So for the rest of the night, my wife and I zombie-stared at whatever was on TV until we eventually fell asleep. At around 11:30 or so, I heard the front door open and both kids came into the house and went up to their rooms. A few minutes later, I got the following text message from my older son:

I want to apologize. I fucked up on the first day. Mom really pissed me off by talking to my girlfriend and I took it out on you. N e thing you want me to do for you, tell me. Like they said in the hspital, I gotta give back. N I'm on a stronger dose of meds tonight. Jenna is still not talking to me but ur right. Everything can be fixed. I didn't see it b4.

I went into his room and he said that he had just taken his meds, which knock him out pretty quickly. I asked him if he had gotten high earlier and he said that he hadn't. He apologized again and I cut him off. I don't remember what I said after that.

Can You Top This?

My kids have never been overachievers. We've always been cool with that because my wife and I aren't exactly such high flyers ourselves. But from time to time, that's put us in an uncomfortable position, particularly when we've been out with some of the more pathologically driven parents in the neighborhood.

Like a few weeks ago, we were at another stupid Bar Mitzvah and the people at our table were talking about their kids like they were breeding champion racehorses. Each one of their perfect clones was in Advanced Placement this and Project Beyond that, had aced the SATs and was busy applying to the finest colleges. It was like they were all playing the deluxe, JAP version of Can You Top This? We just sat there eating our salads.

But things were a little different last night. We were at another stupid meeting of families with white punks on dope and our son was, for once, the most advanced placed of the bunch. He was the only one who had been arrested, the only one who had been hospitalized (twice!) and the only one who had thrown a knife in the house.

After recounting her son's less than dramatic story of drug use (mainly, pot and Xanax), a new mom in the group looked over at us and said, "I know that's nothing compared to what you guys have gone through!" And we just sat there. And didn't even get to eat salad.

What I Didn't Tell Him

As it happens, my son won't be coming home until Friday. He was less than thrilled about this news, but seemed to take it in stride.

"Whatever," he sighed. "What have you been up to today?"

"Nothing much," I told him, which wasn't entirely true.

Here's what I didn't tell him:

First thing in the morning, I called both of his probation officers to give them status reports and then did the same with our lawyer because we have another court date next week. I then spoke with the school psychologist, who has been arranging placement at a special learning center that'll provide individualized instruction so my son can graduate with the rest of his class. He in turn suggested that I immediately contact the director of the place to set up an intake interview.

After I hung up with her, I left a message for my son's therapist at the drug treatment program, another one for the leader of his teen group, a third for the dude who's in charge of our family group and a fourth for the staff psychiatrist who will be administering and monitoring meds. Then I spoke with the head of the adolescent unit at the hospital and she suggested one last family meeting before they kick him loose. And finally, I called my sister to tell her what I just told you.

As fucked up as this whole ordeal has been, I keep having these George Bailey-like moments whenever I stop to think how incredibly understanding everyone has been and how much they all care about my son.

And that's what I'm gonna tell him tomorrow.

In Our Own Ways

I don't blame my wife for feeling the way that she feels. I understand why she's scared and angry and depleted and confused and fed up.

So am I, which is funny because I also keep saying how we feel so much differently about our older son, but really we don't. We love him the same, both in our own ways, and that also explains how we've been coping with this latest mess.

She wants to run away or be saved, whichever one will give her her life back. And I'm trying to be there and save us all because right now this is my life. We've traded places in the past and this is just how it works between us.

So I don't blame my wife for anything. Yet that hasn't stopped her from blaming herself for everything. Perhaps most of all, for adopting our son in the first place. And what she feels the most guilty about is what I still see as the single greatest thing she has ever done in her life.

The Son Also Rises

My older son is coming home tomorrow and, to be honest, no one is particularly looking forward to it. In fact, we tend to look backwards, to what has happened before and assume it will happen again or that something even worse will happen.

This is probably not the best attitude to have right now, but it's tough to feel anything else. We can't whitewash the past anymore (although we did put down new carpet in his room) and we can't look away, either. So we're staring into the son (aren't I so clever?) with our eyes wide open.

The son, of course, also rises (and yes, I'm done with this stupid wordplay) and I think you know me well enough by now to know that more than anything, I want to be hopeful. I want to believe that things will work out. I'm just not allowing myself to go there because I'm afraid of feeling the pain if/when things don't.

And I wonder what my son is feeling. I know he wants to come home, but I wonder if he wants things to change and if he's even capable of changing. I wonder if he's as scared as I am.

Portrait of the Artist

While my wife and I were visiting him yesterday afternoon, my older son kept busy by drawing a picture. Like all of a sudden, he's fuckin' Van Gogh. Or back in kindergarten. I noticed that none of his colored pencils had erasers on them and he explained how some kids rubbed them on their arms and legs until it burned their skin.

And on that happy note, we started talking about how things needed to change when he comes home in a few days and he sat there quietly coloring in small circles, which he then strung together into something that resembled a rainbow of candy necklaces. As we continued to draw our own lines (stay on meds, go to school, stop smoking pot), he did the same.

He kept his head down while he sketched large clouds over the rainbow and said that he wasn't gonna stop smoking, and then he drew a sun with a sad face on it and said that he didn't care if he went to jail. As a finishing touch, he picked up a black pencil and wrote FUCK LIFE under the rainbow, folded up the paper and told us to go home and put it on the refrigerator.

Two hours later, he called me to apologize.

LOL

I know what a lot of you have been saying: "Sure, Dr. Woo can do the sad thing, but can he do funny?" All I can say is, prepare to LOL . . .

Knock, Knock.
Who's there?
My older son!
My older son who?
My older son who's in a mental hospital!

How many wives does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
None, because we're not having sex.

A man walks into a bar and the bartender says, "Why the long face?" So the man tells him all about his life.

Why did the chicken cross the road?
I was scared something bad would happen.

What's black and white and red all over?
What I should do and my eyes from crying.

There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose life was so bad he said, "Fuck it!"
A rope under his chin,
He said with a grin,
"Goodbye to you all and go suck it!"

Coming Or Going

I'm not really sure how these two things fit together, but it probably has something to do with me not knowing if I'm coming or going:

1) We were at our second meeting for families with messed up kids on drugs and the therapist kept using hack metaphors like "you're on a rollercoaster ride" and "it's going to be a long, bumpy road" to describe the treatment program and what we were likely in for these next few months, and I just lost it and blurted out, "Where do you think we've all been before we needed to come here?"

2) I was reading The Times yesterday morning and after finally making peace with those fuckers for folding Sports into the Business section, I turned to the Escapes section (and talk about your hack metaphors). There was a story on the front page about two funky yet charming Seattle neighborhoods and the writer used the phrase "you can still lose yourself so thoroughly [there]" and I just thought that was the perfect description of where I want to be.