So it was with real sadness that I read about Jeff's decision to go into blogging hiatus -- not because we're losing his voice (that's bad enough) but for the very human reasons he explains in his post announcing the decision -- namely, his 2-year-old boy has been diagnosed with auditory neuropathy. You should just read the post and let him explain it.
As Jeff says, there are some things more important than blogging.
Jeff's farewell really hit me hard, because the conflict is one I'm dealing with all the time as well. As it happens, I'm also the father of a 2-year-old, a delightful little girl named Fiona.
I'm not sure if any of my readers have picked up on the hints I've dropped from time to time, but being her care provider is actually my full-time job. That's right; your humble correspondent is a stay-at-home daddy.
My wife and I decided long ago that when we had children, we didn't want to do the child-care routine -- we wanted one of us to remain at home and care for them. We reduced our expenses and paid off our debts so that we could live on minimal income, and finally got around to making it happen two years ago. I wound up being in the better position to stay at home, and I was eager to do it, having gotten some child-rearing experience as a teenager, following the birth of my youngest brother.
For about a year before Fiona's birth, I worked at finishing Strawberry Days and building up a freelance writing business. At the time she was born, I was starting to get some real traction, stringing for the Washington Post and writing for Salon. Within a few weeks of her arrival, though, it quickly became clear that reporting and article-writing was just about out of the picture for a couple of years -- that kind of writing requires you to be near a phone and able to conduct interviews at all times, and it simply became impossible. Since that realization, I've settled into work I can do on evenings, weekends and naptimes -- namely, writing books ... and blogging. Neither of which produce much in the way of revenue.
[So for those of you wondering ... when you hit that little donation button for the "Rush, Newspeak and Fascism" essay, you are genuinely contributing rather directly to independent journalism. This summer's extraordinarily generous donations, in fact, made it possible for me to hire a care provider while I finished up Death on the Fourth of July. And of course, continued to blog.]
I've briefly pondered blogging about my adventures as a stay-at-home daddy. But there are already several out there, including such excellent sites as Rebel Dad and Full Time Father. And I have no intention of inflicting upon either my readers or my daughter the exploitative use of my admittedly overprotective love for her to score political points ("Why are conservatives congential liars and miscreants, my little Miss Poopy-Pants? Gosh, I don't know. Let's think about it while I change your butt. I'm sure I can find some worthy analogies inside your diaper.") like certain bloggers who will here go unnamed. Besides, I've always had doubts about how interested people really are in our personal lives. So I try to stick to what I know best -- politics, journalism, right-wing wackos. You know.
And lately, I've been conflicted between getting more posts up on the blog and responding to more of my e-mail ... and spending more and better time with Fiona. It's a balancing act, but I'm gradually working through it. Like all writing, blogging goes in fits and starts, and I imagine it's frustrating for regular readers.
Jeff Cooper's post was a bit of a gut-punch. Every parent carries that dread -- that something significant, something hidden, might be wrong with their child. It's the same dread that they'll tumble down a staircase or walk in front of a moving car. Like every parent, I've run through my head what I would do if something awful were to happen to my little girl, and even now can't get a handle around the despair it would bring.
The misfortune facing Jeff Cooper's little son seems manageable, and the early diagnosis should help them get tools for dealing with it. It seems like such an uncertain future, and all the rest of us can do is stand back and offer our prayers and support and whatever help might be needed -- and take the time to count our own blessings.
As Jeff says, there are some things that are simply more important ...
These thoughts and many others occupied me the evening after I read Jeff's post. Fiona's mommy was out of town on a business trip and I bathed her and put her to bed that night. Then I sat down and watched, for the first time, Grave of the Fireflies, which I had just purchased earlier that day.
The film is one of those on my "always meant to see" list, especially because I'm something of an anime buff (see my Totoro link), and Fireflies is one of the genre's real classics.
It is also, I must say, one of the most heartbreaking films I've ever watched. It is about two young survivors of the firebombing of Kobe in 1945, and how, in the long run, they become its victims too. And one thought stood out as I watched it -- that Americans are doing the same thing all over again, creating hundreds if not thousands of similar stories and similar victims, but this time in Iraq.
I was so stricken watching Grave of the Fireflies that when I finally turned out the light that night, I went in and lay down with Fiona and went to sleep, holding her as close as I could. I finally went in to my own bed sometime after 3.
In the morning, I was still thinking -- not just about Fiona and little Noah, and how we all want to protect our children from awful things, but also about little Setsuko, and the hundreds of Iraqi Setsukos and Seitas now wandering the streets of Baghdad and Tikrit. I tried to put myself in the shoes of their parents -- and just as before with Jeff Cooper's case, found myself unable to get a handle on the depths of the unimaginable pain.
And I thought about the reasons -- or rather, the utter lack thereof -- for this happening.
That, I understood, is why I keep on blogging. I'm sorry Jeff Cooper has to drop out, but he should, because Noah will always be more important. The rest of us will carry on the fight and look forward to the day he rejoins us. And may the wondrous human spirit that lives in our children -- well and unwell, happy and suffering alike -- always be the spark that fires us.
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