As I get older, stay sober for longer, and confront my character defects more fully, the fact that this blog is less-and-less anonymous is becoming more-and-more problematic. Especially when my my oldest and his friends have become completely internet savvy.

I’m finding that I can’t write many things I want to write… that in some ways I NEED to write. Not because they’re SO bad, but they have potential to hurt people, even if I’m just trying to get things out. This is why I haven’t been posting very often.

And this is why this is the last post I’m writing on Championable.

Somehow, bringing the theme of this blog from page to skin,  taking my greatest mental and emotional challenge and actually making it a permanent fixture on my forearm… has helped me realize that if I’m going to take the time to write, I need to write more fully, about the things that matter to me most… even if they are sometimes uncomfortable and utterly inappropriate.

Jesus.  I think I just said that I want to be Miss Britt.

Anyway. I don’t really know what to say here, other than:

Love to all.  Even you.

Five years ago today, my wife asked me:  “Is this what Jesus wants for you?”

I answered: “No.”

I went back to AA that day.  And have been sober ever since.

For everything that has happened, for everything that is, and for whatever comes:  thank you, Maggie.

Love to all.  Even you.

Yup.  I’m starting this post with an emoticon.

It’s 6:32am.  Maggie, um, “woke me up” a while ago, and now she’s back in bed, and I just fed the dogs and am sitting at the kitchen table, watching the day brighten.

I’m going to have a cup of coffee, go out to the garage, and assemble the shelves I bought yestedray.  I’m going to finish the garage today, and maybe build that platform for the dehumidifier.

I’m feeling quite happy, right now, to have a wife who WANTS to wake me up, a garage I have to clean, and projects I can do.  It’s a nice thing, this.

Love to all. Even you, shredder of moles.

No matter how long you’ve been married, or how well you normally communicate, sometimes there’s a big fucking disconnect, and the two of you are on completely different pages, even though shouldn’t be.  Sometimes, commnunication is baffling.  And sometimes it fails for days.

Acceptance is the only answer.

Love to all.  Even you, the lady parked in the middle of two lanes, chit-chatting away.

Yesterday afternoon, Maggie took a pregnancy test.  It was negative.

That evening, I worked until 1am.  Got to bed at 2am. This morning, I let myself sleep until 7:15, got up, ran, and started doing weights.  In-between sets, Maggie called.

“Listen,” she said.  She sounded shaken.  “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay…” I was thinking something non-emergency-but-scary happened with one of the kids.
“The pregnancy test that was negative?  It turned positive.”

Time slows down. Time stops. And it happens again:

Graceful arcs of experience fan out in gentle, delightful curves.  Where were were, where we thought we were going, where we are going right now.  I become supremely calm.  This is my element.  Something enormous and new and life-changing is happening.

But something isn’t right.  I know Maggie.  She should be overwhelmed with joy, but she isn’t.

“Are you okay?”  I ask her.
“Sort of,” she says.

Another thread snakes across my vision… something totally unexpected.  We are going to have a fourth child, but Maggie’s is upset about it.  This goes against  everything I understand about her.  I can’t synthesize it.  It literally doesn’t compute.

And then, oh, Jesus, I remember.

Maggie got her period last night.

It’s thick, and it comes from somewhere in my heart.  It shoots to my head and I just start crying.  Full-on.  My oldest is there.  He’s never seen this before.  My shoulders are shaking, tears are falling onto my lap, and I’m trying to tell my son that I’m okay.

Maggie tells me she’s sorry.  That should she have phrased it differently. It’’s not her fault. I forget things.

She gets off the phone.  I turn to my son to explain that, even though I’m crying, everything is fine.

Love to all. Even you.

It’s not happening.  It’s not happening.  It’s not happening.

But, well, we never did get that vasectomy confirmed and Maggie is late, and she’s been feeling strange and she IS taking a test in the next half hour.

Love to all.  Even you, the lightning rod for perceived criticism.

[Update: Negative.]

“Okay, but next time you have my scrotum between your teeth, maybe YOU shouldn’t shake your head back and forth like a dog with a bone.”

Love to all. Even you, the waiter with the expertly averted eyes.

On June 1, 1993, Maggie and I made the smooch-based transition from friends to dating.  And damn if the entire course of my life became saturated with colors I didn’t even know existed.

Lucky man, me.

Love to all. Even you, the girl who repeatedly went for the leg, not the ball.

If I was gay, I hope to God I’d be out. Like, super out. Like, married-in-Massachusetts-with-three-adopted-kids out.

For me, super out = living like everyone else, as moment-to-moment unaware that some people define my life as abnormal as can be.

The New York Times Magazine had a big article on the life of gay couples in Massachusetts. I didn’t get to read the whole thing - life in the suburban fast lane, you know - but the upshot was that married life for gay couples is pretty much the same as life for other couples.

To which I say: duh.

This is why this issues bugs me so much. As my 11-year-old says: “love is love.”

But this isn’t the point of this post at all.

The point of this post is that I’m no longer certain I care about the whole pseudoanonymity thing.  Anyone who wants to figure out who I am can have a pretty easy time of it, and it’s not like I’m hiding anything here. And it’s getting harder and harder to separate these worlds, with the number of Face

So… what of it?  Do you folks have any opinions on blog anonymity?  Is it worth it?  Possible?  Stupid?

Love to all. Even you, the umbrella-as-rocket salesman.

I found this picture last week. Haven’t seen it for a while. It was her first soccer game. And my first as head coach. She was in kindergarten. Her birthday, and my 1st sober anniversary two days later, were both about a week away.

Thank you, God.

Love to all. Even you, the woman who doesn’t want to be here.