Monica Bielanko
A chronicle since 2005 of my marriage & move to Brooklyn in my twenties; becoming a mother in my thirties; moving to Pennsylvania and learning to amicably coparent after divorce in my forties while living 3 doors down from my ex-husband in a small country town.
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Wednesday
Jan042012

Dadding: (dad-ing) Verb: the act of being a dad

I read an article today about a dad close to my age and it’s just a simple news article really, but something about it, something between the black and white of it all, stuck with me.

Anyway, this guy gets a call from the police saying his teenage daughter’s been in some kind of a car accident out on such-and-such road and so he gets in his vehicle and drives out there, to the scene.

Now, I don’t know this guy at all, never met him, don’t have any clue about what he’s like or any of that. But, I will say this. He had to be freaking out.

There has to be this blurred invisible line you come to when something so horrible comes landing on your world like a flying saucer. You get that call from the cops and you are quickly at the line; a line you’ve probably never been to before, a place most of us are sort of unprepared to be. This line I’m talking about, it’s a harsh boundary of chalk in the dust between civility/common sense and whatever lies just over it. A line you just waltz right up to for the very first time, a line you simply walk right across without hesitation: in the name of love and fear.

Now, I’m a guy who likes to play around with conjecture a little. Every story has a story, I figure. And so I take this guy, this dad from yesterday’s news, and I try and peer back and in and maybe take a stab at the fact that his heart had to be shattering away down in his chest/his blood doing super speedway laps out on the high banks of his veins. You get that call: the one that says your little girl’s been in a wreck, and I don’t know, maybe you lose your mind a little. Or, depending on this or that, maybe you lose it a lot.

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