Dear Tuesday - Tuesday 26th July - William Henderson

Dear Tuesday,

The head of the brontosaurus snaps cleanly off; the brontosaurus becomes blind to everything but the whims of a child small enough to snap the toy in two without thinking about aftermath.

The head in one hand, the body in one hand, and no other hands with which to wipe at eyes red and angry and sad and something that my son, Avery, has no words for (not regret; the child neither understands not wants to understand a consequence, for words, recriminations, have no effect on a child who is able to snap a toy in two).

Use magic and make better, the boy says. And I take the two pieces from him. A mostly dried tube of glue at the back of a junk drawer (show me a kitchen without a junk drawer) might help, though I expect the toy to be broken again before the glue dries.

But I want these words from my son who believes that I can fix the broken toy because I have made magic before: band-aids and pudding cups and the fruit snacks that Avery asks for but doesn’t get when his mother, my wife, who will soon be my ex-wife, is around.

Meeting needs is as magic as life gets for Avery. Under-the-bed monsters don’t need slaying because Avery does not sleep in his bed. Balloons released into the sky, tethered to pieces of string and twine and ribbon that are no longer tethered to the boy, are lessons in holding tight to what you love most, these things that are so breakable.

What breaks? Hearts break. And bodies break. Bones snap in two, three, four, more places, and doctors do not offer spells and potions but plaster and promises. Use a crutch. Don’t put weight on it. Don’t try this again at home. And we listen. We do not call this healing magic because we long ago learned that there is no such thing as magic.

But there is magic. Or make-believe. Shapeless endings given semblance of shape.

Avery does not need to know that not all broken things can be mended.

Avery, and I are dinosaurs. Sometimes he’s triceratops, and sometimes he’s tyrannosaurus rex, and sometimes he’s an undiscovered dinosaur, but mostly he’s my best friend who just happens to be my son and who doesn’t understand why his sister, Aurora, can’t play dinosaur.

Soon, I tell Avery. "Soon Aurora can play, and we will be terrible lizards."

"No, daddy" Avery says. "Aurora isn’t a lizard. She’s a baby."

"What does that make you?" I ask him.

"I’m your big boy. And you’re daddy. And you make magic."

And I try not to let him see me cry because I think he has seen enough crying, but I look at him and I look at the life I share with my children, and the only thing I can do is cry because everything seems so beautiful.

Thank you, Tuesday, for these broken things.

Will

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William Henderson is a full-time father to his children, Avery and Aurora, and is working on a memoir. He can be reached at wil329@yahoo.com, on Twitter @Avesdad, and through his blog,HendersonHouseofCards.wordpress.com.

Dear Tuesday - Tuesday 12th July - @Al_Vimh

Dear Tuesday,

I hate you.

Don't take it personally though, it's simply because you're much the same as any other day and I hate them too.

I awake to the sound of happy, laughing children at play. This is followed by the sound of children arguing, soon turning to the sound of one child crying and another screaming "I DIDN'T DO IT!"

I arise, dole out a beating to the unruly children, wash and clothe the Host Body and stumble down the stairs.

A bowl of what I can only describe as milk-soaked gravel is shoved into my hands. I choke down this barely edible filth and open my netbook.

Having sifted through six pages of Viagra spam mails, I find the one, legitimate e-mail that I have. It's a bill, of course.

Once the children are fed and watered, I hose them down in the back yard, dress them in scraps of hessian sack and pack them off to nursery.

Peace and quiet finally obtained, I settle in to enjoy a little console gaming or perhaps watch a film.

Peace is then shattered by the Marital Unit, who informs me that we are going shopping. Screaming obscenities, I climb into the family car and we make the short trip to that most dreaded of destinations, Tesco.

Marital Unit needs three tins of tuna and a toothbrush, she knows exactly where these items are, she could do this trip in five minutes.

What she does instead, is visit every single aisle in the store, view damn near every individual item, exclaims loudly at items she deems overpriced and/or incredibly cheap, then places three tins of tuna and a toothbrush in the massive trolley which she selected and heads to the checkout.

We are served by an extra from Night Of The Living Dead, who we offend terribly by not having brought our own carrier bags. We have 6000 carrier bags, stored in larger carrier bags, taking up every last inch of space in our understair cupboard. We never take these bags to the supermarket.

The Serving Troll flings a handful of bags at us and runs the tuna and toothbrush across the Irritating Beeping Fail Machine (TM). The toothbrush fails to scan and I can actually see the moment where Serving Troll's tiny mind snaps. He or she grimaces, presses a red button on the console and summons the Pricing Goblin. This shambling monstrosity lurches over, takes a look at the toothbrush and bumbles off through the crowd to find a price.

All the while, Serving Troll glares at me as though it is somehow my fault that their antiquated till system has failed once again.

Pricing Goblin returns, grunts "50p!" and fades back into the crowd, possibly to hunt for a tasty goat.

Serving Troll jabs at the buttons in front of him/her, shoves the toothbrush in to my hands and demands £2.62 I hand over a ten pound note, apologetically explaining that I have nothing smaller. Weeping and possibly contemplating suicide, Troll begins the incredibly difficult task of making change. When I receive my change, I open the change section of my wallet and drop it in, allowing it to clink off of the pile of coins within. Smiling, I say "Wow, guess I had change after all"

As Serving Troll proceeds to tear the till to shreds with it's bare hands, I leave Tesco whistling a jaunty tune.

We return to the homestead, pack away the tuna and toothbrush and I sit down to enjoy some...no, of course not.

I am badgered, harassed, harangued and sometimes beaten until I do "a few jobs while the kids are out" Having re-tiled the roof, mowed the lawn, prepared a rack of lamb for the evening and cured the worlds ills, finally I find five seconds for myself.

At this moment, Marital Unit leaves to collect the children.

Giving up on any chance of a moment of peace, I check my e-mail quickly, delete the latest barrage of spam and then brace myself for impact.

The children come flying through the door at full ramming speed, tackle me to the floor and lovingly pummel my testes into a fine paste. Wincing, I welcome them home and then try to ignore them until bedtime.

The hours pass slowly, the children are fed, bathed and bedded and I settle down to, please God, enjoy that rare moment of relaxation.

Marital Unit spends the next six hours telling me what "Arold said to Mavis" before heading to bed.

I am now faced with a terrible choice.

Do I attempt to squeeze in a few hours for myself, in the latter half of the evening, or do I head upstairs with Marital Unit to get some much needed sleep and perhaps enjoy the pleasures of the marital bed.

Being male, I opt for sex and so head upstairs.

Receiving a hearty slap and "Not bloody likely mate!" for my efforts, I return to my couch, thinking I can at least put in a couple of hours on Halo before sleep.

I turn on the X-Box, get comfortable...and pass out.

Damn it, here comes Wednesday.

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@Al_Vimh

http://www.al-vimh.net/

James McLellan (Host Body of Al Vimh)