Speak With Perfect Diction When Remembering The Facts

It has been about a month since I have taken the good intentions of my mind to write and translated them into the real intentions of hands to type. I had intended to write much more than this, to update those we care for and love, those who are wondering of the progress of our child, and those who have seemingly unknowing found these writings through some miscalculated Google search; but living the reality of the past month has been heavy enough for Jenna and I.

So where to start? I guess with the last update. Let’s go backwards to get to the present. In September, we found out that we, Jenna and I were going to have a baby boy, for the duration of September, we battled over a name for the child. We fought between Conrad, Lincoln, Wolfgang, and due to the deep democrat roots my grandparents bestowed upon me, I argued in the ringside of naming our son John Fitzgerald Hamel. I lost most of the bouts, realizing that the will of my pregnant wife, who feels every hiccup, punch, and roundhouse kick of the child should weigh in a little more than my hopes for him to one day become a semi-corrupt/common politician that will fight for social welfare programs and the plight of the working man. So together, we settled, rather we agreed and set the stage for a child that will either be a lady killer or the captain of the chess team.

As my wife puts it to people before readying for long awkward pauses and half-laughs “Imagine a 5 year old little boy walking up to you and saying “Hi, my name is Wolfie.” Our Littlest will be named Lucca Wolfgang Hamel.

After finding out the gender of the child, we soon went back to the US to see old family and friends. East Coast travel is a bitter bitch sometimes. Flight cancellations, pending bus rides in the middle of the night, several plane vouchers for a single destination, and having gracious parents that allow you to borrow their car like when you were in high school. It had been nearly a year and a half since going back to Massachusetts. For weeks before, I feverishly prepared, checking the weather reports 15 days out, making lists for possible lists, and attempting to be engaged with people every single cold sarcastic waking moment. There is never enough time to meet every want and expectation, never extra minutes to travel deeper into the ravines of childhood and adolescence.

Sitting on the C-5 as it refueled somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, I looked down at my wife attempting to find a comfortable position to sleep, grasping her stomach in which our future sat growing, and thought about how lucky I have been in my entire life to have the family I do. On the sunday before we departed, my grandfather gathered together 3/4’s of the Hamel Family in his backyard. A family reunion is something that it not unfamiliar to me. Growing up, I can remember running around his backyard recklessly, as adults grasped steamers and beers in their hands, talking about the months since they had all last seen each other. This time, I stood with a smile on my face, having deep laughs with Uncles and Aunts, hugging distant cousins, and dodging the the kamikaze movements of young kids chasing each-other playing tag. Some people grow up not knowing who their parents are, some are bred in broken homes, deep rifts perpetuated by petty arguments keep the only meeting place at a funeral for others. That day, there were 4 generations of family present. My son, will be the fourth generation Hamel from my side of the family, started by Rene and Veronica Hamel in 1962. I was in love with my family that day.

I left Massachusetts having buried all my hatchets, understanding that I had spent more time dwelling on the past than looking forward to the hope of tomorrow. “The cause of living in the past is dying right in front of it.” A man with bad breath and wooden teeth said that in an old movie, it stands true.

Upon arriving back in Spain, Jenna had her mind’s eye set upon one single nesting task, the completion of the nursery. Stripes and chalkboard paint had been placed on the walls, cribs had been assembled, now it was the last magic mile. We have spent hours simply sitting on the couch in Lucca’s future room, deciphering sun patterns, lamp placements, and a nursing chair’s strategic placement in the floorplan. Now, with it nearly complete, only missing the waking cries of a child, we are content. The floors are free from anything that will trip us up in the middle of the night, the sun will not penetrate the weatherproof windows and melt our son’s face. The lamplight Vacancy sign is ready to be extinguished.

Jenna has been a sewing machine and Ikea owns naming rights to our next child, but we are happy with the domicile that Lucca will be protected within.

Ten days after getting home, I was off again. Seven month earlier, a life-long best friend, Tom Rheault and I had agreed to set out on an epic roadtrip throughout my new country. In ten days, many miles were driven, many kilometers were hiked, we saw some things, met some people, had some run ins with wildlife and wild nights. Since I can remember, I have had a restlessness within the tines and sinews of my bones to be on the road, to be away. It is the very grain of the story of how Jenna and I had met, and it is something that has brought me joy and troubles. I set out on this trip to shed every sediment of that restlessness on highways and backroads. After 10 days, 375 Euro in petrol and tolls, I stumbled into my house. When Jenna met me at the door and welcomed me with a hug and kiss, I could think only one thing “I am ready to be a great father, make mistakes, and learn.” That’s what roadtrips and old friends are for.

So here we are today, showing signs of readiness and refining communication skills. I am attempting a facade of strength, when the very thought of fatherhood rattles me to the core. But it’s a good thing.

So tonight, we are doing nothing to prepare for the lessons we will receive tomorrow. Remember to use perfect diction when recalling the past.

This is from two days ago: