Wife Ambush

So I was holding the little turtle, she is blonde and has her mother’s blue eyes, she screams “Daddy!” every time she sees me after I have been away for an hour or so, and she wakes me up by saying “Morning daddy!” with a kiss and hug to go with it. She has always been so direct and clear with everything and though she is not two yet she speaks enough to explain anything that she wants to express. I had asked her mom to put on some music and I was spinning the little turtle around dancing with her.

The first song that came on sounded like some country and western love song, kinda whiny and drawn out, and I said so; half to the little turtle and half to the wife, something like “Sounds a bit whiny…” but whatever, my little daughter, like all of them, just likes to dance and if I swing her round a bit with the music she smiles or laughs.

The wife didn’t even betray a smirk or anything, just looked up then carried on ironing a patch on one of my perennially ripped jeans. Then, as she knows I would, because I always do, I started hearing the actual words.

And all I managed to say was…

“Oh, it’s about… I thought…”

And then, without any warning or even understanding of why really, a whole bunch of crying burst out of me. Tears and that coughing thing a man may do when trying to stop, except I couldn’t. All the things I passed through with Scorpio Girl, who is twelve now, and who I didn’t have any time with for 5 of her first 9 years, who is here for the third year with us now, came flooding back, even while I was holding the little turtle and her total innocent love and honesty, that I would murder thousands to protect, and the other two girls too, of course, but these two, the first and the latest, they hit me at the same time like a one-two from Mike Tyson in his prime.

I still haven’t really processed it in a way I can put into words. I don’t know if I ever will, I have always been like this. Stuff of this sort probably just adds up. Scar on scar. Builds an armour I don’t know about. And all the women and broken things before just buried it I don’t know where.

And Lucie comes along and finds that gap, and shines a beam of sunlight in there. Among all the broken things and what it maybe used to be shines through as she begins to dust and clean and repair something I forgot I even had in there.

The little turtle was worried looking at me crying, tears on my face she had never seen. And Lucie came to hug us both. I told the little turtle I am fine, I am happy, I love her. And she seemed to accept it, if maybe not fully convinced.

I went to lie down upstairs on my own a minute to try and understand what happened. And the best I can do is what I write here now, so far.

One other thought came to me that is irrelevant to the specifics of this but I still think is relevant in a wider world context, and it is again a difference between what one might at first imagine is the difference between Latino men, spics and dagos like me and Northerners like the Anglos, Swedes, Germans and so on.

But on reflection, I think stems more from —once again— the difference between Catholicism and Protestantism. The reflection of the reality of God, as it expresses in man versus the caricature of it.

The difference is perhaps best expressed in a way that my father pointed it out once when I was a young teenager. I don’t recall what the context was. And my father has never been a very soft man, anyway, but he was describing this difference between the Anglos and us:

“They think if you show your emotions you are weak. They are stupid that way. They think if you cry because your dog died you’re a pussy, and maybe even say so to you. Then when you kick them in the balls and break their nose for disturbing your private moment of mourning, they think you’re a crazy person. The truth is that they are weak. Just because a man cries when something hurts him doesn’t mean he can’t cut you open from belly to throat without blinking when you piss him off.”

It wasn’t a life lesson I really ever needed to be taught, as I was this way instinctively, always have been, but the verbalising of it had crystallised it for me nicely.

I don’t have that crystallisation as to why exactly I burst out crying so suddenly, and I don’t especially need it for myself, but it is probably important conceptually for others. A contextualisation of spiritual truth matters in the wider context. It is, after all, how the truth of God has spread and expanded in its details thanks to the Catholic Church’s dogmatic truths, expounded and detailed over the centuries from the basic principles of the gospels and Catholic tradition harking back to the three centuries before the Bible was even compiled.

Anyway, I am not sure what you may gain from this story, other than some generic concepts which will no doubt get twisted into mutant versions of what I wrote, be it “Latins are more manly and i touch with their feminine side!” All the way to: “The kurgan is a pussy and no one should take any advice from a man that cries because if a song!”

Without forgetting the “He’s obsessed! He makes it all about Catholicism and how it’s the best religion ever!” For the record, I am no more “obsessed” with Catholicism than I am with 2+2 being 4. It just is true and that matters.

And if I cared what people said about me, well… I think by now anyone that knows me realises there is no danger of that being a threat to my psyche.

Oh, and of course, the final lesson to take away from all this is that women are devious creatures even in their most loving and caring aspects.

The song:

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