My achy breaky heart....

I wrote before about Daddio's serious lack of the sympathy gene. He's sympathetic to a (very small) point, but by no stretch of the imagination could anyone ever call him a bleeding heart. Which is what he calls me.

I tease him that I must be a very important person for the cable companies to have devoted an entire movie channel (Lifetime) absolutely chock full of one heart wrenching show after the next just for me.

"You and that bleeding heart crap" he says, shaking his sensible head.

The truth is I think I may have gotten in line twice (or maybe three times) when God was passing out empathy.

I literally squirmed in Daddio's time worn Lazyboy last night when that horrible, horrible judge Simon Cowell (and his evil counterparts) from American Idol went on and on and on and on criticizing those poor singers.

Yeah, some of them were awful (gawd awful)... but still.

When Simon critiqued the one who sang "You're no good" by Linda Ronstadt, he said something along the lines of "Now that was prophetic, don't you think?".

You woulda thought Simon slugged me in the gut. I may have fallen over if I was standing when he said that snarky remark.

It hurt.

I shut my eyes in a hurry because I knew that perky little singer's eyes were welling with tears and it would make my heart ache.

I put my fingers in my ears and even sang myself.. "lalalalalalalalalalalalala" when he went for the jugular on the next one, a baby faced modern day David Cassidy lookalike.

I'm even worse with my kids.

When they hurt...I'm near death.

Daddio refers to me as a true Corsican Brother. An old Cheech and Chong movie about a set of twin brothers separated at birth. When they reunite it becomes apparent that they feel each others pain. Poke Cheech's charachter in the eye and Chong's charachter screams in pain and reaches for his own eye.

Hilarious...unless you relate.

Bear got hurt* a couple of days ago. It's his own fault and deep down I know that. In my heart it doesn't make my (or his) hurt any less though.

Bear has a hard time making his mind up on things (okay, he's a lazy azz procrastinator on occasion)...almost every year since he's been a freshman in high school the kid will decide in the 13th (25th???) hour that he wants to play a certain sport...could be Track, Football, Baseball (sometimes it's all three).

Most of the time the coaches have let him join the teams late...maybe they allow it because he's a pretty good athlete, or he's a nice kid.

Whatever...he usually gets in.

The kicker is that sometimes Bear gets on the team and for one reason or another he decides that he doesn't want to be there anymore and he quits.

Now if Daddio informs him that quitting is not a possibility (because Daddio's boys aren't quitters) then he becomes uninterested and it shows.

This is his Senior year and most all his friends are playing baseball on the school team. I'm not sure if he wasn't sure he wanted to play?...Or if he saw many of his buds were going to be playing and wanted to be a part of the socialization?...Or if he realized that this is it the last time he will ever wear a Rams uniform???

I'm not sure.

He's hard to figure out.

And he's a bit ornery sometimes.

Bear hates a parental shakedown, a Spanish Inquisition of any type.

"Would you like steak sauce with your chicken?"  I could innocently inquire

"Why do you have to ask me all these questions?" he would reply " you're always asking me questions!"

"Leave him alone" Daddio (probably)would butt in.

The bottom line is he wasn't allowed to be on the team.

Daddio says that this is a good life lesson.

He who hesitates and all that crap.

I know the road to manhood is long and hard....(believe me , you should see my feet, they are killin me.)

(* Bear did not once express to me that he was hurt, this is my take on things and my blog and I am allowed to write anything (within reason of course) that I want to write...however, I wish to ask those of you who may know my sensitive darling man/child that you not discuss this post with him or any of his friends or coaches. It would embarrass him to death, and with me certainly feeling that pain coupled with the one inflicted upon my scrawny neck by his big ol hairy knuckled hands, in response to the pain brought about by his mother's betrayal of his innermost feelings (which of course I happen to be privy to, in my own mind at least) I would be dead too. I would very much appreciate it if you did not breath one word, not one. Merci).