Punched In The Mouth

I had my entire Wednesday planned out. I was going to come home from work with an ashless forehead, a couple chocolate bars and flowers for the wife and kid, then post a blog about the hilarity of Ash Wednesday and Valentine’s Day falling on the same day. The jokes wrote themselves. All Catholics must abstain from meat (hiyo!) and eat only one full meal during one of the most wildly sought after dinner and sex nights of the year. Have you ever heard the joke by Melissa Chen that a man will rub something on your head today… if it’s white or black is up to you? Raunchy, yes. Laugh out loud funny, also yes. And my post was going to be in that same vain- shitting on religion and the “holiday” dedicated to love all in one cynical shot. But as the great Mike Tyson said, everyone’s got a plan until they get punched in the mouth.

My punch in the mouth came courtesy of my daughter. As I walked in the door, hands filled with groceries to cook dinner, I heard the loudest “daddy!” yell. This is nothing new. You thought coming home to a dog was great? Try a two-year-old daughter. She actually says “you came home” as if I had a choice in the matter. But it breaks your heart nonetheless and I will have to remember these moments when she hates me sometime in the future. What was new was my wife pointing a camera at my face as my daughter ran around the couch towards the door. I knew something was up because my wife was playing the song Next Thing You Know by Jordan Davis on the house speakers. If you haven’t heard the song it’s a three-minute country tearjerker about how you meet the love of your life and next thing you know your kids are going to college. Kill me.

My guard was up and then immediately shattered when I saw my little girl in a red dress, her hair done up, a bouquet of fake flowers in her hand, and a Valentine’s Day letter to me. I hadn’t even started cutting the onions for dinner yet my eyes were watering like a fucking geyser. She gave me a big hug, said “happy balentime day daddy, happy birthday daddy” (it wasn’t my birthday - she’s two give her a break) and the entire premise of my original blog came crashing down. I gave her two Reese’s chocolate hearts and then we danced together and as I wiped a few more droplets of tears from my eyes I knew I couldn’t go ahead with the skeptical blog about love and religion. I’m not that guy anymore.

 Take this original opening paragraph for example:

For those who are not Catholic the meaning of Ash Wednesday might be lost on you. It’s lost on me too considering I was raised to be a full-blown atheist. But if you’ve grown up in New Jersey you undoubtedly have seen your Italian or Irish friends walking around with smudges on their foreheads like they were actually Hindus. Based on research, this is an age-old tradition to remind Catholics that “for dust you are and to dust you shall return.” Who needs reminding they’re going to die? If I’m not writing or running or surfing that’s pretty much all I fucking think about. The ashes also represent penance for sins committed. So you’re telling me that all I need to do is get ashes on my head and I’ll forget about all the sin I’ve filled my life up with (some of that sin committed on Valentines Day 😉 )? You rub some dirt on your forehead and now God loves you? What if I take a mud bath? Doesn’t that leave me extra covered in the eyes of God? Or how about my wife throws one of those funky masks on my face to exfoliate my skin? Is that cool with Jesus? Am I forgiven now? What a crock of shit.

Did I originally write this to get some laughs? Sure, I did. Demeaning someone’s most sacred beliefs will always get a laugh or two from the non-believers. But I have to admit, in the last five years of my life it’s hard for me to sit here and write honestly about religion because I don’t know what I believe in anymore. Being a devout atheist has been easy. Too easy. The quip “you believe in a guy sitting on a throne in the sky created the world in six days and rested on the seventh?” has been part of my arsenal since I was twelve. It’s so counterintuitive to believe in God that any sane or rational person has to give it up. But here I am rethinking that entire notion. When your little girl runs up to you in a dress with flowers and a Valentine’s Day card that you don’t deserve in a million lifetimes you start to wonder… who’s really pulling the fucking strings here?

The next paragraph was going to be more of the same:

The ashes have gotten out of hand. I don’t care how much I’ve sinned (A LOT), I’m not walking around looking like I put a cigarette out on my forehead. I’ve even heard they have ashes to go in drive through form now. Not in New Jersey of course. This reeks of something that’s going on south of the Mason Dixon line. But after doing more research what really shocked me was that these people don’t actually HAVE to keep the ashes on their head all day. That’s not a fucking rule. So now I’m seeing the people with ashes on their head all day like ‘look at me’ people. It is a show-offy move. Completely unnecessary. We get it, you go to church. But I saw you last weekend at the bar and you didn’t act holy at all (yes, I’m talking to you.)

But here’s how I honestly feel. I was baptized at the behest of my grandparents. They didn’t want my little ass dying and sitting in purgatory for eternity like my parents clearly do. That was about the last religious experience I’ve had save for a couple Christmas church outings that, once again, my grandparents insisted on. I grew up without the strictness of belief that my parents grew up with. My parents got married at the age of twenty. My parents worked their asses off to start a family business that I’m mooching off of to this day (head of sales – nepotism anyone?). Though my parents claim they don’t believe they certainly don’t act like it.

Now me on the other hand…boy did I act out not believing. The summer of 2012 consisted of me drinking for 90 days straight. No bullshit. May 20^th to August 20^th. It’s a record the likes of which may never be seen again. Did it make me happy at the time? Damn right it did. Did it make mine or anyone’s life better? Probably not.

So, when I think about raising my own kids, I wonder what works better? My grandparents were strict Catholics and both my parents turned out pretty damn good. My parents were not strict Catholics and I turned out to be a heathen. Maybe now’s the time to turn the tide so that my daughters have a chance at being good human beings.

But enough about my eventual relapse into Christianity. No one really gives a fuck. There isn’t anything less interesting than someone’s religious beliefs. That’s why Jesus said pray in private (or something like that). The fact that Valentine’s Day landed on Ash Wednesday was just the luck of the draw and gave me a whole other set of ammo to work with. I started the Valentine’s Day portion of my original blog with this little ditty:

Let’s cut to the chase. Valentine’s Day is a crock of shit and was made to stress out the men in the world. As if we don’t have other things to worry about now you got us running to any store we can find, sifting through the aisles to see if there are any Ferraro Rocher’s left because of course we didn’t plan ahead. February 14^th creeps up on guys like Joe Biden does to smell women’s hair. One minute it’s New Years Day, the next Valentine’s Day. Time flies. And here’s the thing. When your wife is pregnant the house is already filled with loads of chocolate. You can’t take a step without crunching your feet on an empty wrapper. And my wife’s birthday is February 1 which means there are already heaps of dying flowers strewn around the house from two weeks ago. Why do I have to get more of what we already have?

Cynical, yes. Funny, also yes. But again, I have to admit that I’m lying to myself. Valentine’s Day sucks when you don’t have anyone or if you’re stressed to take someone out on a date or you have one of those partners that expects the red carpet to roll out for them the minute they get out of bed. But none of those situations match mine. I have a loving wife who set up the whole charade with my daughter just to remind me, me of all fucking people, that I am loved unconditionally.

So fuck it.

I like Valentine’s Day. And maybe, just maybe, I might believe...

There, I said it.

Happy Grandpa?