I tried. Really, I did.

For the past hour or so, I sat here and tried to write one of my witty little entries. You know, one of those ones in which I piss and moan (in an oh-so-witty fashion) about my family’s maniacal schedule, or my children’s incessant cacophony of screaming/crying/whining/bickering, or the never-ending sleep deprivation my wife and I continue to endure, or whatever other parenting travesty has befallen us.

Thing is, that only works when I’m really feeling it—and I’m not feeling it. I have read some things in the past couple of weeks that, at least for this evening, have left me unable to conjure up even mock disgruntlement about my lot in life.

So if you’re looking for laughs (and god knows you’d normally be in the right place, because funny? Sweet Jesus, am I ever … and humble, too), look elsewhere, because I am about to bum you right the fuck out.

Several weeks ago, Nine Inch Nails bassist Justin Meldal-Johnsen posted a link to PABLOg!, a blog written by his manager, Jeff Castelaz, whose 6-year-old son Pablo was battling cancer. I visited the site at that time and read some of Jeff’s posts, in which he talked about Pablo’s ongoing struggle. The family—Jeff, his wife Jo Ann, and Pablo’s older brother, Grady—was determined to help their brave little boy beat that unholy fucking disease.

Here’s an excerpt from the entry Jeff posted last Saturday (6/27):

I want to tell you what Pablo’s last words were. Listen carefully, because this is the greatest testament to Jo Ann and her wonderful motherhood, and how wonderful motherhood can be with the right child and the right mother. Pablo’s last words were ‘I want Mommy!’

No, Pablo didn’t make it, and as I read about how he died in the arms of his mother and father and big brother, I bawled my fucking eyes out (and I’m on the verge of doing so again right now—in fact … yep, here come the tears, right on cue).

Last month, I came across a news story about Neil and Kazumi Putticks, whose son Sam had been left paralyzed from the neck down following a 2005 car accident, at which time Sam was 18 months old. On May 30, 2009, Sam died from meningitis. The next day, his grief-stricken parents (who also blogged about their son’s struggle) took his body and a bag of his toys to a nearby cliff and jumped.

While looking at my traffic stats recently, I noticed that some users were discovering my blog via a BlogHer link at Matt Logelin’s blog. I’d never heard of Matt Logelin before, so I spent some time checking out his site.

In April of last year, Matt’s daughter, Madeline, was delivered via an emergency C-section, after which mother and daughter were doing fine. Twenty four hours later, as he helped his wife prepare to go hold her baby for the first time, she died right in front of him from a pulmonary embolism.

These two shots were taken this past weekend, while my perfectly healthy kids swam in my in-laws’ pool:

… as was this picture of my beautiful wife:

So, um, yeah … I don’t have a single thing to bitch about tonight. Sorry.

As noted previously, my blogging activity has been greatly diminished these past few days due to our latest visit with the in-laws here in suburban Philadelphia, which included lots of chilling by the pool—or, as shown above, in the pool (my mom-in-law took that pic with her new Nikon D60, outfitted with a new zoom lens, and let’s just say that I now have camera envy)—as well as kickin’ it with the beasts at the Philadelphia zoo.

And here we are, 5:15 p.m. on Monday. I now have 45 minutes to stow in the attic all of the toys and kiddie paraphernalia that my in-laws so graciously trot out during our visits, pack the car, eat dinner and hop back on the road for our 350-mile journey home … so a more in-depth recounting of our fun Philly excursion will have to wait until mañana.

Keep an eye on those Daddy’s Briefs over there on the right; with any luck, the return journey won’t include any photos of traffic jams.

Peace out.

I know, I know: How the hell does a so-called “daddy blogger” with a blog dubbed “Daddy Scratches” not post anything about Father’s Day?

Well, mostly, it’s because he’s been too busy BEING A FATHER!

So, better late than never.

I had fun pulling together Wonder Woman’s Mother’s Day retrospective (or, rather, I was pleased with the result; the “pulling together” part isn’t all that fun) so I figured I’d give it a whirl with Father’s Day.

Father’s Day 2003

In 2003, Father’s Day fell four days after the birth of my first child, the one and only Zan. Here, we see all of the Scratches men together for the first time: my father, brother, Zan and I.

My first Father’s Day … and it was all so shiny and new that the soon-to-appear cumulative effects of ongoing sleep deprivation and inherent accelerated aging had not yet laid the smackdown on me, so I’m mostly just dazed and happy—although the shock of parenthood does appear to have caused my hair to suddenly begin turning white (either that, or I used to go to a salon to get highlights put in my hair, which would have involved sitting in a chair for two hours while someone lovingly wrapped my locks in little foil pouches … and I can’t imagine having that kind of time, nor being that much of a douche bag, so clearly, that’s not the explanation for my appearance above).

Let’s move on.

 

Father’s Day 2004

Three things worth noting:

1. The cumulative effects of a year’s-worth of sleep deprivation and inherent accelerated aging have most definitely begun to leave their mark.
2. My Dad and I apparently were having a “Who Can Grow The Ugliest Facial Hair?” competition … and I clearly was winning.
3. Zan and I are sporting our Red Sox duds; four months later, the Red Sox would win the World Series for the first time in 86 years after humiliating the New York Yankees. (I just like finding reasons to bring it up.)

 

Father’s Day 2005

I rest my case about the accelerated aging.

On a happier note: Zan presented me with these shirts for Father’s Day that year, and, for as long as he still fit into his, I loved loved loved wearing them together. He got a huge kick out of, I got a huge kick out of it and everyone who saw us together got a huge kick out of it.

He outgrew the shirt. I didn’t. So I still wear mine—exclusively at home, or, if in public, hidden underneath another garment. Walking around with a “Big Guy” shirt on while accompanied by your two-year-old, “Little Guy”-shirt-wearing son? Cute. Walking around with a “Big Guy” shirt on by yourself? Douchey.

 

Father’s Day 2006

Please imagine that you see here a picture of the Scratches family on Father’s Day in 2006.

Yeah, not sure what happened here. My iPhoto library jumps from shots of Zan’s third birthday to my and Wonder Woman’s Cabo Wabo adventure. Father’s Day was in between, and apparently not worth documenting.

I figured out what happened to Father’s Day 2006! Jayna ate it:

And it must have been pretty filling, because by that point in time, the bags underneath my eyes were more than a mouthful:

 

Father’s Day 2007

Remember that whole “Let’s take Daddy to Coco Key for his birthday!” thing? This was kinda like that. “Let’s take Daddy to see Thomas the Train for Father’s Day!”

Actually, this was a lot more enjoyable than Coco Key, despite the two-hour roundtrip drive and temperatures hovering in the mid-90s. And not only did it yield this almost-unbearably cute picture of Jayna giving her big brother a spontaneous kiss …

… but I also got to meet Sir Topham Hatt (yes, two Ts; I just looked it up) …

… so, you know, if nothing else, I had that going for me. (P.S.: How the person inside that costume didn’t immediately die of heatstroke, I’ll never know.)

 

Father’s Day 2008

Now THAT’S what I’m talkin’ about! This ain’t no Coco Key, and this ain’t no Thomas the Train; this is Daddy Scratches chillin’ like a muthafucka!

Sorry; my inner Samuel L. Jackson wanted to come out and play for a moment.

This is me floating in my in-laws’ pool. I remember this day vividly. Rarely am I ever this relaxed. No phone, no computer, no BlackBerry; just me, some floaty things and a couple Coronas, followed by a couple margaritas.

Of course, it wouldn’t have been Father’s Day without my kiddos, who by then were old enough to swim around in the pool unassisted. (Having my mother-in-law standing right there with them didn’t hurt, either.)

Which brings us to another reason why Father’s Day 2008 is the most relaxing one on record thus far: my kids had finally reached an age at which they no longer required constant, hands-on supervision during their every waking moment. On the Great Parenthood Timeline, that is a bitchin’ milestone to reach. (Hang in there, oh ye parents with babies; it gets better.)

 

Father’s Day 2009

Wanna see something mind-blowing? Scroll back up to the first two pictures in this entry, and then come back here to this one. Go ahead; I’ll wait.

Holy freakin’ wow, right?

Six years into it, I can honestly say that I have never experienced anything more challenging or more difficult than being a father. Fortunately, I also can say that I have never experienced anything more rewarding. Nothing in this world means more to me than my children, and nothing is more important to me than being a good father to them. Hopefully, I’m succeeding.

Happy belated Father’s Day, y’all.

Overheard just now:

Zan: My Dad knows more about baseball than anybody. He knows balls and strikes and everything.

Friend: Oh yeah? Well, my Dad knows Terry Francona and all the Red Sox.

Zan: Yeah, well, do you know about concerts? After concerts, my Dad gets to go backstage.