EPISODE 1- A New Hope and THE WORD GUILT.  The Life ablaze before a home erased.

I was so upset with myself for taking so long to get back to my blog….

Berating my ability to remain diligent in my writing routine and fearing that my lack of practice would turn my verbiage skills to mush.  Or worse, cliches. Bad overused meme material. This is not the same kind of guilt as missing a workout or eating garbage food. For me, this was way worse a feeling of failure.  All because I had too many distractions luring me away from the keyboard and storytelling time. Well, mainly one distraction. In the form of the all powerful, all consuming, larger than life and altering life whilst squirming around in it’s own feces….infant.    

As it turned out, however,  I wasn’t to blame for the hiatus.  The blog entry just hadn’t yet unfolded.  We all assume our life is going to be a certain way.  Human mental stability counts on that idea of the ‘certain way’ panning out for years and years to come.

So, now I so easily find the irony and morbid humor in just what a SINGLE year can do to upheave the ‘certain way’.  I can assume that most have their year that changed everything for them. Storytelling time this entry will replay the year that crammed about a lifetime of growth within it’s indistinguishable lines of ‘calendar days’.  Those being a concept right along with ‘time’ that are impossible to really define, but sorta meaningless anyhow. A year like binging on a podcast or Netflix series (a boring one). An overachieving year in testing the fibers of a family.

Like all blog entries of mine, my first goal is one hundred percent to deliver underground life rivers that hit home for readers by weaving and connecting foreign waters.  In hopes that the initial fear or anxieties will meet up with a lesson that in turn creates friendly seas. Those with a clear horizon. Some that help through the medium of empathy.  That inspire. That provoke original thought. The catharsis as the writer is a bonus.

I hope any piece of this lands home.

THE YEAR BEFORE THE YEAR.  

My first year in Kona Ironman World Championship made me feel like I could relax and hang up the bike a bit.  My second year in Kona made me chuck the bike to the side and pray to the Hawaiian fertility gods that I was able to give Max a baby.  Knowing all too well that a ‘positive mindset’ or whatever, was necessary for conception, I still viciously boxed with these undeniable truths in the front of my mind-

  • I was ‘old’. Old eggs.  Old uterus. A biological clock that had retired.  
  • I had an IUD for 10 years that created scar tissue and ‘confused sperm’ en route.
  • My hormones and body fat after IM racing for that long consistently were basically as cozy a spot to farm a baby as a man’s body.  

And yet, after only a second try in hoping the moons and stars in the shape of ovulation and fertility aligned, Kai Zoe Jones was born at 12:01am on Aug 30th, 2017.  Max likes to attribute the conception success to his sperm. Likes to picture their power which is best personified as an angry puffed out chest single sperm yelling at a western medicine doctor regarding all the reasons pregnancy should’ve been difficult for me.  In particular, a monologue from the movie ‘300’…”You insult my queen, you persian should have chosen your words more carefully”. Then the sperm kicks the doctor into a hole in the ground. And I get knocked up.

My son Luke, born 10 years earlier, was the poorest impression of what pregnancy and babyhood entail.  He was so easy. Still is. Sweetest little boy soul of sensitivity and laid back demeanor that one could birth.  

Kai, however, is half Max.  And therefore needs to challenge me in every way to Sunday for the sake of living to my utmost potential.  No rest. No reasonable standard of existence. Just ON. Always ON. Always MOVING, both in and out of womb.   Always living as though if we somehow wandered into the vortex that threw us into the dimension of living on Viking ships or foraging homes while in Dark Age axe battles, that we would survive.  I was so sick. Every. Single. Day of pregnancy. And every night of her babyhood, I didn’t sleep. Yet I pushed on and on through the woods in the cold wearing only Spartican loin cloths battle after battle, and faked my way through all wellness/fitness presentations feeling utterly hypocritical beneath my mask of pseudo smiles and positive energy while shoving deep down, the demonic possession.  Or rather, the hormones and postpartum.

How I felt, at least.  Not quite sure how that visually translates in baby scrapbooking.  

But, just like the moon tells the tide to get it’s bitch ass back in line, we about to rhyme….

About a seemingly normal calm moment in time.  

A time for wedding planning.  Like normal people in love.

A time for baby adjustment.  Like normal nuclear families create for both the sake of autonomy and survival.  

A time for surface level business development and recognized positions in the community.  

GO GROWN UP JONES FAMILY!  We are doing LIFE! We are good at it!

Then.  Then. Fucking THEN.  

Enter the  wildcard- electrical home dysfunction. Enter the element leading to the ultimate stripping and rebuilding of the basic level of human genre so that they would grow to be the advanced level of human representatives.  

Enter….THE HOUSE FIRE.  

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