Early Mourning

Sure, it's Christmas morning. I would always get up early as a kid, no hesitation. It was after I had kids that I got up earlier.

Much earlier.

The compulsion to get out of a perfectly warm bed has long since dropped a few lines on my to-do list, but here I am anyway, blogging at crap-o'clock on the 25th of December. And all because I have kids. But not just because I *have* them, no.

It's because they're right there. Literally. Since I became a father, I haven't been home for Christmas morning more than once. Every other time, we're staying with family. When my oldest was past the phase where he wouldn't sleep anywhere strange for more than two hours, his brother entered it. I woke at something like 2 this morning because a toddler decided my face was warm and not quite drooly enough. Meh, life story time.

So much of my life I just didn't do anything, half because I was afraid I would fail, half because I didn't think I'd like it, and half because I was afraid I would succeed. Wait, let's back up:


I used to be afraid of heights.

I remember way back in grade school, we had a drill where everyone had to jump out the back door on the bus. Literally, jump. There were people right there, but I was terrified. People were laughing at me, but I didn't care, I was frozen in horror at the concept of even a split-second free fall. Later, in that same grade school, I visited a friends, and he had a tree house (of sorts). I could climb up, no problem. Coming down, though... same problem as before. I didn't see how high up I was.

Even though I wasn't.

It was an odd thing, this fear of heights wasn't just heights, it was falling. I couldn't stand the idea of a diving board, but a glass elevator up a skyscraper was fine. It all came to a head one summer day, forever ago. I was at as amusement park and met an attraction that hoisted you up on a cable about 200 feet, and swung you. My sister was there, and we opted to take this somewhat fun looking ride. We suited up, and they began to lift us. At my side was the cord I was supposed to pull when they gave the signal, beginning our ride. It was at the moment they started to lift us that I realized something. Something horrifying.


That's exactly what I was afraid of my entire life. That which fed me terror was staring me in the face, and I had fed myself to this beast. There was no backing out without enduring painful, excruciating humiliation. The cord was on my side, and there was only one of them. What happened next was entirely up to me. I'll admit, I started to panic, but didn't let it overcome me. Instead, I told my sister that I was afraid.

That was step 1.

I'll never forget what she told me that day. It wasn't some huge, soul warming moment that I can cherish forever. It wasn't some grand, poetic moment that can't be excluded from "Karl: the Movie" without enraging fans of the book. In fact, it was nothing overly consequential. In fact, I'm not even going to tell you what she told me. I'm telling you what it did. I, a grown man, was afraid of heights, and my little sister didn't judge me for it.

That was step 2.

I pulled the stupid cord. Not because I wasn't afraid any more, but because I realized I didn't need to be. My head was taller than that stupid bus door, that tree fort wasn't build higher than 4 feet off the ground, and that cable could have swung a 1964 Buick without so much as a groan.

I didn't leave that amusement park any less afraid of the world than before. In many ways, having kids now, I'm actually more afraid of the world. But there I was, dangling a couple hundred feet over a small lake, knowing that the moment the signal came, I had an immediate choice. To let that one fear win again, cripple, and humiliate me yet again.

Or punch it in its stupid face. Looking back after all these years, I realized something. I didn't decide to pull that cord at step 2. It was when I was willing to tell my sister that I was afraid at all. I wanted to overcome that fear, and I didn't care if she knew I had it. The shackles of some ridiculous phobia had become worse than admitting it was there. I admitted my fear to her, and nothing bad happened at all.

That was the day I became willing to face my fears.

Merry Christmas.