"To All The Parents..."

I attended one of Sean's concerts tonight.

There are roughly four concerts every year, including the holidays and the end of the year. There's also what they call "the pyramid concert," which allows the school district to demonstrate how the students have grown, by bringing in multiple levels to remind the older students that they once sounded like that.

Four different groups took to the stage, including the concert band, directed by the always energetic Mrs. Esposito, who is often the star of the evening.

Sean is in the concert band, on alto saxophone. He's worked hard, probably doesn't practice enough, and I'm proud of him regardless. Plus he looked sharp in his black suit (I tried to take pictures, but my iPhone isn't up to that task in the theater).

Towards the end of the show (frankly, it was gloriously brief tonight), Mrs. Esposito addressed the crowd and thanked the "parents, grandparents" and so on for supporting the students.

I sat there, then realized something.

Wait. I'm a parent.

It's not that I don't think of myself as Sean's dad. I do. Always. We have a profound relationship that I've discussed numerous times.

Yet, I can't explain it. I'm a parent. She was talking about me (not directly, of course)

In short, being a single parent is awful. I walk into the concert, often with my mother in tow. I watch the show. I zone out for chunks of it. I pay attention (and often get sad) when he performs. I see him in the lobby for a few minutes when it's over.

Then I go home without him.

You'd think after this many years, it would be easy. If you think that, don't. It isn't.

It blows.

There are doctors and dentists appointments that you never hear about until after they're over. There are events that happen with no advanced knowledge.

"Wait. You went where?"

You know he's always safe, but still.

There are birthday parties that you're not welcome at. So you hold your own for him.

You get this limited time -- Friday night to Sunday afternoon (sometimes more) -- and maybe a weeknight for dinner, which we used to do, then stopped.

Keep in mind that weeknight dinner thing was actually held against me years ago. It's an awful story not worth telling, but can you imagine me ever rejecting time with Sean like that?

I wanted to hug him something awful on the day of Sandy Hook, but couldn't go anywhere near him.

I once passed by the "other" house he lives in (he's very firm that where I live is also home) and could see him riding around in the yard on a toy. I was on a highway, and even if I wanted to, I couldn't go see my own child.

Even now, it's something I struggle to deal with.

Then there's the balance of figuring out your own life. If I'm not "me" somehow, then I'm no good for him. I believe that to this day.

There's the guilt of being taken away by work and/or life and trying to either include him or minimize the damage. He's been a good soldier for the countless games and other adventures. To be fair, many have been fun for him.

Let's not even get into the guilt of work/money issues. Folks, nothing has changed and it's getting worse.

There are always the pickups and dropoffs plus the conflicts.

There's that constant feeling that you have 1) no control and, worse, 2) no say.

Want to know about the night I nearly had to blow off calling my first Mahopac/Carmel hockey game because the arrangements I made weren't convenient?

It all worked out in the end, and we've actually been very good about it all. More often than not, there has been a level of cooperation that I'm sure a lot of divorces don't have.

It also helps that I run through walls to make things happen (or find people to help...mostly, my mom).

But it still sucks.

Because I'm a dad.

I'm Sean's dad.

I've lost a lot of time with him.

And I miss him a lot.