So I wrote a book...

**Note - This has been sitting in my draft folder since April...so it's a little old.

Okay, you go me.  It's a kid's book.  Still though, a book geared toward children is still a fairly daunting task.  I guess that's what they mean when they say: "If it were easy, everyone would be doing it."  Of course, Brooke Sheilds did it so...

Anyway, the point is, I wrote (and drew) my first book. It's a very good feeling considering the string of unfinished projects I've had over the course of my creative journey.  "Can We Be Friends?" (the title for today) is the second project in a row that I've been able to finish after saying I would.  I'm starting to feel legitimate if not successful.

Beyond the satisfaction of it all, I feel like for the first time in a long time I've told a story that I was "meant" to tell.  Now, just saying that I gag a little.  Using the "meant" word in context to purpose or destiny is something that sends me spiraling back to high school and staring into a very dim girl's eyes as she breaks my heart (for the twelfth time) using the excuse that we aren't "meant to be." No, when I use the "meant" word, I'm inferring something a little less superstitious, and a little more conceited.

Once in a while, we (as individuals) experience something that alters every tiny cell of our person. The very moment I'm culminating to in this blog is a fairly universal situation, and depending on which end of the proverbial barrel you're staring down, I'd say it's absolutely universal.

I'm talking about the day my sweet, baby girl was born.  May 24, 2008.

The funny thing is, that day becomes more perspective altering the further away it goes.

More mornings that I deserve, I get to creep in my daughter's room and wake her up.  The best mornings she's still fast asleep.  While her tiny breaths ebb and flow, I can rub her warm back and whisper a song to her that steals a melody from "Silent Night." As she begins to twist and squint, I scoop her up and onto my shoulder.  She slides into place, as if her body were cut away from that part of me.  I don't always appreciate that second the way I should.  When I do though...

If Carrie is my heart, Lela is my joy.

Lela's existence has opened my eyes to so many aspects of humanity, and our nature toward each other.  Most of those are beautiful.  The one's that "meant" for this book to be written are not.

Part of being a loving parent, is trying to block any unnecessary threat from your child's path.  It's why we cover electric sockets, and never leave them alone for even a second.  Even on a good day, there are things I feel like I need to be more cautious about.  As your mind goes down all the horrid dangerous paths that could find you kid, you begin to realize that your fears, even when exaggerated, are based in reality.  You're afraid that your innocent baby could go through something that's already happened to someone's innocent baby.

I love Lela because she's mine, but she's also opened a wound in me that I can't comprehend sometimes.  Some days seeing her smile is a lot like seeing a million other children crying.

WHY DID YOU ASK?!

If your's was the only opinion that mattered, why did you ask for help?

Having eyes doesn't make you an artist.

Singing a song doesn't make you a singer.

Building a house of cards doesn't make you an architect.

Sometimes, it's best to shut your mouth and let the guy you asked for help actually help.  If you need a professional, it's because you're incapable in at least one area of life.  You shouldn't edit someone else just for the sake of control.

Don't assume because something isn't exactly the way you want it, that it's not perfect.

Arrogant punk.