I Am So Thankful for Mila Rose

Grampy's Note: Oh, our newborn granddaughter is SO adorable. Hardly ever cries, unlike her papa did. Wakes up to look at us with wonder in her eyes, the visual cortex not quite ready to see all the world around her has to offer, but eager to see nonetheless. I am in total bliss... a grandfather once again, some 19+ years hence.

Oh Mila Rose, how I have reveled every moment the past day in your exalted presence. Just 10 days old, you have stolen my heart, and that of my Beloved. To think our sweet little prince is now a father seems unfathomable. 

Each of our neighbors has come to pay tribute and pledge their love at your tiny little feet. One has paid homage THRICE today, her adoration so cute it drips with extra sugared-honey. Mila Rose, you are more than a dream come true... you are the perfect culmination of a love which began when I first saw the face of your sweet Grams. It wasn't simply "love at first sight". It was so much more than my humble words are worthy of.

The past day has been one of pure joy. I held you, as did your Grams, your Aunties Adia and Celestial, while adored by Uncle Corny. Within my joyous arms you took nourishment, snuggles and poops. I watched as my Beloved rocked you. While your Mama left us with a cradle, our arms were sufficient and we had no need of artificial comfort. We took turns giving you nourishment and extreme love. It was, I repeat, one of the highlights of our lives. I will fall into slumber remembering this most happiest of days.

* * * * *

For eight years I was a soul-wrenched and lonely single father. One who only used a girl for her womanly charms, not interested in relationships. After being horribly torn apart by my first "soulmate", I was distrustful, angry and scornful of my opposite sex. So much so, some mistook me for being gay. I was not, but was comfortable having close friendships with those who are. Mostly, I traveled a lonely path as the devoted father of my incredible daughter, the only positive from a love to which I devoted my entire soul to. Avoiding those who lured me into their lives, I wandered alone except for the closeness of my dearest friends, one of whom recently left this world.

When my first love was severed, I turned my energy solely toward the tiny, adorable lass who still has me entwined between her lovely, sweet, adorable fingers. Even though her 40th birthday will soon be upon us, there is nothing this lass could ask I could easily deny. My Bear has defied all that suggested she would fail and blasted through each challenge she faced. Now, she owns a home and boasts an 800+ credit score, having recently been hired by a law firm which recognized her intelligence combined with a sweet disposition very few can ignore. Only the fierce devotion of my Beloved combined with Daddy's purest desire to sustain her excellence throughout a horribly-challenging childhood of "joint custody" gave her that chance, and I am intensely proud of her. And, I must add, the fierceness of my Beloved, who took Bear as her own, is now called "Mom" because of her calm, sweet devotion to her husband's child.

For 38 years, my Bear has been the sole recipient of my parental adoration, even though she shares this with her two brothers. However, a father's love seems to revolve around the female progeny. Why? Perhaps it's that fatherly protectiveness we come to recognize after courting a lass during our tender years. As testosterone-charged teenagers we strive to fool the dads by feigning respect through our words, while working hard to find what lies beneath those enticing undergarments. As we become fathers of teenage daughters, we KNOW instinctively what those boys are up to when they utter respect via hollow (or even heartfelt) words. They simply want to get laid. Period. Yeah, I was there too. I get it, guys. You never fooled me, not even once. Nor did I.

This year I will celebrate (God willing and the creek don't rise) my 63rd birthday. We have raised three extremely-gifted children into adulthood, marveling at their individual strengths. Their tender individuality shines as a highlight to our shared souls. Oh, how I despair the very thought of losing any of them before my time here is past. Recently, I felt the searing pain of my sister Jacqui when her son and grandchild met their untimely end via a car accident. It reminded me of Miss Pat, my earliest love, who died with her unborn child at age 25 when I was but 13. Her eight-month-old son was seriously injured, but endured to create a beautiful family of his own, one who was lovingly welcomed by an incredible stepmother who stepped in when Rod-Daddy needed her most. That tragedy was a cruel awakening to the fact that life has no guarantees, that death happens in an instant to those who least expect (or deserve) it, those at the highlight of love and happiness, and that it crushes those who love them most.

Ever since, I have worked hard to ensure those I love most KNOW it. With luck when I die, there will be many who remember this about me. If they recall anything else, this is the most important gift I hope to leave behind. Because, folks, my love for you knows no boundaries... it is absolute. Whether we agree politically or ideologically, my love for you is profound. Regardless. Each of you has moved me to heights I cannot, here or anywhere else, adequately describe. And I thank you profusely for it. 

It is sad that few of you read my words nowadays. I began writing this blog to describe the thoughts and ordeals of a city bus operator. It has since evolved into a more personal, sometimes biting, denunciation fo those who look down upon our ranks as "unskilled labor". If you have read this blog more than once, you hopefully have come to realize we are anything but that. Many of us have been laborers of many a different sort before now. We have since dedicated ourselves to the safety of others, as they make their way towards a myriad of destinations. Each varies in individuality, but every ride is of vital importance to US. We are charged with your safety, and that of everyone else within and surrounding the 40,000lb. Beast we control. Very few recognize the service we provide, as they blithely avoid our greeting under the anonymity of their headphones. It's a heartless way to refuse acknowledgement of ours to them, but it has become the norm. 

Regardless of the disrespect, the violence and horrid insults lobbed against us, this is our job. When you hear how "first responders" are heroes, you rarely count US within that group. Yet we're here to transport you no matter the weather or political tides. Transit works 7/24/365. We trudge onward with the hopes that we complete our shifts as honorably as conditions require. We're rarely afforded kudos or respect for our efforts, but that paycheck is our lonely yet acceptable reward. 

So today, I ask you honor this sole transit operator the wondrous celebration of a new grandchild. I am incredibly smitten and forever devoted to this blessed addition to my Beloved family. The past day has been easily one of the happiest of my 62+ years. Holding this tiny girl-child, feeding and changing diapers while constantly professing my devotion to her, has nearly erased a decade of disrespect. I know her love for me will never waver, and my devotion to her will remain absolute. 

Thank you Beloved, for believing in me, for accepting my fierce devotion to Bear while accepting my many faults, and finding enough love within my formerly-tortured soul to share the past 30 years with me. Thank you Zak and Bibi for giving us the most precious gift besides your own lives, adding a a new love for us to cherish. Thank you Bear and J-Man for affording us the joys of sharing your love. Your mere presence is a gift beyond description.

I am so happy. Two weeks after the loss of a best friend, my tears flow freely. This circle of life keeps on revolving, and I'm thankful to watch it because pain is often followed by exultation. Miss you buddy, and thanks for watching it all happen with a wink and that wonderful smile.

Thank you for reading.

I am, Gratefully,

The Ghost of Deke N. Blue