I did it.  I said what needed to be said.  No one wanted to hear it, but the tension at the dinner table was too much.  So I said the thing that no one else was willing to say.  Mic Dropped.  It felt good.  Righteous almost. 

I took a deep breath and realized that no one was getting up from the table. There was no cut to commercial; no fade to black. Rather, what was left of the meal grew cold.  The kids knew they better not act up and dare not ask to be dismissed.  So we sat there, awkwardly, until my wife graciously ended the silence and dismissed the kids to get ready for bed.  I was not dismissed.

Life doesn't fade to black. 

We brought our new babies home from the hospital and there were no balloons or nanny or night nurse.  It was us.  It was 3 people recovering from the trauma of delivery and me, wondering awkwardly what my role in nursing babies would be. 

Life doesn't fade to black or into a sunset where the story lives on happily ever after.  What I mean is that we're not in the movies.  There are no cut scenes or B roll, trimming out the unwanted parts. Our actions have consequences that don't go to commercial. Our words create the worlds we live in. So that night, there was no scene cut to Daddy cuddling kids in bed with apologies and, 'love you mores.' Rather, the camera in my mind panned to angry dishwashing and aggressive laundry folding as we collectively worked out our nervous energy.

The consequences of my comments could not be fast-forwarded. It's a rule of life. Thankfully, neither can the good parts like the morning coffee-making routines with toddlers. 

So yes, I'm a little more reserved with my Oscar-winning monologues these days because I, unlike Hamlet or John McLane, must live with the people after the scene ends.

So grab the hairbrush and give the acceptance speech you've always needed to give, thanking God and mama-n-'em, your spouse and the kids for all they've done -- there's no commercial after that either.