Mr. Sentimental

I re-watched What About Bob? over the weekend, a film I was introduced to at about age 10 by my Uncle Brett. If for some crazy reason you haven't seen this, get on it. It was made at the tail-end of Bill Murray's Golden Age (which closed with 1993's Groundhog Day) and is some deliciously funny stuff. The Drey Fuss is also in there, and he makes quite a fuss, just as you'd want him to. His frequent expressions of inarticulate rage are absolutely unforgettable.

Anyway, Bob makes a few references to Leo's family as "The Fam". I have a Fam of my own, and I often think of and describe them that way. Last week, my wife and daughter went to Savannah for a four-day Girl Scout expedition, and my two sons stayed with relatives to accommodate my work schedule. For a couple of days, I was living a life much like the one I had at 17.


One night last week, I went out with my pal to see Transformers (me going to a theater is pretty rare). After it was over, he rushed home to his family with some trepidation, as it was pretty late. I, on the other hand, meandered back to the strangely empty house and then went straight to bed.

After waking up Saturday and bumming around, it started sinking in that I've become totally domesticated. I'm not saying that I was non-functional or a weepy mess, just that their absence was clearly noticeable on an emotional level. I mentioned all this to a (single) buddy; he promptly called me a porno-word for female genitalia.

My friend won't understand until he's in my situation, but having the Fam is deeply good in a way that words tend to cheapen. What they mean to me is thrown into razor-sharp relief when they're away, even for a short while.

I'm grateful for my wife and children; they're irreplaceable.

I should be more obvious about that.