The greatest writer of my generation killed himself a few weeks ago.
I know what you're thinking right now, reader. This is a column devoted to lighthearted stories about the foibles of being an imperfect human being who is raising other imperfect human beings who have far more energy than she and her husband do.
You'd be correct in that thought. Know that I know that I might be breaking some sort of reader-writer covenant by bring up a downer of a topic like suicide.
But David Foster Wallace's death was, among other things, a swift kick in my personal pants. A little over six years ago, shortly after the Diva was born, I logged some time on a locked psych floor, because, much like Wallace, I'd become a danger to myself.
Again, I know this isn't what you want to hear over your Saturday morning cup of joe. We'll get to the funny (haha funny, that is, not funny farm funny) bit in a minute.
If you'd asked me then if I would enjoy my life as much as I do now, I would think that you were the one who was completely insane. Then, my misery was bone-deep and invisible _ despite the fact that I had a supportive spouse and a gorgeous sweet baby waiting at home.
You just never know what it is really like inside someone else's head. Surfaces can be misleading.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when I was checking my e-mail and read a story about Wallace's death. In less time than it took me to type that sentence, I was back to those weeks after my firstborn's birth, wondering how in the heck it would all be OK again, how I would learn to tolerate my life, much less find it amusing.
As I was reading that sad e-mail about an amazing man's death, it dawned on me how blessedly lucky I have been. Because, thanks to prescription drugs and patient people and time, right now, my life with kids is acres more amusing than I'd ever thought it would be.
Like the Dude's discovery of his singing voice or, at least, an ability to remember how the songs go.
He used to lie in his crib at bedtime _ after I'd read the requisite stories and turned out the lights _ and talk to his stuffed animals. He's quite the raconteur, in his own mind, at least.
Now he sings to them after lights out. The dulcet tones of "Bingo" or "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" will waft down the steps to where my husband and I are catching up on our vital TV watching. The Dude's earnestness little voice makes us giggle a little bit, every single time.
Speaking of the idiot box, we have no problem poisoning our kids' brains with selected programming. The Dude loves "Shrek," so much so that he came running up last Saturday and said, "I need your help!" Then he ran back into the living room, where Shrek and Donkey were battling the dragon.
I hadn't heard anything crash, which is usually when my help is needed, but wandered into the living room anyway. "I have to get in there," he said, urgently. And proceeded to try to climb into the television set.
You can either read that an indictment of my parenting skills or you can simply laugh at the cuteness of it all, of the image of a 3-foot tall round-headed boy smooshing himself against the set so that he can help his friends. I chose the latter.
The Diva has her own charms. While she isn't a goofball like her brother _ and wasn't when she was his age and now thinks that such frivolity is beneath her first-grade self _ she has her own endearments. Like her new favorite outfit, which consists of a pink leopard shirt and pant combo that must be worn with her shiny pink cowboy boots.
As Tim Gunn would say: it's a lot of look. Somehow, she pulls it off, even if I sometimes wonder if she is channeling the spirit of a retiree from Boca.
Yes, both of them, alone or in concert, have a knack for irritating me in ways that I'd never before imagined. Don't even get me going on my oldest child's inability to sit at the dining room table facing her plate with her bottom on the chair for longer then 3 seconds while she uses an actual utensil to bring food to her mouth, which is in the general area over her plate, so that three-quarters of her dinner doesn't wind up in her lap or on the floor, where it is eaten by the cat, who has his own food, thank you very much, which your brother needs to stop eating whenever he doesn't think we are looking ...
Where was I?
As much as I would have scoffed at the mere thought six years ago, Wallace's tragic death served as a sharp reminder to appreciate all of these moments, especially the ones that are full of joy. Heck, even those moments that make you want to give yourself a time-out are worth a brief nod, if only because they make the wonderful moments even more sweet. I know that idea has all of the intellectual rigor of a Hallmark card _ but that doesn't make it any less true.
My heart still breaks for Wallace's family and friends. What they must be going through right now must be nearly unendurable. I'm full of grief for all of the work he might have produced and that I still ache to read
But, if nothing else, this moment is a good one to stop and marvel.
Adrienne Martini is a freelance writer, instructor at the State University College at Oneonta and Hartwick College, mom to Maddy and Cory, wife to Scott and author of "Hillbilly Gothic," published by the Free Press.
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