Where Woody Went

Well, the boy has decided as of today that “Woody’s sleeping.” Actually, according to The Missus’ blog, it was last night:

Friday, 7:30 p.m.: I call my parents to chat, to get my mind off the dog-shaped hole.

In the middle of our call, The Man Cub finds and starts playing with one of Woody's toys, a little dachshund with a crunchy water bottle inside.

Suddenly he looks up at me, asks for the first time, “Where Woody go?”

He wanders around the living and dining rooms, peering under the dining room table and checking the kitchen for Woody.

“Woody’s gone,” I say.

My mom, on the phone: It's OK to tell the boy you miss him.

Me: I have to go, Mom. Love you. (beep)

Me: I miss Woody, son. (tears)

The Man Cub: Woody sleeping. Woody sleeping.

I was pretty upset the question didn’t come up on my watch. I had finally calculated an answer, using his limited vocabulary and conceptual grasp, that would reference only good things he already recognizes, and string them together in such a way as to benignly suggest that Woody went to stay with some (unnamed) friends because they could fix all his Ows and we couldn’t. You know, all his Ows were fixed and he was happy. [Spoiler alert: I may still get a chance to run it by him.]

I wouldn’t have told him I miss Woody, though. I may have been wrong in that, but it didn’t fit in with the storyline I was selling. I might have asked him, “Do you miss Woody?” and depending on what he said, who knows what would have come out of my mouth?

Anyhow, I only mention this now because now the boy is walking around repeating, “Woody sleeping. Woody sleeping. (pause) Woody sleeping.” Repeat.

The Missus wants to change the subject, but I want to engage him in this conversation. I sat down on Woody’s bed and said, “Do you want to talk about Woody?” I beckoned to him, but that was the moment he wanted to change the subject.

That’s all right. I’ll get him to talk about it. It’s what I do.

As for me, I’m adjusting well considering that is a bold-faced lie. Every unhappy moment is a new personal worst, and every previous mundane household activity is now drenched in heartache and drama. Walking into a room and looking for him, still, after days; that awful hour between 3 and 4 p.m. when my body clock tells me that Woody should be bugging me to feed him early, come on, do it just this once, man; having to be out of the house at 4 p.m. because the same body clock is screaming at me, “FEED THE DOG, ASSHOLE!”; maybe worst of all was coming home to an empty house. We have a long hallway right inside our front door, and Woody was always, always right at the end of it, ears up, body tense – never ever walked in that door in this house without a heart-felt “Hey buddy!” for Woody… so that was the worst.

Yesterday I came home from dropping the boy off at daycare, tears already streaming down my bloated wussy face in the driveway (Hi neighbors, I cry in public!), swing the door open and force myself to look down at the end of the hallway, and am greeted with what you see below. Thanks to my wonderful Missus, I haven’t had a problem coming in the front door since then.

One thing handled, everything else to go. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.