It is November 15th, and I am sitting in a hotel room in Moorhead, Minnesota, missing you dearly. Yesterday you and I saw one another via the wonders of modern technology. Or at least modern to 2013. By the time you read this, video chat may be old hat and holograms the hip, new, trend. But I’ll take seeing you wobble as you attempt to walk any way I can.
You aren’t really sure what a phone is—to you it’s a toy Mommy won’t let you have no matter how hard you reach or how much you protest; last time you got a hold of one, you slobbered it to death with your teething. But you do know that sometimes I appear in Mommy’s untouchable toy, and you light up in smiles when I yell my exaggerated “Hello!” your way. And your smiles, little one? Oh, they are my fuel. They are as important to me as air, or food.
Traveling and missing you is difficult, but, this is my job, and my job helps keep you in diapers, so travel I must. After the first show tonight, the doorman walked by me, paused, and offered this compliment: “I see too much comedy, but dude, you were funny.” When a jaded worker tells you you’re good, it’s high praise.
The dream in all of this is to someday be a known entity, someone people specifically want to see, not just a warm body gracing the stage during an arbitrary visit to the local comedy club. Hopefully, if and when that day comes, I’ll be able to choose fewer gigs, and be away from you less often.
Until that time, I will do my best to make people giggle, and wonder if you are noticing my absence while I am gone. Most likely you’re too fascinated by the dog’s food bowl to realize I’m not around, because those little kibbles are so very tempting, sitting there on the floor in front of you, waiting for you to pick them up and gobble them down…
…but I can always pretend you are thinking of me.
Either way, I am absolutely thinking of you.