Thank you all for the outpouring of support for my dad. He’s lying next to me, in his hospital bed, with an old-fashioned plaster cast on. The thumb was too fractured to do it the modern way, so they set it and put it in a cast. His shoulder is KILLING HIM (he actually asked.for.painkillers, something he doesn’t ever do) but they say that is the ribs, both front and back. His vertebrae should be fine after 8 weeks in a neck brace. A high school friend is a teacher in Houston, and she found out today that a kid in her class lost his father in a car accident yesterday — too many deaths, too many deaths, too many deaths, and my father is not dead, and I am so grateful for that.

So, I’m changing the subject.

Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about Mitch and April stories, so I’m going to tell two. One about Oscar, and one about Percy. Mitch and Carey were my first-ever, honest-to-goodness, beloved co-workers, at Clemons and Associates in Baltimore, Md. in 1996-1999. Mitch hiring me is how I got to Baltimore in the first place (THANK YOU, MITCH!). Mitch is married to April, and they are parents to Alex and Jake.

Carey and I, about 100 years ago, with Jake and Alex.

Carey and I loved to babysit for Mitch and April’s kids. We thought they were magical, wonderful, snuggly — we were actually the first non-parent to meet Jake, as we brought Alex to the hospital to meet him, a fact we were infinitely proud of.

Well, Jake loved Thomas the Tank Engine, and all of Thomas’ friends. Really loved them. And yet, he struggled to pronounce one, his favorite, Percy. He left the R off, pronouncing it something like .. well, it was actually exactly like, p.u.s.s.y (this isn’t that kind of blog, so I used periods). One night, a less than successful night in Carey’s and my history of babysitting, Alex and Jake both threw temper tantrums. This was very unusual, and we each grabbed one kid and tried to find a solution. Jake (or was it Alex, Carey?) was screaming: But I love PERCY! I LOVE PERCY! But, with the other pronunciation. It was … well, we were really struggling not to laugh, and also struggling to make Jake feel better.

The other story is slightly more tragic — Mitch had a HUGE fish tank. It was so big that he and April had to have additional basement support put in — it was that heavy. And in that tank was a lovely, huge fish named Oscar, who Alex adored. Every night, Alex would wish Oscar goodnight.

One day, after we had babysat, Carey asked Mitch: “Mitch, how long does a fish like Oscar live?” Mitch answered: He’s been alive 9 years, so … so far so good. Swear to god, something like the very next day, Oscar died. Since then, we’ve asked Carey to refrain from asking about the longevity of our pets.

Well, Alex was heartbroken over the loss of Oscar. She was about 3, or maybe 4, and Mitch and April were worried about how sad she was. They talked it over, they tried to wait it out, but a week or two went by and she was still really sad. So, they did the thing good parents do: They improvised.

Mitch went to his basement office, which had its own phone line, and used it to call Alex. Disguising his voice, he told her it was Oscar, calling from heaven. “I miss you,” he said, “but I’m happy here. It was my time. I will always love you!”

We thought he probably set Alex up for years (decades?) of therapy with that call, but I also thought it was a great sign of fatherly devotion, love and creativity. Thank you, Mitch and April, for letting two rank amateurs watch your children, and for letting me into your lives.