The Budget of Paradox

Dagmar,
It’s almost Christmas Eve. I hope you have a Joyous Christmas. You and I only spent one Christmas together. That was in 2009 and, obviously, you were too young to remember.

I’m not sure I have anything more to say. You know that I love you and miss you. You have a father who would love to sit down with you and listen to everything you have to say. I want to be there on Christmas morning, and all the other important mornings. You’re 16 now, but still a little too young maybe to know that the world isn’t supposed to be like this. I shouldn’t have to hire a lawyer and fight some other lawyer in front of some idiot judge just to spend a little bit of time with my own children. Things shouldn’t be like this.

I didn’t send you anything for Christmas because I’ve sent you lots of gifts in the past, and I have no idea if you ever received any of them.

I owe you so much. The world owes you. You’re an unwilling creditor. Let me get out of debt.

Thinking of you, always, but especially on days like this.

Dad

Sophia,

Lots of things remind me of you. But here’s an odd one. If you watch the news at all, you know there was a high-profile murder in New York City several days ago. Police caught the killer in a city called Altoona, Pennsylvania.

BION, we’ve been there — you and me. You were very young and I don’t expect you to remember.

You and your sister and mother and I all visited upstate New York a long time ago. We stayed at a lake house in the mountains. Do you remember that? Then we drove to Syracuse to meet friends of mine. Then we drove to Niagara Falls. We crossed into Canada. In fact, THIS is one of my favorite photos from the trip.

After Niagara Falls, we headed back to Lynchburg, stopping in Altoona for dinner. We ate an Olive Garden. It’s funny the things you remember.

Nearby, there was a Chuck E. Cheese. Your mother and I tried to occupy your sister’s attention when we were walking in the parking lot so she wouldn’t notice. If she had seen it, she probably would have nagged us to go there instead.

Anyway, that’s my Altoona story. It’s not much, but you and I had so little time together. These dumb little memories are all I have.

Your mother and I used to pick Olive Gardens when we traveled because 1) it’s kid-friendly and 2) we knew the menu and we knew there would be some food that you and your sister would recognize and enjoy.

Hey, there’s an Olive Garden in Abu Dhabi. Anytime you want to meet there for dinner, let me know. I’ll arrange it. I’ll listen to anything you have to say. There’s also one in Mexico City. It’s closer to you, just four hours away. I’ll be happy to meet you there, too.

Dad

Sophia,

I remember the summer before you were born. I remember the day you were born. I know who was in the delivery room. I even have video taken that day. Have you ever seen it? I remember when your sister met you for the first time.

Of course, I was happy to be a father again. You didn’t cry the first day. I remember holding you and wondering what kind of a life lay ahead for you. But I also had a lot on my mind. Three days later, I left for Iraq. I often asked myself, “Self, how could you walk away from your newborn child?”

The answer, unfortunately, is that your mother and I needed money. And going to Iraq was a great way to make money fast. I didn’t pick my departure date. In fact, if you had been born three days later, I would not have seen you at all until 2009. As odd as it sounds now, I was doing everything I could to keep the family going. I would have unhooked the stars for you.

Good timing is something you and I never had.

The first time I heard you cry was over a satellite phone when I was in Iraq on a base the Marines nicknamed “Dreamland”.

I was always coming or going. One of my saddest memories is meeting you in 2011 at the Lynchburg Airport after a long deployment, and you asked me, “Are you daddy?” That shit broke my heart. That shit cuts to the bone.

I regret that things turned out like this. I can blame lots of people — myself included. But things just unfolded as they did without a plan and without any idea how the future would look. I didn’t think the future would look like this, but here we are.

I love you and miss you. It’s your 16th birthday but I’m not there. I don’t blame you for being disappointed in me. Maybe someday you can at least understand that I didn’t want today to be like this. I should be there, celebrating with you. This should be a happy time for both of us.

Happy Birthday, SoBe
Dad

Maybe send me some photos? I don’t even know what you look like anymore.

I sent you some flowers and a box with a few things. Did you get them?

Sophia,

Greenways Academy. How is it? I’m sure there’s a big story behind the switch. I hope you give me the chance to understand it all some day. I’d love to know what your day looks like. I mean, is it just rolling out of bed and getting a tablet in your hands?

As you can imagine, I have a few opinions about this, but I doubt it matters to anyone. I’m very unhappy that Lynchburg schools were such a disappointment for both you and your sister. What’s really tragic is that your mother specifically mentioned the high-quality schools in Lynchburg during our divorce as justification why she had to live there. She refused to move anywhere more convenient for me or somewhere with better job opportunities for her. Nope, it had to be Lynchburg because the schools were the best in the nation. She really said that.

And here we are, ten years later, and both of my daughters have essentially dropped-out. Morey told me she barely graduated. She certainly didn’t earn it.

The whole thing makes me sad. And I’m sure your mother will never admit she was wrong. I think she’s incapable of admitting she was ever wrong about anything. She insisted that you and Morey were much better off being raised by a single mom in Lynchburg. I think ANYTHING is better than the situation we have now.

But, whatever. I mean, everything is broken and no one cares.

I hope Greenways Academy is the answer to your problems.

Sophia,
Yes, I know. I bitch and moan all the time about lawyers and judges. I’m sure you’re sick of reading about it. Yesterday, some of my thoughts came to a point. So I had to vent.

I was always a math weenie. Maybe your mother told you so at some point. Your father isn’t completely worthless. I really do like math. I like scribbling some fetish on the backs of napkins. Prime numbers. Integer factorization. Abundant numbers. Parlor tricks. Dumb stuff like that.

Right now, I’m writing some flight planning software. I ran into a situation I hadn’t ever considered before. How do you calculate where two circles intersect?

I’m sure you have had at least SOME geometry. Maybe even some trigonometry (side note: I learned trig in 8th grade; I’d love to teach you). Hopefully, you’ve had a class that had you drawing circles on graph paper given their center and radius. Circles are normally defined trigonometrically by sine and cosine.

Anyway, I wondered how I could find where two different circles intersected. And I was shocked to learn that the solution is entirely linear. That is, there is no trigonometry involved at all. No sines or cosines. No tangents. Just a straight-forward linear equation. I think this is fascinating. I know it’s not something most people ever think about, or get excited about. But I was truly surprised.

Number theory is full of surprises.

I’m going to guess that you were never very interested in math. Or inspired by it. But, for me, the purity of math is beautiful. It’s the poetry of logical ideas; the music of reason. In math, “obviously” is a dangerous word. If you ever get to study calculus, note that the Catholic Church banned the idea of the “infinitesimal” 400 years ago. And legend says that Pythagoras kept his discovery of irrational numbers a secret because he feared people would lose their faith in God if they knew the truth. People really do get serious about this.

And, if you learned nothing else today, you learned that the intersection of two circles can be computed without trigonometry.

Yours,
Mathgeek Dad