I should never have agreed to the playdate. I loathe playdates. And by conveniently dropping two boys onto the planet in such quick succession, I find playdates unnecessary as Pete and Repeat here adequately amuse and abuse each other. But Teddy is goofy, funny, and popular and little Matty wrote him a starring role in his new “show” and had been looking forward to script re-writes and set design for the whole week. Try as I might to pull one of my typical last minute cancels, even I couldn’t disappoint a little boy who writes “shows.”

But then on Friday afternoon, Teddy was headed somewhere else, when all I wanted (needed) to do was squeeze both of my boys and shuttle them safely into our house. On the day when all of us were holding back tears of sadness and rage and fear at bus stops and pick-up lines, feeling relief (and guilt?) over seeing our kids alive and well, and searching for any explanation that could satisfy children with devastating questions, my littlest one was at a fucking playdate.

Of course he was quite safe, and fed delicious food by a doting mom who texted me pictures of unharmed, happy boys (after the frantic messages, emails, and phone calls requesting proof of Teddy’s well-being). That night, like every other parent in the world, we did multiple checks on sleeping kids, feeling so lucky (guilty?) at the privilege of our safe haven in a shattered world.

Last night, it became clear that I would have to explain Newtown to my kids. Teddy reported on the formation of The Security News Team at recess yesterday. Apparently, one of the second graders, with limited access to televised sports on a school night, was able to switch to the news channel when his mom was around the corner, and so had some information to impart to the Team. The fact that these 8 year olds have the wherewithal to know not only that something dreadful has happened, but also that we’re trying to shield them from it, and that they’re looking for answers ON THE NEWS was all at once awful and adorable. Teddy said the Security News Team intended to do its own investigative reporting (apparently by sneaking access to TV and the internet on a school night) and then share intelligence at recess. They are as desperate to make sense of this as we are.

So began the discussion so many of you have had with your own children by now. Brodie hid tears, Teddy wanted to assess his own personal risk, and we all agreed that this is the most awful thing that has happened in our country since 9/11. They took a modicum of comfort in the idea that someone so mentally unwell would have no idea that what he was doing was real—that certainly no one could be evil enough to harm children. But Teddy was stuck on the unfairness of kids “who will never get to grow up and get to be anything.” It was a night that required more than a modicum of red wine.

The boys wanted me to linger in their room at bedtime, needing to hear more explanations, needing to feel safe. Brodie found a prayer book (left by Zealot Sister) and offered to read one aloud that he said was “exactly for today.” Somehow, my little 9 year old boy landed on a Rose Sunday, Advent prayer in honor of Mary. A mother… His Mother. And even with its biblical language asking for intersession and whatnot, I think they got the gist: these moms need prayers, and this is something we can do. Teddy would also like “…for guns to be illegal for everyone but police and people in wars.” But we’ll start with prayer, because it’s something we can do.

Every day begins as a really bad hair day. (Every day also begins as a really good hair day, as the key to good hair is having it.) But now that I’m in the Hairdo With No Name phase, morning bedhead is alarming enough to start Bernie’s day with a good chuckle. Last night, Brodie noticed that my hair finally resembles the pre-chemo cut, and he giggled while he ran his hands through it because Mommy With Crazy Hair is apparently hilarious. Teddy wants to know when my hair will be long again. Like, exactly-put-it-on-the-calendar when? All of these mane musings remind me that my boys (like me) haven’t entirely put this behind them, and that maybe they’re sensing (like me) the Big Bummer Anniversary.

But instead of waxing maudlin about life changing, terrifying Cancer stories, I’ll share a picture that elicited Bernie’s trademark, Scooby Doo sniggering last night:

What Bernie thinks of my current hairdo.

Yup. That’s familiar. And vain as I am, I’m finding it difficult to look chic when I cannot escape the trappings of a teenager in 1961. I should don swirly skirts, sweater sets, cat-eye glasses, and all the spunky cheer of a girl that says, “golly.” And in a few months I will be trying to match an outfit to this hairdo from 1977:

Many hours logged under a hot hairbrush for this look.

Over the next year, I’m bound to post many complaints as Britt’s Phylogeny of Hair pauses for a few weeks at every calamitous coiffe I ever sported. Who knew that after the year I’ve had, and the body parts I’ve lost, the thing I’d want most for Christmas is… a ponytail?

Because I’ve mentioned it a million times, you know that I am the Christmas Market co-chair at the Church of the Redeemer (insert link to mass schedules, Lessons and Carols, and other sneaky evangelism). My main job is to recruit local jewelers, clothiers, toy makers, chocolate bakers, fancy towel embroiderers, and the like to peddle their wares in our undercroft… and pocket 15% of their sales to distribute to wonderful causes. Many of the returning vendors were aware of my Big Crappy Year, and so when they arrived for the 2012 Market, did what any loving, caring salesperson would do: they gave me free stuff. I left with chocolate Santas, a preppy tie, heavily discounted cashmere, a gorgeous breast-cancer-pink pearl necklace, and… a hat.

You might think I’d welcome a new hat, having grown quite tired of mine, and enduring a series of unwelcome hairstyles for the foreseeable future. But you’d be wrong. I’ll never wear a hat again. I’m hoping for another mild winter so that the freezing bus stop will not require this woolen reminder of fear, ugliness, and death. But when my sweet, darling mohair purveyor urged me to choose between a beanie and a beret, I was flummoxed. I should have admitted then and there my aversion to this accessory, but I didn’t want to answer her sweet gesture with a lecture from an ingrate with more post-traumatic stress than hair. Instead, I chose politeness over cancer-y gift suggestions, and I ended up with this:

Does this hat make me look cancerous?

Try as I might to snap a grumpy picture of me at my Marge Simpson best, I cannot pretend for even one iPhoto second that this thing doesn’t make me laugh. And though I don’t recommend this as a freebie to any pink be-ribboned girl, it has provided more than a few giggles during Big Bummer Anniversary week when we’re all a bit fixated on last year. Also, this fuzzy blue abomination does a wonderful job of making my hair seem quite fabulous in comparison. And for his Scooby Doo sniggering last night as he uploaded this Parent Trap still to poke fun at my not-quite-Hamill-hair… payback will be a pic of Bernie in this beanie.

Another entry from Steve Safran, whose honesty and humor just make for good writing. As you’ll read below, there was a recent reunion of old college friends. One topic we discussed at some length was Divorce (affecting two of us). I maintain that (my) Cancer is easier. I got medicine, love, and support… and better. Divorce is a Death. And unfortunately, Stevie has no band of churchy ladies making him casseroles. But what he does have is Friends… and now, probably more than one short-skirted reader wanting to join his harem of gal pals.

THE FEMALE FRIEND HITCH, by Steve Safran

My female-to-male friend ratio has always been askew. Many hours have been devoted to this topic, as well as many jealous and defensive exchanges between me and the wife/girlfriend/dinner date who questioned my fondness for an evening of estrogen fueled conversations with the smart, funny gal pals in my life. I fail to see anything wrong with it– I desperately love my friends and don’t really care which naughty bits they happen to be wearing.

My appeal to the ladies began in high school, when I became that guy—the one that girls went to for advice. At first, this was an honor. Surely they are asking me for guidance for I, Steve, am the keeper of all knowledge about men! I am hairy chested and can drink a beer! I, dear girl, will tell you how to snare that guy who treats you so very… badly.

Once would have been a mere data point. Twice, a coincidence. But, as we say in news, three times is a trend. (Four is a special series and Five is a terrible, prime-time documentary.) By the time I had worked my way into Ken Burns-length territory, I started to suspect other motives were at play. Those girls thought I was… safe. Which as all men know, is the ultimate foil for any sort of back of the Honda action.

I’m a drama geek who loves Sondheim. I was in Gilbert & Sullivan. Never the romantic lead, I still embraced my comic relief roles with silly costume and goofy accent aplomb. But this was the ’80s, people. A weakness for the high school stage was code for “queer.” Now, I am pleased to see openly gay students with their own, acronymed clubs at my daughter’s high school. Suddenly, gay is…hip? But in Wayland, Mass., in 1984, it most surely was not. In fact, it was so not hip that I was fag-bashed despite my best efforts to be cool. A musical theater dork with no, real girlfriend? FAG! Close enough.

But this isn’t about any of that.

It’s been a bad two weeks in Depression Land, Population Me, though my friends have rallied like crazy. (Crazy being a terrible choice of words for a man with depression.) Britt, Debbie, Chris, Jason and Tony all came by for a “Let’s dress nicely and have cocktails party.” It was a fun night: all of us dressing up, eating fancy cheeses, re-hashing the past, and drunk dialing Britt’s ex-boyfriends. The guys are cool, but Deb and Britt are equally suited to the task of hanging out. And honestly, they look a little better in short skirts than Bruce Willis-channeling Tony, or Jason: everyone’s favorite Orthodox Jew. Lately, as I stew around in what Britt calls my Big Boo Hoo Disease, I welcome both perspectives.

Well-meaning email from female friend: “I am here for you forever and always. Please always remember that. You are so so so wonderful, caring and kind hearted.”

Well-meaning email from male friend: “Alright, you fucking lunatic, CUT THE CRAP.”

Really, they both say love.

I dated a woman recently who rightly asked “Well, isn’t the idea to marry your best friend?” Unfortunately, to me that smacks of saccharine idealism masking the real question, “Why do you need other women in your life besides your wife?” But I never saw it as a one-or-the-other. Women have given me excellent advice over the years made even more persuasive because it came from a chick. Your spouse is your spouse, but your (girl)friends are your consultants, uniquely qualified for all sorts of advice on what makes relationships work– or how you’re screwing them up.

But I’m not that much of an idiot. And I know that my platonic relationships hurt my ex-wife as she wondered what you’re probably wondering: Why not confide in her, instead? And how hot are these “platonic” girlfriends, anyway? I just happen to like getting the woman’s view of things. Guys: well, we’re idiots. We will never go much deeper than the bottle of whiskey. And though there is always time for that kind of bonding here in Depression Land, it’s my “girl” friends that are a bit more helpful in the “remind me how it’s possible I’m not as bad as The Big Boo Hoo Disease tells me I am.”

In The Post Divorce Reboot, I am going to be radically honest from the start. These are my Friends: male, female, cancerous, depressed, bald, short, talented, uncoordinated, drunk, funny, suited up, dressed down, and… Mine. They are who they are; and who they are is also a little part of me. A little bent, a little damaged. Friends.

Tony and Jason at Trinity, circa 1991. Though our friendships have endured… their awesome hair has not.