It's been awhile since I last posted a missive in this venue. I'd apologize, except that I'm not really sorry.
You see, the reason for my prolonged literary absence is, in fact, the same reason for this mediums existence. Namely, my son.
He is nearing the eighteen month milestone, and as he draws ever closer to this indelible midpoint of his toddling career, I find he demands (and deserves) ever increasing amounts of my attention.
Like Britney Spears, he feeds off attention. Unlike Britney Spears, he gets cuter as he gets older (oh snap!).
The changes in this remarkable being over the past few months have not been the staggering leaps and bounds of his first year. He grows, but is no longer exponentially multiplying his body weight every few months (thankfully!). He masters new skills regularly, but they are more subtle than learning to hold up his head, or walk.
Nevertheless, it is pure joy to see him prance and stomp around, happily and noisily exploring his world, and insisting that my wife and I expand his horizons (he tries to open the front door and make good his escape; some days I feel more like a warden than a father), and exhorting us furiously when we are inadequate at doing so.
His vocabulary has grown; he understands basic instructions, and is fairly good at responding to some of the nuances of voice and tone that my wife and I use habitually. He even mimics them back to us, earning riotous laughter in return.
He is energy squared; a powerful force to be reckoned with ("We will read this book now", he insists at various points in the day. He insists this by shoving the book in our face and yelling at us until we read it to him.). He is mass cubed; a solid lump of meat, muscle, and bone that bounces mercurially from overjoyed to melancholy, obnoxious to inquisitive, all in the space of a moment's time.
He's learned how to give kisses, though he's stingy about giving them out. When I do get one, it makes me feel like a million bucks.
Even now, I think about the man he will become someday. I think about the things he will do and accomplish. The goals he will set, the triumphs he will enjoy, the failures he will endure. I think about the people he will know and love, and the challenges he will face and overcome. I think about them, and they give me hope. Because I know my son will become a better man than I am.
But for now, I'm glad he's still my little boy.
Even if he is a booger sometimes.
Until next time.
--The Dad
June 15, 2009
February 22, 2009
No Flies On a Stone Gathering Moss
Time flies. Or does it? Does time move? Or do we move through time; do we pass through time's static embrace in our vaporous moment of life? These questions have been pondered since time immemorial by the great thinkers of old.
Have you ever noticed how none of those great thinkers had kids?
My son is nearing fourteen months. Fourteen months of respiration, pulmonation, and elimination. Fourteen months of squealing laughter and screeching cries, of poo in unfathomable quantities matched with equal amounts of joy. My son is a veritable fountain of both.
I have found that in ways, this stage of his life of both easier, and harder than his infant stage. Oh yes, that's right dear reader, we have officially entered...the Toddler Zone.
No longer content to amble drunkenly about like a baby wandering a heaving ship, my son has improved both his balance, and his coordination to the point where running is a feat easily accomplished.
Hold onto your hats (and keys, and purses, and wallets, cause he'll make off with them all).
(A brief tangent. It has come to my attention that in these missives I am in the habit of referring to the offspring of my wife and myself as "my son". I wish to assure all eight of my readers that I am not in any way attempting to exclude my beloved wife from her proper parental place in our son's life. However, she is in the writer's seat, and has little to no direct input into what I write, so I would feel awkward referring to my son as "our son" in this space. But please rest assured, my beloved is every bit my equal, in both her eyes and mine, and I trust does not take umbrage at my style of prose in these writings.)
Now, as any parent with a child who has entered or passed through the Toddler Zone will tell you, this region of childhood is fraught with perils no rational person would think to preempt.
For example, licking shoes. I don't know about anyone else out there, but as a rational, logical, thinking man of twenty-five years, I would never think to expect the progeny of my loins to take an affinity to licking shoes. Licking shoes. Any other parents with me on that one?
How does one go from slurping down milk like a starving kitten, to licking the bottoms of mom and grandmas sneakers? I mean c'mon! Who would expect that?
Well, lesson learned; shoes taste interesting. So interesting, in fact, that the lil' bugger attacks the blasted things with the gusto of a half-starved mongoose munching a rattler.
We've learned to keep our shoes out of reach.
What I'd like to know is where the 'great thinkers' of yore were on the whole eating shoes question! I've read Plato, and I don't once recall him pondering the meaning of munching his sandals.
Hyperbole aside, it is entertaining to try and discern what my son is thinking at any given time. His emotions play across his face like a kaleidoscope of human experience. He has yet to develop anything close to a filter, so his thoughts and instincts lay naked on his face, bare for all to see.
Sometimes they play so fast that you could blink and miss them. But always, there's the sense that there's far more to this little man than meets the eye.
I think those philosophers missed out. I mean, I wouldn't trade my son for all the secrets of the universe. Granted, I won't make the history books...but who wants a boring old legacy in print, when you can have one in flesh and blood?
Take that Plato.
Until next time.
--The Dad
Have you ever noticed how none of those great thinkers had kids?
My son is nearing fourteen months. Fourteen months of respiration, pulmonation, and elimination. Fourteen months of squealing laughter and screeching cries, of poo in unfathomable quantities matched with equal amounts of joy. My son is a veritable fountain of both.
I have found that in ways, this stage of his life of both easier, and harder than his infant stage. Oh yes, that's right dear reader, we have officially entered...the Toddler Zone.
No longer content to amble drunkenly about like a baby wandering a heaving ship, my son has improved both his balance, and his coordination to the point where running is a feat easily accomplished.
Hold onto your hats (and keys, and purses, and wallets, cause he'll make off with them all).
(A brief tangent. It has come to my attention that in these missives I am in the habit of referring to the offspring of my wife and myself as "my son". I wish to assure all eight of my readers that I am not in any way attempting to exclude my beloved wife from her proper parental place in our son's life. However, she is in the writer's seat, and has little to no direct input into what I write, so I would feel awkward referring to my son as "our son" in this space. But please rest assured, my beloved is every bit my equal, in both her eyes and mine, and I trust does not take umbrage at my style of prose in these writings.)
Now, as any parent with a child who has entered or passed through the Toddler Zone will tell you, this region of childhood is fraught with perils no rational person would think to preempt.
For example, licking shoes. I don't know about anyone else out there, but as a rational, logical, thinking man of twenty-five years, I would never think to expect the progeny of my loins to take an affinity to licking shoes. Licking shoes. Any other parents with me on that one?
How does one go from slurping down milk like a starving kitten, to licking the bottoms of mom and grandmas sneakers? I mean c'mon! Who would expect that?
Well, lesson learned; shoes taste interesting. So interesting, in fact, that the lil' bugger attacks the blasted things with the gusto of a half-starved mongoose munching a rattler.
We've learned to keep our shoes out of reach.
What I'd like to know is where the 'great thinkers' of yore were on the whole eating shoes question! I've read Plato, and I don't once recall him pondering the meaning of munching his sandals.
Hyperbole aside, it is entertaining to try and discern what my son is thinking at any given time. His emotions play across his face like a kaleidoscope of human experience. He has yet to develop anything close to a filter, so his thoughts and instincts lay naked on his face, bare for all to see.
Sometimes they play so fast that you could blink and miss them. But always, there's the sense that there's far more to this little man than meets the eye.
I think those philosophers missed out. I mean, I wouldn't trade my son for all the secrets of the universe. Granted, I won't make the history books...but who wants a boring old legacy in print, when you can have one in flesh and blood?
Take that Plato.
Until next time.
--The Dad
January 27, 2009
These Boots Were Made For Walkin
My son has reached the stage where on nearly a daily basis, he achieves a new milestone of neo-human development. He's growing so fast that just looking at him gives me whiplash. His bright spark of life and youth is like a bolt of electricity through our house; he moves and learns at lightspeed.
He inspires me.
I find that as he grows and develops, as his process of discovering himself and his surroundings accelerates and fluctuates, like sound waves reflecting off glass, I feel more youthful myself. Almost as if his sense of wonder and discovery has reawakened my own.
Just recently, my wife and I took him to the local flight museum (one of the largest in the world). At a year old, he certainly doesn't yet appreciate the grandeur and drama of human flight; that we who are bound to the earth by birth and design, are capable of engineering marvels which allow us to soar, free and boundless in the vastness of air and space.
Yeah, I think that's just a little bit beyond him right now.
Nevertheless, as we toured the vast space filled with devices that gave man the power of flight, from the Wright brothers' powered glider, to the majestic Saturn V rocket, which boosted man to what some might say is the pinnacle of human flight to date, I saw his eyes alight with mischievous joy. Almost as if he was thinking, "Yeah, this stuff is cool and all, but wait till you see what I do."
Ok, maybe that's wishful thinking. But he did like sitting in my lap as we played with a model airplane. So there.
Still, I see in him dreams in human form. At this moment, he is a bundle of potential and energy. Potential to do things beyond even my wildest dreams, and the energy to learn what it takes to do those things.
It is my job, and I take it quite seriously, to provide him with the tools and guidance to know how to direct that energy, so that he can fulfill his potential in every way he desires. If I do my job right, then whether he's an ace fighter pilot or a hard-working laborer, a doctor or a teacher, he'll know in his heart that he's everything he ever wanted to be.
And that's all I want for him.
Well, that, and for him to be the first mayor of the first human city on Mars.
What? I want to retire to someplace exotic, and Florida's just too humid.
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
He inspires me.
I find that as he grows and develops, as his process of discovering himself and his surroundings accelerates and fluctuates, like sound waves reflecting off glass, I feel more youthful myself. Almost as if his sense of wonder and discovery has reawakened my own.
Just recently, my wife and I took him to the local flight museum (one of the largest in the world). At a year old, he certainly doesn't yet appreciate the grandeur and drama of human flight; that we who are bound to the earth by birth and design, are capable of engineering marvels which allow us to soar, free and boundless in the vastness of air and space.
Yeah, I think that's just a little bit beyond him right now.
Nevertheless, as we toured the vast space filled with devices that gave man the power of flight, from the Wright brothers' powered glider, to the majestic Saturn V rocket, which boosted man to what some might say is the pinnacle of human flight to date, I saw his eyes alight with mischievous joy. Almost as if he was thinking, "Yeah, this stuff is cool and all, but wait till you see what I do."
Ok, maybe that's wishful thinking. But he did like sitting in my lap as we played with a model airplane. So there.
Still, I see in him dreams in human form. At this moment, he is a bundle of potential and energy. Potential to do things beyond even my wildest dreams, and the energy to learn what it takes to do those things.
It is my job, and I take it quite seriously, to provide him with the tools and guidance to know how to direct that energy, so that he can fulfill his potential in every way he desires. If I do my job right, then whether he's an ace fighter pilot or a hard-working laborer, a doctor or a teacher, he'll know in his heart that he's everything he ever wanted to be.
And that's all I want for him.
Well, that, and for him to be the first mayor of the first human city on Mars.
What? I want to retire to someplace exotic, and Florida's just too humid.
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
January 4, 2009
One
A year ago, my son was born. It's amazing. In that year, he's gone from a vaguely humanoid lump that gurgled, cried, and occasionally cooed, to a walking, talking, self-feeding dynamo, with personality and preferences to boot.
Granted, his balance still has a way to develop (he's still waddling through the "drunken-baby" phase), his talking consists of sounds that probably don't count as words in any language but his own, and as for self-feeding...well, let's just say my son is like a weatherman: we're thrilled if he gets it right 30% of the time.
I think what's most surprising to me is not so much the changes that he (and my wife and I) have gone through; after all, change is to be expected. I think what's surprised me the most are the things that haven't changed.
He fascinated me on day one (he was a big baby, but still so very tiny when held in my arms) and he fascinates me today (his propensity for mischief rivals my own).
He amazed me on day one (look at how clearly he focuses when looking at me!) and he amazes me today (he can do what by himself now!?).
He made me laugh on day one (look at that funny face he's making) and he makes me laugh today (did he just say what I think he said? Hilarious!).
And above all, I loved him on day one (I can't believe it, I'm a father), and I love him now (I can't believe this precious boy is my son).
So what's in store for the coming year? What's next for the little whirling dervish to discover, conquer, and grow bored of? Building with blocks? Speaking actual words? Saying no? Probably all that and more.
So, I once again renew my invitation to you dear reader, as we close the book on year one of my son's life, and simultaneously open year two.
You better believe I'm holding on for dear life.
Until next time.
--The Dad
Granted, his balance still has a way to develop (he's still waddling through the "drunken-baby" phase), his talking consists of sounds that probably don't count as words in any language but his own, and as for self-feeding...well, let's just say my son is like a weatherman: we're thrilled if he gets it right 30% of the time.
I think what's most surprising to me is not so much the changes that he (and my wife and I) have gone through; after all, change is to be expected. I think what's surprised me the most are the things that haven't changed.
He fascinated me on day one (he was a big baby, but still so very tiny when held in my arms) and he fascinates me today (his propensity for mischief rivals my own).
He amazed me on day one (look at how clearly he focuses when looking at me!) and he amazes me today (he can do what by himself now!?).
He made me laugh on day one (look at that funny face he's making) and he makes me laugh today (did he just say what I think he said? Hilarious!).
And above all, I loved him on day one (I can't believe it, I'm a father), and I love him now (I can't believe this precious boy is my son).
So what's in store for the coming year? What's next for the little whirling dervish to discover, conquer, and grow bored of? Building with blocks? Speaking actual words? Saying no? Probably all that and more.
So, I once again renew my invitation to you dear reader, as we close the book on year one of my son's life, and simultaneously open year two.
You better believe I'm holding on for dear life.
Until next time.
--The Dad
December 8, 2008
Infinity
It's big. Really big. Like, uncountable. Boundless. Infinity isn't a concept the human mind is designed to grasp. But, since it's the title of this entry, and all good writers should stick to the theme their title introduces, let me try to define it.
Infinity is the number of times I could watch my little boy toddle up to me in his drunken-babyish way and flash his winning grin.
Infinity is the number of times I could pick him up when he face plants on the floor.
Infinity is the number of times I could tell him "No, tables aren't for climbing on," only to have him cheerfully ignore me and climb it again.
Infinity is the number of hours I could snuggle with him, if he'd let me.
Infinity is the amount of joy he brings to our house, our family, our world, and our lives.
Infinity is about half as much as I love him.
I think that's the intangible thing about being a parent that I never really expected to discover; indeed, it's something I still sometimes fail to grasp, as I watch my little boy grow so rapidly. Those little moments, the ones that you wish could last forever...can.
Oh sure, children grow, and eventually leave us to start lives of their own, which is good and natural. But now I get how say, my mom, can tell me about the most random moments of my own boyhood, and speak as though they happened just yesterday.
It isn't a memory for her, I think. It's a touch of infinity. A little moment of time that stretches on forever, that stays with her, though the moments surrounding it are long gone and forgotten.
I never thought I'd get to experience that. I don't think I even believed it was possible, until it started happening to me.
So I guess, ultimately, infinity is a moment cherished. A moment treasured. A moment loved.
Of course, I can't teach that to my son. Since I'm sure I don't fully understand it myself. So what will I tell him when he asks me what infinity is?
It's the largest value that can be represented in a particular type of variable (register, memory location, data type, etc).
...
What? I'm an unabashed geek. Of course I am going to tell him what it means from a computer's point of view.
The rest? As with many other things, he'll have to discover that for himself. My job is to give him the tools.
That...and keep him from climbing on the table. Trees are for climbing; tables (and all other surfaces) are for Legos.
...
What?
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
Infinity is the number of times I could watch my little boy toddle up to me in his drunken-babyish way and flash his winning grin.
Infinity is the number of times I could pick him up when he face plants on the floor.
Infinity is the number of times I could tell him "No, tables aren't for climbing on," only to have him cheerfully ignore me and climb it again.
Infinity is the number of hours I could snuggle with him, if he'd let me.
Infinity is the amount of joy he brings to our house, our family, our world, and our lives.
Infinity is about half as much as I love him.
I think that's the intangible thing about being a parent that I never really expected to discover; indeed, it's something I still sometimes fail to grasp, as I watch my little boy grow so rapidly. Those little moments, the ones that you wish could last forever...can.
Oh sure, children grow, and eventually leave us to start lives of their own, which is good and natural. But now I get how say, my mom, can tell me about the most random moments of my own boyhood, and speak as though they happened just yesterday.
It isn't a memory for her, I think. It's a touch of infinity. A little moment of time that stretches on forever, that stays with her, though the moments surrounding it are long gone and forgotten.
I never thought I'd get to experience that. I don't think I even believed it was possible, until it started happening to me.
So I guess, ultimately, infinity is a moment cherished. A moment treasured. A moment loved.
Of course, I can't teach that to my son. Since I'm sure I don't fully understand it myself. So what will I tell him when he asks me what infinity is?
It's the largest value that can be represented in a particular type of variable (register, memory location, data type, etc).
...
What? I'm an unabashed geek. Of course I am going to tell him what it means from a computer's point of view.
The rest? As with many other things, he'll have to discover that for himself. My job is to give him the tools.
That...and keep him from climbing on the table. Trees are for climbing; tables (and all other surfaces) are for Legos.
...
What?
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
December 1, 2008
Firsts
My sincerest apologies to all three-and-a-half of my readers. It's been a few weeks, and I know you've just been aching to read something new, right?
Right?
Um...right.
Anyway, the reason for my multi-week absence from the intertubes is that my son has been keeping us busy with firsts.
He's started to walk; first steps, three weeks ago.
He's started to climb (e.g. the couch, chairs, over gates); first time, three days ago.
And, he's started to develop a personality (ala Pinocchio...look Dad, I'm a real boy!); first snotty response(in the form of a withering glare aimed at yours truly), less than three hours ago.
Where to begin?
Walking. Wow. I mean, at ten months and some change, he started the horizontal shuffle. Perambulating. Meandering even, in his drunken-babyish way.
He's really turning into a little boy. Is it weird to wax nostalgic for his infant phase, a seemingly short 8 months ago? Back then, he was just a lump. Well, a very happy, squealin, giggly, smilin, personable lump, but the only movement he managed was contained. He was, for all intents and purposes, immobile, at least, on a horizontal plane.
And now? Now, there's no stopping him. He's become the proverbial unstoppable force. Which means someday soon, I'll have to be his immovable object. Oh joy (cue tantrum in five, four, three....).
Still, I will say his new mobility certainly makes him a more interesting creature. I mean, he can interact with his environment in ways that he could never before dream of, and that's somethin to be proud of. Plus, he's freakin hilarious when he takes a tumble. And he's so good natured about it too; whenever he goes down, he looks up at us with his mischievous little grin, and stands right back up to give it another go.
Talk about a heart melter.
Climbing on the other hand...while still cute, presents a whole host of new problems. Now, mom and dad are having to think spatially in new and exciting (read: exhausting) ways. No more taking our eyes off him for a split second; the moment we do, something, somewhere is going to come crashing down on something else, and while I don't know what those somethings will be, I can tell you this for certain. They. Will. Be. Expensive.
Aren't they always?
Yet, I can hardly complain that he's begun to conquer this new milestone (and at eleven months, no less). After all, it's just one more step into the wider world that he inexorably will have to take, and I wouldn't dream of hindering him from taking it. Even if it means he breaks something (hopefully just not himself).
Which brings us at last to the personality. The kid is a ham. Hell, he's so funny he's a ham sandwich and I don't even know what that means (except that I don't eat them; not kosher, dontchaknow).
But seriously, he's a crackup and he knows it. He's inherited my showman's instinct, and plays it up every chance he gets. He flirts with all the ladies (who all adore him, of course) and sizes up all the guys as if to say "Yeah...you're big, but I could take ya."
Of course, he can be a real brat about it too. That's the trade-off of your kid knowing s/he is cute. They know it, they use it, and if you let them, they'll abuse it. As some of our friends are fond of saying "Cute don't pay the bills" (unless you're a child actor).
Honestly though, I don't mind him bein' a bit of a brat. It's no less than I deserve, given how much of a chore I was for my poor mother. I guess it's just a bit of schadenfreude, and I hardly have right to complain.
Not to mention the fact that his snottiness is farking hysterical.
So, please forgive the delay in posts, but as you can hopefully tell, I've been exceptionally busy, playing, dancing, singing, and generally goofing off with the best little man a father could ever ask for. He makes me laugh, someday he'll make me cry, and darned if I just can't wait to take it all in.
Until next we meet, dear reader.
--The Dad
Right?
Um...right.
Anyway, the reason for my multi-week absence from the intertubes is that my son has been keeping us busy with firsts.
He's started to walk; first steps, three weeks ago.
He's started to climb (e.g. the couch, chairs, over gates); first time, three days ago.
And, he's started to develop a personality (ala Pinocchio...look Dad, I'm a real boy!); first snotty response(in the form of a withering glare aimed at yours truly), less than three hours ago.
Where to begin?
Walking. Wow. I mean, at ten months and some change, he started the horizontal shuffle. Perambulating. Meandering even, in his drunken-babyish way.
He's really turning into a little boy. Is it weird to wax nostalgic for his infant phase, a seemingly short 8 months ago? Back then, he was just a lump. Well, a very happy, squealin, giggly, smilin, personable lump, but the only movement he managed was contained. He was, for all intents and purposes, immobile, at least, on a horizontal plane.
And now? Now, there's no stopping him. He's become the proverbial unstoppable force. Which means someday soon, I'll have to be his immovable object. Oh joy (cue tantrum in five, four, three....).
Still, I will say his new mobility certainly makes him a more interesting creature. I mean, he can interact with his environment in ways that he could never before dream of, and that's somethin to be proud of. Plus, he's freakin hilarious when he takes a tumble. And he's so good natured about it too; whenever he goes down, he looks up at us with his mischievous little grin, and stands right back up to give it another go.
Talk about a heart melter.
Climbing on the other hand...while still cute, presents a whole host of new problems. Now, mom and dad are having to think spatially in new and exciting (read: exhausting) ways. No more taking our eyes off him for a split second; the moment we do, something, somewhere is going to come crashing down on something else, and while I don't know what those somethings will be, I can tell you this for certain. They. Will. Be. Expensive.
Aren't they always?
Yet, I can hardly complain that he's begun to conquer this new milestone (and at eleven months, no less). After all, it's just one more step into the wider world that he inexorably will have to take, and I wouldn't dream of hindering him from taking it. Even if it means he breaks something (hopefully just not himself).
Which brings us at last to the personality. The kid is a ham. Hell, he's so funny he's a ham sandwich and I don't even know what that means (except that I don't eat them; not kosher, dontchaknow).
But seriously, he's a crackup and he knows it. He's inherited my showman's instinct, and plays it up every chance he gets. He flirts with all the ladies (who all adore him, of course) and sizes up all the guys as if to say "Yeah...you're big, but I could take ya."
Of course, he can be a real brat about it too. That's the trade-off of your kid knowing s/he is cute. They know it, they use it, and if you let them, they'll abuse it. As some of our friends are fond of saying "Cute don't pay the bills" (unless you're a child actor).
Honestly though, I don't mind him bein' a bit of a brat. It's no less than I deserve, given how much of a chore I was for my poor mother. I guess it's just a bit of schadenfreude, and I hardly have right to complain.
Not to mention the fact that his snottiness is farking hysterical.
So, please forgive the delay in posts, but as you can hopefully tell, I've been exceptionally busy, playing, dancing, singing, and generally goofing off with the best little man a father could ever ask for. He makes me laugh, someday he'll make me cry, and darned if I just can't wait to take it all in.
Until next we meet, dear reader.
--The Dad
November 10, 2008
Love Hurts
This morning at 3 am, my son woke up screaming.
There aren't too many things that can shatter a parent's peaceful slumber more quickly than the banshee wail of their beloved child(ren). It cuts the soul like the executioner's axe, and sears the mind like a cauldron of acid.
It's not fun.
Naturally, I was up and out of bed in a moment (my dear wife has been ill the past few days, so this time around, I was quicker on the draw), and picked him up, uttering soothing sounds and trying to calm him. All to no avail.
He cried, and cried, and cried, and cried. With each wail, my heart fractured just a little more, as I tried in vain to comfort him. He was clearly in pain, but why?
My first instinct was to change his diaper. He's had a fungal infection in his diaper region for the past few weeks, and while we've been treating it vigorously with the prescribed medication, we haven't really seen any noticeable improvement in his rash.
I took him out to the living room so I could turn on the light and not disturb my wife, and changed his little bum. Yet even with a clean diaper, he still writhed and shrieked in agony.
By this point, my nerves were raw and frayed, and I could scarcely bear to hear my precious little boy cry for another moment, so I retreated back to the bedroom, where my wife was now awake and alert, and looked at me inquiringly, as I handed our boy to her.
Still, he cried and wailed, arching his back as though our arms burned like fire.
And then, suddenly, he'd stop. And just as suddenly, start again. We tried everything our addled and befuddled brains could muster to calm the child. We rocked him, we snuggled him, we hummed to him, we gave him a bottle, gave him a pacifier (which he's normally not a huge fan of), and all in vain.
Oh sure, he'd get close to falling back asleep; it almost seemed as though he was toying with us, teasing us with the prospect of at least some rest, only to snatch away the prospect at the last moment.
Needless to say, it was a long night.
Finally, at a few minutes past six this morning, I cradled him on my chest and stroked his hair and back, and he at long last fell asleep.
I lay awake for a few minutes, listening to my little boy's breathing, finally having been able to comfort him, and felt a small smile of triumph tug at my mouth, even as exhaustion overcame me and I fell back into my slumber.
My sleep was short, but it was sweet.
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
There aren't too many things that can shatter a parent's peaceful slumber more quickly than the banshee wail of their beloved child(ren). It cuts the soul like the executioner's axe, and sears the mind like a cauldron of acid.
It's not fun.
Naturally, I was up and out of bed in a moment (my dear wife has been ill the past few days, so this time around, I was quicker on the draw), and picked him up, uttering soothing sounds and trying to calm him. All to no avail.
He cried, and cried, and cried, and cried. With each wail, my heart fractured just a little more, as I tried in vain to comfort him. He was clearly in pain, but why?
My first instinct was to change his diaper. He's had a fungal infection in his diaper region for the past few weeks, and while we've been treating it vigorously with the prescribed medication, we haven't really seen any noticeable improvement in his rash.
I took him out to the living room so I could turn on the light and not disturb my wife, and changed his little bum. Yet even with a clean diaper, he still writhed and shrieked in agony.
By this point, my nerves were raw and frayed, and I could scarcely bear to hear my precious little boy cry for another moment, so I retreated back to the bedroom, where my wife was now awake and alert, and looked at me inquiringly, as I handed our boy to her.
Still, he cried and wailed, arching his back as though our arms burned like fire.
And then, suddenly, he'd stop. And just as suddenly, start again. We tried everything our addled and befuddled brains could muster to calm the child. We rocked him, we snuggled him, we hummed to him, we gave him a bottle, gave him a pacifier (which he's normally not a huge fan of), and all in vain.
Oh sure, he'd get close to falling back asleep; it almost seemed as though he was toying with us, teasing us with the prospect of at least some rest, only to snatch away the prospect at the last moment.
Needless to say, it was a long night.
Finally, at a few minutes past six this morning, I cradled him on my chest and stroked his hair and back, and he at long last fell asleep.
I lay awake for a few minutes, listening to my little boy's breathing, finally having been able to comfort him, and felt a small smile of triumph tug at my mouth, even as exhaustion overcame me and I fell back into my slumber.
My sleep was short, but it was sweet.
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
November 1, 2008
Bonk!
I've discovered kids are clumsy. I know, I know, big shocker right? I'm sure I'm one of the first parents to realize that kids are uncoordinated, unbalanced, and tip over easily. No? What do you mean everyone else already knew that? Did I miss that class?
Well, in any case, the little man is on the verge of walking. He can stand unassisted for ever lengthening periods of time. However, he has yet to fully grasp the effects of gravity. So, when his chubby little legs can no longer support his weight, rather than sit gracefully down, he plops over, typically striking the hardest object nearest him with his head.
Naturally, screaming ensues.
Still, he is nothing if not persistent, and as soon as the dry heaves and tears have stopped, he squirms out of our arms and attempts to stand again. Lather, rinse, repeat.
I suppose there are worse ways he could learn about the physical laws of the universe. He could be busily pulling things down on top of himself, thereby proving Newton correct. He could be trying to touch hot things, showcasing the laws of thermodynamics. But, fortunately, he has yet to cause himself any harm more serious than a slight bruise and a minor bloodied mouth.
I am not naive enough to think that this will last forever.
No, I'm sure that at some point in his life, whether he's ten months, or ten years, he will eventually come to some harm. He'll break a bone, get a black eye, cut himself terribly, or get very ill. Statistically, it's a near certainty. And I know that I may very well be powerless to prevent it.
I dread that day. Seriously, it keeps me up some nights, and I'm very much a non-worrier (in general).
Still, I recognize that this too is one of those life lessons that I get to learn along with my boy. He will learn that certain things hurt, and I will learn that I can't protect him from everything. If we're fortunate, we'll learn these things gently, and gradually, rather than all at once.
In the meantime, we just try to make sure there isn't anything inherently dangerous that he has access to, and that we're close by in case he takes a tumble.
And of course, we're always ready with kisses and snuggles when he does fall down. I may not always be able to protect him, but I can be damn sure I'll be there to pick him up and set him on his feet again. Whether he's ten months old, or fifty years.
Cause he's my boy.
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
Well, in any case, the little man is on the verge of walking. He can stand unassisted for ever lengthening periods of time. However, he has yet to fully grasp the effects of gravity. So, when his chubby little legs can no longer support his weight, rather than sit gracefully down, he plops over, typically striking the hardest object nearest him with his head.
Naturally, screaming ensues.
Still, he is nothing if not persistent, and as soon as the dry heaves and tears have stopped, he squirms out of our arms and attempts to stand again. Lather, rinse, repeat.
I suppose there are worse ways he could learn about the physical laws of the universe. He could be busily pulling things down on top of himself, thereby proving Newton correct. He could be trying to touch hot things, showcasing the laws of thermodynamics. But, fortunately, he has yet to cause himself any harm more serious than a slight bruise and a minor bloodied mouth.
I am not naive enough to think that this will last forever.
No, I'm sure that at some point in his life, whether he's ten months, or ten years, he will eventually come to some harm. He'll break a bone, get a black eye, cut himself terribly, or get very ill. Statistically, it's a near certainty. And I know that I may very well be powerless to prevent it.
I dread that day. Seriously, it keeps me up some nights, and I'm very much a non-worrier (in general).
Still, I recognize that this too is one of those life lessons that I get to learn along with my boy. He will learn that certain things hurt, and I will learn that I can't protect him from everything. If we're fortunate, we'll learn these things gently, and gradually, rather than all at once.
In the meantime, we just try to make sure there isn't anything inherently dangerous that he has access to, and that we're close by in case he takes a tumble.
And of course, we're always ready with kisses and snuggles when he does fall down. I may not always be able to protect him, but I can be damn sure I'll be there to pick him up and set him on his feet again. Whether he's ten months old, or fifty years.
Cause he's my boy.
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
October 27, 2008
Grunchy
Grumpy. Grouchy. Grunchy. Add it to your lexicon friends, cause this post is all about the grumps.
So, my son has been sleeping through the night, 10-12hrs, in his crib, by himself. He's able to put himself to sleep, and his bedtime is pretty reasonable. For the most part, he seems happy.
But...(c'mon, look at the title of this post. You had to know there was a but coming)...he's refining his ability to grump to a razor sharp edge.
It used to be he'd whine a little here and there, or lightly cry for a few minutes. Only on the rarest of occasions did he scream like an irate rhesus monkey.
Then all of the sudden (literally, it seemed an overnight transformation) he discovered LUNG POWER. The neighbors probably think we're child abusers.
But we aren't. I swear it. We cater to this little dude's every whim and need. We are teaching him boundaries, to be sure, but in gentle and loving ways befitting a child of ten months.
Our reward? Rampant caterwauling that would make an Inquisitor think he'd gone too far.
Now, I am mostly inured to my son's tantrums. His cries and wails don't faze me much (I long ago learned to differentiate between his "I really need some help here" cries and his "I'm SO mad at you right now I could am going to SCREAM" cries). I keep a pretty steady hand, voice, and demeanor with him when he's trying to deafen me with his 150 decibel banshee wail.
My wife is...slightly less immune to his screeches, but she too is learning to take his cries in stride and not freak out when he starts a tantrum (and I don't blame her for taking longer; her mommy instinct is strong).
My mother, on the other hand, is a complete and utter pushover when it comes to his cries. She tells us when she babysits that if he starts crying, she'll give in. We can't ask her to put him to bed in his crib, she says, because she can't bear to listen to him cry.
Right.
We're speaking of a woman who raised me, babysits (and has babysat) hundreds of children, has been a full-time nanny, and who currently is a children's dental assistant. Yep, a children's dental assistant. You know the dentist, that place where most children and adults alike dread going? Where the cries of children in pain and terror rival their first meeting with the party clown?
Yeah, but she can't handle my son's crying. Oi vay.
Still, I haven't the heart to be cross with her. She's great with my son, and is really a better mom than I could ask for.
...I feel like I've gotten off topic. Where was I?
Oh, right, grunchy.
I guess to sum it all up; I know it's just a phase, and gradually my son will outgrow the grunchy-ness. Eventually, the happy, joyful little boy he really is will be the defining memory of this stage of his development, and I'll forget most of the times he screamed me deaf.
But those days are definitely in the (hopefully not-too-distant) future.
For now, we joyfully endure. The screeches, the screams, the cries, the wails, the caterwauls, the shouts, and the yells, they are merely background noise to the laughter, the smiles, the giggles, the hoots, the babbles, and the squeals of delight.
He's like noise personified, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
After all, he's my little boy.
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
So, my son has been sleeping through the night, 10-12hrs, in his crib, by himself. He's able to put himself to sleep, and his bedtime is pretty reasonable. For the most part, he seems happy.
But...(c'mon, look at the title of this post. You had to know there was a but coming)...he's refining his ability to grump to a razor sharp edge.
It used to be he'd whine a little here and there, or lightly cry for a few minutes. Only on the rarest of occasions did he scream like an irate rhesus monkey.
Then all of the sudden (literally, it seemed an overnight transformation) he discovered LUNG POWER. The neighbors probably think we're child abusers.
But we aren't. I swear it. We cater to this little dude's every whim and need. We are teaching him boundaries, to be sure, but in gentle and loving ways befitting a child of ten months.
Our reward? Rampant caterwauling that would make an Inquisitor think he'd gone too far.
Now, I am mostly inured to my son's tantrums. His cries and wails don't faze me much (I long ago learned to differentiate between his "I really need some help here" cries and his "I'm SO mad at you right now I could am going to SCREAM" cries). I keep a pretty steady hand, voice, and demeanor with him when he's trying to deafen me with his 150 decibel banshee wail.
My wife is...slightly less immune to his screeches, but she too is learning to take his cries in stride and not freak out when he starts a tantrum (and I don't blame her for taking longer; her mommy instinct is strong).
My mother, on the other hand, is a complete and utter pushover when it comes to his cries. She tells us when she babysits that if he starts crying, she'll give in. We can't ask her to put him to bed in his crib, she says, because she can't bear to listen to him cry.
Right.
We're speaking of a woman who raised me, babysits (and has babysat) hundreds of children, has been a full-time nanny, and who currently is a children's dental assistant. Yep, a children's dental assistant. You know the dentist, that place where most children and adults alike dread going? Where the cries of children in pain and terror rival their first meeting with the party clown?
Yeah, but she can't handle my son's crying. Oi vay.
Still, I haven't the heart to be cross with her. She's great with my son, and is really a better mom than I could ask for.
...I feel like I've gotten off topic. Where was I?
Oh, right, grunchy.
I guess to sum it all up; I know it's just a phase, and gradually my son will outgrow the grunchy-ness. Eventually, the happy, joyful little boy he really is will be the defining memory of this stage of his development, and I'll forget most of the times he screamed me deaf.
But those days are definitely in the (hopefully not-too-distant) future.
For now, we joyfully endure. The screeches, the screams, the cries, the wails, the caterwauls, the shouts, and the yells, they are merely background noise to the laughter, the smiles, the giggles, the hoots, the babbles, and the squeals of delight.
He's like noise personified, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
After all, he's my little boy.
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
October 18, 2008
Baby Talk
When I was single, I attended the occasional party. Once, perhaps twice per month, I would gather with friends, acquaintances, and random strangers, and through the magical medium of alcohol and too-loud-music, converse about a wide variety of subjects. Everything, from philosophy, to politics, to dating, to technology. No single subject dominated my conversational repertoire.
Then, I got married.
I still would attend the occasional party, only now accompanied by my beautiful wife. And at these social gatherings, the previous subjects would still dominate the conversation, yet somehow the talk would always turn to marriage, and how we liked it (for the record, we like it just fine).
Then, we had a son.
Now, while our attendance at these parties has waned to perhaps three or four per year, the same topics of conversation still come up. Politics, religion, marriage etc.
But I've found that very often the dominating subject is now our son. Everyone seems to be interested in how he's doing, what developmental milestones he's passed, and how big he is.
I must confess, I am of two minds about this development. On the one hand, I am flattered that people seem to be so interested in the life of my son. That's affirming in some strange way, because I too am extremely interested in the life of my son.
And therein lies the rub. For on the other hand, I am somewhat taken aback at how people who are generally uninterested in my life might be so interested in that of my son's.
Don't get me wrong. I don't mean this in a narcissistic way. I don't mean that it's wrong for people whom I only know in the vaguest sense to be interested in the random minutiae of my son's pooping schedule.
But I can't really be the only one to find that at least a little bit weird, right?
I guess it's just the nature of parenthood. Especially for people who aren't yet parents, there seems to be some mystery about raising a little human creature from the womb up, a mystery which provokes some rather pointed conversation about some pretty random stuff.
I don't really have a problem with it. It just weirds me out a bit.
Of course, I'm full of crap, because I love nothing more than to talk about (read: brag on) my son. He's adorable. He's smart. He's hilarious. He's my little boy and half of my world.
And in all honesty? My world freakin rocks.
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
Then, I got married.
I still would attend the occasional party, only now accompanied by my beautiful wife. And at these social gatherings, the previous subjects would still dominate the conversation, yet somehow the talk would always turn to marriage, and how we liked it (for the record, we like it just fine).
Then, we had a son.
Now, while our attendance at these parties has waned to perhaps three or four per year, the same topics of conversation still come up. Politics, religion, marriage etc.
But I've found that very often the dominating subject is now our son. Everyone seems to be interested in how he's doing, what developmental milestones he's passed, and how big he is.
I must confess, I am of two minds about this development. On the one hand, I am flattered that people seem to be so interested in the life of my son. That's affirming in some strange way, because I too am extremely interested in the life of my son.
And therein lies the rub. For on the other hand, I am somewhat taken aback at how people who are generally uninterested in my life might be so interested in that of my son's.
Don't get me wrong. I don't mean this in a narcissistic way. I don't mean that it's wrong for people whom I only know in the vaguest sense to be interested in the random minutiae of my son's pooping schedule.
But I can't really be the only one to find that at least a little bit weird, right?
I guess it's just the nature of parenthood. Especially for people who aren't yet parents, there seems to be some mystery about raising a little human creature from the womb up, a mystery which provokes some rather pointed conversation about some pretty random stuff.
I don't really have a problem with it. It just weirds me out a bit.
Of course, I'm full of crap, because I love nothing more than to talk about (read: brag on) my son. He's adorable. He's smart. He's hilarious. He's my little boy and half of my world.
And in all honesty? My world freakin rocks.
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
October 11, 2008
He's Asleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!
Victory! Sweet, delicious, nutritious, victory. My son has achieved three feats in the last two days.
1. He has slept through an entire night without waking up once. That's right, twelve delectable hours of pure, unadulterated sleep for him, and me (my wife is a different story...she just had her wisdom teeth out, and was unfortunately in pain throughout the night). Total crying time, ~4.5 hrs
2. He has put himself to sleep in his crib for a nighttime sleep (only lasted two hours, but it's the first time he's fallen asleep in his crib alone). Total crying time, ~2.25hrs
3. He has put himself to sleep in his crib at naptime. The first time he has done so during the day. Total crying time, ~0.25hrs (that's right, about fifteen minutes).
I am so happy.
I'm also very proud of my little boy. I'm sure you other parents out there know how much it sucks to hear your little one(s) cry. Especially when they work themselves up into a gasping, wheezing tizzy. Especially when they scream themselves hoarse. And especially when they give you that pleading look, as if to say "Why won't you just hold me?".
Yet the prize at the end of the screeching tunnel is freedom, for him, and for us. For him, because he will no longer be dependent on us to "put" him to sleep; for us, because we will no longer be his sleep slaves.
For me, there's a sense of palpable relief. It's entirely possible that, by this time next week, my son will be sleeping through the night, on his own, with little-to-no fuss, in his crib. For my darling wife, there's possibility of a good, full night's sleep on the horizon.
The storm clouds are breaking, and the light is beginning to shine through.
Smell that? Smells like victory...*sniff sniff*...um, and a messy diaper. I should probably go take care of that.
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
1. He has slept through an entire night without waking up once. That's right, twelve delectable hours of pure, unadulterated sleep for him, and me (my wife is a different story...she just had her wisdom teeth out, and was unfortunately in pain throughout the night). Total crying time, ~4.5 hrs
2. He has put himself to sleep in his crib for a nighttime sleep (only lasted two hours, but it's the first time he's fallen asleep in his crib alone). Total crying time, ~2.25hrs
3. He has put himself to sleep in his crib at naptime. The first time he has done so during the day. Total crying time, ~0.25hrs (that's right, about fifteen minutes).
I am so happy.
I'm also very proud of my little boy. I'm sure you other parents out there know how much it sucks to hear your little one(s) cry. Especially when they work themselves up into a gasping, wheezing tizzy. Especially when they scream themselves hoarse. And especially when they give you that pleading look, as if to say "Why won't you just hold me?".
Yet the prize at the end of the screeching tunnel is freedom, for him, and for us. For him, because he will no longer be dependent on us to "put" him to sleep; for us, because we will no longer be his sleep slaves.
For me, there's a sense of palpable relief. It's entirely possible that, by this time next week, my son will be sleeping through the night, on his own, with little-to-no fuss, in his crib. For my darling wife, there's possibility of a good, full night's sleep on the horizon.
The storm clouds are breaking, and the light is beginning to shine through.
Smell that? Smells like victory...*sniff sniff*...um, and a messy diaper. I should probably go take care of that.
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
October 4, 2008
Sleepwalkin in Seattle
My son is a robot. Actually, he's a ro-butt. He doesn't sleep. That's not hyperbole. The kid. Does not. Sleep. If he weren't so darn cute, we'd have sold him for an Xbox a long time ago.
Of course, I kid (about the whole selling my child thing, not the not sleeping. The author of this blog does not engage in nor condone the trafficking of humans of any age).
My poor wife. She bears the brunt of it. We're a single income family, so I traipse off to work 5-6 days a week, while my beloved bride stays home and minds the munchkin (a more than full-time job, to be sure). As such, most weeknights, she ensures that if the stinker is awake and being his cute, but noisome self, he does it away from me so that I can get some sleep.
Of course, the natural flip-side of this arrangement is that she doesn't.
As a side note (and yes, I am aware that my wife is going to read this, so yes, this next part counts as sucking up; that doesn't make it any less sincere), my wife is amazing. She runs on a few hours of sleep each night and yet still manages to be an all around awesome mommy, and the most incredible life-partner a man could ever ask for. She's the fireworks in my night sky.
Anyway, back to the kiddo. We've attempted to figure out his non-sleeping via trial and error psychicosity*, and after consulting with our highly trained witch-doct...er, I mean pediatrician, we determined it might be due to acid reflux (a condition which has plagued me for years).
So, we purchased a prescription remedy (which was hard, because as parents we are not into the whole "if something's wrong, medicate the hell out of it" school of child rearing), and began administering it.
The results? A loud, resounding, meh.
There has been an improvement, but it hasn't been the magic bullet or panacea we were ferverently hoping for. So while there have been incremental improvements in his sleep, overall, he still defies all logic with regard to the "normal" amount of sleep a child his age requires.
Yet...he's healthy. He's generally happy. He's cute as a button and completely hysterical. He cracks me up constantly, and melts my cold, calloused heart on a daily basis.
So, I guess in the end, if the only trouble he ever gives us is not sleeping, we should count our blessings, right?
Hahahahaha...wouldn't it be wierd if I were really that naive?
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
*Made up word
Of course, I kid (about the whole selling my child thing, not the not sleeping. The author of this blog does not engage in nor condone the trafficking of humans of any age).
My poor wife. She bears the brunt of it. We're a single income family, so I traipse off to work 5-6 days a week, while my beloved bride stays home and minds the munchkin (a more than full-time job, to be sure). As such, most weeknights, she ensures that if the stinker is awake and being his cute, but noisome self, he does it away from me so that I can get some sleep.
Of course, the natural flip-side of this arrangement is that she doesn't.
As a side note (and yes, I am aware that my wife is going to read this, so yes, this next part counts as sucking up; that doesn't make it any less sincere), my wife is amazing. She runs on a few hours of sleep each night and yet still manages to be an all around awesome mommy, and the most incredible life-partner a man could ever ask for. She's the fireworks in my night sky.
Anyway, back to the kiddo. We've attempted to figure out his non-sleeping via trial and error psychicosity*, and after consulting with our highly trained witch-doct...er, I mean pediatrician, we determined it might be due to acid reflux (a condition which has plagued me for years).
So, we purchased a prescription remedy (which was hard, because as parents we are not into the whole "if something's wrong, medicate the hell out of it" school of child rearing), and began administering it.
The results? A loud, resounding, meh.
There has been an improvement, but it hasn't been the magic bullet or panacea we were ferverently hoping for. So while there have been incremental improvements in his sleep, overall, he still defies all logic with regard to the "normal" amount of sleep a child his age requires.
Yet...he's healthy. He's generally happy. He's cute as a button and completely hysterical. He cracks me up constantly, and melts my cold, calloused heart on a daily basis.
So, I guess in the end, if the only trouble he ever gives us is not sleeping, we should count our blessings, right?
Hahahahaha...wouldn't it be wierd if I were really that naive?
Until next time, dear reader.
--The Dad
*Made up word
September 28, 2008
He Ain't Broke, So How Do I Fix Him
As I write this, my son is screeching his head off, for the third round this evening. (Before all you parents out there condemn me for just sitting idly by whilst my son cries, bear in mind I've done all I can to comfort him...now my lovely wife is trying her hand at it).
This is one of the follies of fatherhood from whence this blog gets its name; sometimes your kids just cry, and there ain't nothin you can do about it (good grammar, for the win!).
Now, all you professional parents out there are sagely nodding your heads right now, while some of you new parents or parents-to-be might be recoiling in horror at the idea that sometimes you just have to let your kid(s) scream their little heads off...but as my beautiful wife and I are learning, it's true.
And it's heartbreaking. Granted, I'm more calloused than my wife, so his keens of sorrow probably affect her more than me (ok, who I am I kidding; I know they do), but no parent who loves their child(ren) truly wants to sit by and let them bawl.
Yet, as our parents and grandparents are often keen to point out, the wisdom of the ages tells us that sometimes you just have to let the lil buggers cry it out. Sometimes there isn't much else to do. You can comfort, coddle, and cuddle all day, but at some point as a parent, you have to start helping your children comfort themselves.
And, as parents, we have to suck it up and deal with what may be the first of many hearbreaks our children will put us through. Though I hope in the future, the heartbreaks will at least be a bit quieter.
Funny old world, ain't it?
Until next time.
--The Dad
This is one of the follies of fatherhood from whence this blog gets its name; sometimes your kids just cry, and there ain't nothin you can do about it (good grammar, for the win!).
Now, all you professional parents out there are sagely nodding your heads right now, while some of you new parents or parents-to-be might be recoiling in horror at the idea that sometimes you just have to let your kid(s) scream their little heads off...but as my beautiful wife and I are learning, it's true.
And it's heartbreaking. Granted, I'm more calloused than my wife, so his keens of sorrow probably affect her more than me (ok, who I am I kidding; I know they do), but no parent who loves their child(ren) truly wants to sit by and let them bawl.
Yet, as our parents and grandparents are often keen to point out, the wisdom of the ages tells us that sometimes you just have to let the lil buggers cry it out. Sometimes there isn't much else to do. You can comfort, coddle, and cuddle all day, but at some point as a parent, you have to start helping your children comfort themselves.
And, as parents, we have to suck it up and deal with what may be the first of many hearbreaks our children will put us through. Though I hope in the future, the heartbreaks will at least be a bit quieter.
Funny old world, ain't it?
Until next time.
--The Dad
September 18, 2008
Not Excatly Vicarious
My son has started wrestling with me.
I know, that seems unlikely at 8 months, but it’s true. He’s even throwing elbows at my face and kicking me in the ribs.
He’s like Andre the Giant…zapped by Rick Moranis’ shrink ray (random 90’s movie reference, for the win!)
Here’s my confession for the day; I never got to know my father. My mom left my dad when I was ten months old, so I have no memories of him whatsoever. I only know what my mom has told me about him, and I’ve seen a few pictures…that’s about it.
So with my son, I see my chance to be the kind of father I would have wanted for myself. And one of the things I would have loved to do with my dad was wrestle.
I wrestled a bit in college (And I’ll freely admit; that’s not the most homoerotic thing I’ve done), because I wasn’t very ‘manly’ at the time, and I thought it might toughen me up a bit.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an alpha-male, beat-my-chest-and-toss-my-woman-over-my-shoulder kind of guy (unless that happens to be the evening’s fantasy with my wife; in that case, me Tarzan, she Jane). In general, I like to think I use the head on my shoulders to do most of the reasoning, not the head on my peener.
But, there are some parts of the male rite-of-passage, um...thing, that I missed out on, and I’ve always regretted it. It hasn’t damaged me or anything; it’s simply a part of childhood I didn’t experience.
Which brings me back to my son. It is my hope that he will grow up to be a kind, gentle, and sensitive man. One who will win friends with charm, grace, and keen intelligence. But I don’t think that means he can’t wrestle around with his old man. And my hope is that I can provide for him that male right-of-passage that I didn’t experience, so that he will never look back on his childhood and feel like he missed something.
I don’t intend to live vicariously through my son. But he represents something to me; a chance to do things for him that I would have wanted done for me. I’ve been told that can be seen as selfish. Maybe…maybe. But I think of it as wanting to give my son the very best of me.
Here’s hoping I can do it.
Until next time.
--The Dad
I know, that seems unlikely at 8 months, but it’s true. He’s even throwing elbows at my face and kicking me in the ribs.
He’s like Andre the Giant…zapped by Rick Moranis’ shrink ray (random 90’s movie reference, for the win!)
Here’s my confession for the day; I never got to know my father. My mom left my dad when I was ten months old, so I have no memories of him whatsoever. I only know what my mom has told me about him, and I’ve seen a few pictures…that’s about it.
So with my son, I see my chance to be the kind of father I would have wanted for myself. And one of the things I would have loved to do with my dad was wrestle.
I wrestled a bit in college (And I’ll freely admit; that’s not the most homoerotic thing I’ve done), because I wasn’t very ‘manly’ at the time, and I thought it might toughen me up a bit.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an alpha-male, beat-my-chest-and-toss-my-woman-over-my-shoulder kind of guy (unless that happens to be the evening’s fantasy with my wife; in that case, me Tarzan, she Jane). In general, I like to think I use the head on my shoulders to do most of the reasoning, not the head on my peener.
But, there are some parts of the male rite-of-passage, um...thing, that I missed out on, and I’ve always regretted it. It hasn’t damaged me or anything; it’s simply a part of childhood I didn’t experience.
Which brings me back to my son. It is my hope that he will grow up to be a kind, gentle, and sensitive man. One who will win friends with charm, grace, and keen intelligence. But I don’t think that means he can’t wrestle around with his old man. And my hope is that I can provide for him that male right-of-passage that I didn’t experience, so that he will never look back on his childhood and feel like he missed something.
I don’t intend to live vicariously through my son. But he represents something to me; a chance to do things for him that I would have wanted done for me. I’ve been told that can be seen as selfish. Maybe…maybe. But I think of it as wanting to give my son the very best of me.
Here’s hoping I can do it.
Until next time.
--The Dad
September 11, 2008
Laughter, Medicine, and Hearts All Aglow
Today was a bit rough for me. I work for a non-profit social service agency, and sometimes I feel a little burnt. We're small, so each of us wears several different hats, but mine is somewhat unique, as I'm responsible for keeping our technology in working order.
In short, by day, I'm a tamer of electronic beasts.
Apparently, my beloved wife also had a rough day, due in part because my son felt the need to grump and grouse his way through the afternoon.
He does that sometimes.
After work, I had scheduled two hours to take part in a focus group, regarding the upcoming gubernatorial election. It paid a little extra cash, and as we are a one-income family, every little bit helps. I finished right on time, and was conversing with a friendly schoolteacher of Hawaiian descent, when I received a rather urgent phone call from my dear wife.
"Don't worry about shopping," she said (referring to a planned grocery procurement trip I'd planned for once my focus group was done), "just come home now. Our son has been crying for you all afternoon, and has been waiting by the door for you to get home."
Needless to say, I rushed home immediately, whereupon I was greeted by a sleepy, yet very happy to see me, little boy.
See, here's the thing I like most about being a father, at least so far. My son loves me. He doesn't judge me, or even expect anything from me. He just loves me.
He's teaching me the meaning of a word I've used my entire life, but never understood until I saw it in, and through, his eyes.
I know a thing or two about romance (or at least I like to think I do...I suppose only my wife could really tell you). I know about loving my mom, my family, my friends.
But I tell you the truth when I say that tonight, I really got what love means.
Then it got better. After holding him for a few moments, I set him down on the floor so he could practice standing (a skill he's just beginning to master). I went over to my computer, to check my email, and do the various online things that need doing at the end of my day.
As he usually does, he followed me over and looked up at me expectantly.
Now, the thing you have to understand here is that my son is adorable. I say that, not as the proudly biased papa that I am, but as an objective assessment of my son's good looks. We've been told by some people, more than once, that our son is the cutest baby they've ever seen. Even folks with children of their own have said this.
I tell you this so that you know that when he looks up at you expectantly, with a bashful yet slightly mischievous grin on his open, happy face, your heart can't help but melt.
It also has the effect of making you want to tickle the living crap out of him. So naturally, I did.
What followed was a round of laughter, so happy and carefree, that I had my second word-related epiphany of the night (and the one which precipitated this overly-verbose post); this is what joy sounds like.
That's my son right now. Pure love and joy. They leap from his eyes like sunshine, and pour from his mouth like spring-water(also, drool). It cures every ill and washes away every worry.
Believe me when I tell you, I am most fortunate among men.
Oops, gotta go make a bottle. Until next we meet, dear reader.
--The Dad
In short, by day, I'm a tamer of electronic beasts.
Apparently, my beloved wife also had a rough day, due in part because my son felt the need to grump and grouse his way through the afternoon.
He does that sometimes.
After work, I had scheduled two hours to take part in a focus group, regarding the upcoming gubernatorial election. It paid a little extra cash, and as we are a one-income family, every little bit helps. I finished right on time, and was conversing with a friendly schoolteacher of Hawaiian descent, when I received a rather urgent phone call from my dear wife.
"Don't worry about shopping," she said (referring to a planned grocery procurement trip I'd planned for once my focus group was done), "just come home now. Our son has been crying for you all afternoon, and has been waiting by the door for you to get home."
Needless to say, I rushed home immediately, whereupon I was greeted by a sleepy, yet very happy to see me, little boy.
See, here's the thing I like most about being a father, at least so far. My son loves me. He doesn't judge me, or even expect anything from me. He just loves me.
He's teaching me the meaning of a word I've used my entire life, but never understood until I saw it in, and through, his eyes.
I know a thing or two about romance (or at least I like to think I do...I suppose only my wife could really tell you). I know about loving my mom, my family, my friends.
But I tell you the truth when I say that tonight, I really got what love means.
Then it got better. After holding him for a few moments, I set him down on the floor so he could practice standing (a skill he's just beginning to master). I went over to my computer, to check my email, and do the various online things that need doing at the end of my day.
As he usually does, he followed me over and looked up at me expectantly.
Now, the thing you have to understand here is that my son is adorable. I say that, not as the proudly biased papa that I am, but as an objective assessment of my son's good looks. We've been told by some people, more than once, that our son is the cutest baby they've ever seen. Even folks with children of their own have said this.
I tell you this so that you know that when he looks up at you expectantly, with a bashful yet slightly mischievous grin on his open, happy face, your heart can't help but melt.
It also has the effect of making you want to tickle the living crap out of him. So naturally, I did.
What followed was a round of laughter, so happy and carefree, that I had my second word-related epiphany of the night (and the one which precipitated this overly-verbose post); this is what joy sounds like.
That's my son right now. Pure love and joy. They leap from his eyes like sunshine, and pour from his mouth like spring-water(also, drool). It cures every ill and washes away every worry.
Believe me when I tell you, I am most fortunate among men.
Oops, gotta go make a bottle. Until next we meet, dear reader.
--The Dad
September 6, 2008
The Journey Begins.
Well, it began about seventeen months ago. Nine months of gestation, and now eight months here in the world we respirating beings inhabit. After seventeen months, I freely admit it; I am not a professional.
I think what has struck me most about fatherhood thus far is the imperfectness of it. Take this diary, for example. In a perfect world, I would have been chronicling my thoughts and feelings on fatherhood for the last seventeen months, right? My musings, my inner fears. But I haven't.
And it isn't that I've been too busy to spend a few moments a day writing down a reflection or two on what exactly I mean when I tell people I'm a father. Sure, I've been busy, but not that busy.
No, I think it's that, until today, I didn't genuinely believe that I was ready to reflect on what I actually think about being a dad. I lacked, not time or inspiration, but maturity.
Not to say that I'm all that mature now. It's just...after the nine months of prep, and now eight months of seasoning, I finally feel ready to actually look at my inward self and consider what fatherhood means to me.
Hang on, I need a drink.
Right, well, I think I'll sum up this post with a short list of things I've learned so far.
I've learned that:
My son has a myriad of different smells, and I relish every one of them (yes, even the stinky ones)
My son is an expert at doing the unexpected
My son is a million times faster than I figured he'd be
My son's laughter is pure joy and is more addictive than crack or heroin (not that I know from firsthand experience)
My son is going to be smarter, faster, stronger, and a better man than I am.
I didn't understand the depth of the word love until I met my son...and I'm still adding to that understanding every day.
Yes, I've learned all those and so much more.
So, welcome to the journey dear reader. I can make no promises about what either one of us will find, as I turn the looking glass upon myself and ponder the follies, foibles, and fun of being a father. I can only say that it will be the experience of a lifetime. Two actually, mine, and my son's. Consider this your invitation to take part.
Until next time.
--The Dad
I think what has struck me most about fatherhood thus far is the imperfectness of it. Take this diary, for example. In a perfect world, I would have been chronicling my thoughts and feelings on fatherhood for the last seventeen months, right? My musings, my inner fears. But I haven't.
And it isn't that I've been too busy to spend a few moments a day writing down a reflection or two on what exactly I mean when I tell people I'm a father. Sure, I've been busy, but not that busy.
No, I think it's that, until today, I didn't genuinely believe that I was ready to reflect on what I actually think about being a dad. I lacked, not time or inspiration, but maturity.
Not to say that I'm all that mature now. It's just...after the nine months of prep, and now eight months of seasoning, I finally feel ready to actually look at my inward self and consider what fatherhood means to me.
Hang on, I need a drink.
Right, well, I think I'll sum up this post with a short list of things I've learned so far.
I've learned that:
My son has a myriad of different smells, and I relish every one of them (yes, even the stinky ones)
My son is an expert at doing the unexpected
My son is a million times faster than I figured he'd be
My son's laughter is pure joy and is more addictive than crack or heroin (not that I know from firsthand experience)
My son is going to be smarter, faster, stronger, and a better man than I am.
I didn't understand the depth of the word love until I met my son...and I'm still adding to that understanding every day.
Yes, I've learned all those and so much more.
So, welcome to the journey dear reader. I can make no promises about what either one of us will find, as I turn the looking glass upon myself and ponder the follies, foibles, and fun of being a father. I can only say that it will be the experience of a lifetime. Two actually, mine, and my son's. Consider this your invitation to take part.
Until next time.
--The Dad
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