The Fall Guy...

Well, it happened. The thing I feared more than anything in the world.  We were outside yesterday, enjoying the warm weather and the clear skies. Simon waddled around and the dogs played in the grass, just like a commercial.  And just like an advertisement, for about 30 seconds, everything was perfect.

He stood clumsily, smiling as the sun hit his face. The breeze picked up his hair and I smiled at my wife in slow motion.  And this is where our little commercial ended, right about the time he stumbled and wobbled to the left and then to the right and then straight down, planting his face in the driveway. Not real hard, but then again the driveway’s not real cushiony.

I picked him up and he did that delayed crying thing, you know, when they open their little mouth but no sound comes out.  But he'd scratched his nose pretty good and pretty soon the pain caught up with the surprise of the fall and he found the volume button. So many things rushed through my mind.  But I actually remained calm.

The blood followed. and it look like he was in round three of a losing proposition. I let slip with an Oh God.  But then I remembered to stay calm.

We got him inside and I cursed the shoes, the wind, my own negligence.  Shaking my head, I feared for his/my future. Flashes of bb guns, busted knees, a hammer to the teeth, a fish hook to my foot, Hey watch this! sledding moments, biking moments, firecracker moments, slices, abrasions, punctures, Molotov cocktails, and so many other accidents from my own childhood circled my mind until I was dizzy.  A quick prayer, God? Please let this boy have some sense. And balance, that too, but mostly sense.

But back to his spill. We cleaned him up and then it was snuggle time.  He snuggled with Mom, thumb placed firmly in mouth and eyes avoiding me because I was closest to him when he bit it. I’m not ready for the face plant stage yet, but it’s here. And it really is the worst part about parenting.

With the day off from work already, I took him to the Vet. Not for the falling thing but because his ears looked infected. I know, not the greatest few days for the little dude. I got my wife to write everything down because I wouldn't remember.  Walter Payton's rushing yards in 1987? Yeah I got it, but I'm not so great with remembering what to tell the pediatrician. Not that I don't love my son just because I don't remember what night he woke up crying, it's more that I'm like Rain Man when it comes to NFL stats in the eighties.

Anyway, I felt like the biggest dead beat parent walking my kid in there all red faced and crusty, like he’d tripped on my crack pipe and crashed into my beer bottles while I was watching pro wrestling.  I felt like I was wearing a court ordered wooden Bad Parent sign.  In other news my imagination wanders if left untethered.  Moving on..

Lucky for me I know the doctor. We play basketball together and he knows I don’t like pro wrestling.  So after a quick wait, we hustled off to the back to get him looked at. Lucky for Simon there were no shots, but I never bought it when my wife explained the way his little hands shake in there. No fun. But the doc was good to us. We were in and out quicker than you can say amoxicillin. He looked him over and told me everything was fine, just a little ear infection. right now he's in his room sleeping it off, and when he gets up I'm giving him chocolate ice cream. 

Because Mom's not here and Dad thinks he's earned it.

Testing Testing...

I’ve been getting my tail whipped lately.  And no, this isn’t the part where I talk about punching the clock or deadlines at work. Not a lack of sleep. Not Hemorrhoids.  It’s my one year old.  He likes to smack me in the face.  Real smacks, like roundhouse windmill open handed wallops.  


Bad Boys...

He's not a menace or an omen child.  He’s not even a problem child. Just a boy testing boundaries and working on those OT skills, as Mom calls them. Combine that with my tendency to exaggerate. But still, he didn’t have to hit me so hard.

I'm not in the habit of letting him run roughshod.  No, I’m usually hunched over or writhing in pain. A little/some/most/all of it’s my own fault. I used to play this game with him (last week--things develop quickly around here). I’d hit myself over the head with a water bottle, big old bonks to the head with dramatic whiplashing and sound effects. Just for a cheap laugh. Not the best teaching decision in the world but I just couldn’t help myself. It was that gut busting laugher that propelled me.  Now I’m a mere circus clown with only myself to blame…

But then last night he bit me in the arm. Hard. I wasn't expecting that. There was dust in my eyes so...Anyway, the dude’s no slouch when it comes to the arsenal.  A flail to the groin. A claw to the nose. The occasional head butt sneeze leaving me both woozy and wet. We forgot to cut his nails for a week and I went to work looking like faces of meth.

Even if you don't feel bad for me, feel for the dogs. He takes swipes at them too. I’m beginning to think that they see him like those aquarium fish saw Darla in Finding Nemo.

But I'm sure he’s just a baby boy being a boy, yet I worry about things. Things in books.  You know, true crime books, like the ones my stepmother writes…. Even as a young child he displayed tendencies of violent behavior….yikes. And other books, I recently read Defending Jacob. No one believes their kid is capable of such things…until…

Alright, that’s it.  I’ll try to be stern with him.  I'll use the dad voice--the deep voice that commands the house and demands that kids say sir. But stern isn’t really in my bag.  My bag is stuffed tight with bouncy balls and whoopee cushions. Maybe a set of fake teeth. I’ve got to work on my stern. 

 

A Boy's Charm...

This picture encompasses everything I love about having a boy....

Everything's Changed

Ten years ago, while fully embracing the blur that was my twenties, I thought that I would never have children.  It just wasn't for me.  

I was too busy partying on the weekends, pursuing my rap career (don’t ask), and spending my money on clothes with numbers on them.  Basically living my life to the fullest. What can I say? I knew it all and I knew nothing. I certainly wasn’t ready to commit the time and effort that I’m quickly finding out is needed in order to raise a child.

As I climbed through my thirties, I began to see the world a little differently. I started having dreams about a kid, my kid. After that, I thought, Maybe it's a possibility.  A year later I was baby crazy and begging my wife to stop taking the pill.   

So here we are. I'm a dad, and the timing is perfect. Ten years ago, I wasn’t ready.  I wasn’t even close.  Who knows how things would have turned out for the child I never had, but I'm guessing it would have involved serious therapy. And things wouldn't have been so great for the child either.

These days, I'm mature and wiser, handling anything life throws at me with the ease and grace of a late summer sunset.  That may be pushing it, but I'm glad I waited.  I just hope I have the stamina to raise a son.  I’ve spent 37 years fine tuning my routine, achieving the perfect balance of procrastination and effortless waste.  And now it can all be scrapped.  Everything has changed...

Idle time is a thing of the past.  When I'm not pasting butt cream on my son's rear I'm walking around the house with him in my arms coming up with new ways to help him fall asleep. 

The bathroom has a plastic baby tub in it and baby washcloths dry in the sink. Tiny socks can be found strewn all over the house, the boppy pillow jabs me in the neck at night, and I still can't get used to a car seat base in my backseat. And this is only the beginning.

Don't get me wrong, I'm loving this change, most of it anyway.

I only hope that I don’t grow too mature (my wife tells me my time would be better spent worrying about the next asteroid encounter). I don’t want to be a stick in the mud, the old guy dad who never has any fun. So let’s see, when he’s 10, I’ll be 47. But according to my formula, the one I just came up with while typing this, I act, say, 25 now, so (37 – 12 +10 = 35). 35 puts me at a good age to join him in some mischief.  (My wife’s formula puts me at a much younger age, but we’ll go with mine for the sake of this post).

Today I know enough to know that I know very little.  But I do know this, I’m going to enjoy being a family man.  

Standing Firm...

Last night my wife and I went to the nearby hospital for a tour of the maternity center.  We joined six or seven other expectant couples and in between pee breaks, we familiarized ourselves with the area. 

Our tour guide led us to the front desk, the delivery room, the recovery room, and everything in between while also going over procedures and protocols that were standard and in compliance with many regulations that I did not pay full attention to.

While in the recovery room, which was very nice and almost resembled more of a hotel room than hospital, our instructor informed us that it was here that our baby would be ready for his pictures and, for those having boys, circumcising. 

Here we go...

My wife raised her hand--or she may not have, actually I'm certain that she didn't--and asked:  

“Do both parents have to sign the consent form?”  Twelve heads whipped around towards us in unison, trying to locate the source of such an odd question.

My face, elevated from it's normal stand by shade of semi pale to an immediate code red, was now flushed and broadcasted what could be described as a pleasant scowl.

“Uh, no just one.”  The instructor answered, her tone pleasant and neutral.

This did little to mitigate my wife's concern, as she looked back at me with helpless resignation, as if she were touring a puppy mill.  I stood stoically behind her, attempting to put forth the look of the strong silent type, praying silently that she wouldn't start her tangent about mutilation and cruelty.

“I think nearly 90% of parents opt for the circumcision.” The instructor went on,  but this did little to satisfy my wife.  She mumbled something to the effect of not in Africa, which I didn’t understand nor acknowledge because I didn’t feel like having this ongoing debate in front of an audience.

And it has been a debate.  This is the only decision I have been adamant about.  My wife thinks it’s cruel and will cause unnecessary harm to our son.  I counter by telling her that I’m the expert in this department.  I don’t remember it, it’s done quickly and then it’s over with.

For those who aren’t circumcised or have elected not to circumcise their sons, that is fine too.  This just happens to be the one thing I request, and I don't feel that it's too much.

My wife finally let it pass, and we continued the short tour without incident.  I’m sure that this won’t be the first time we don’t see eye to eye on decisions for our son, and I’m sure she will more often than not get her way.  

Why My Wife Can't Have Nice Things...

My wife has great taste, and she likes nice things.  In a perfect world she would have plenty of nice things in the house.  Pristine light colors would shine throughout, delicate and fragile items would be left safely on shelves.  The laundry room would smell of flowers and toilet seats would remain forever fastened down securely.  Instead she lives with me and two male dogs.  Even our cat is male.




Mason

 She likes hand towels and nice smelling soaps.  I like doing yard work and picking up the first thing I can find to wipe the dirt off my hands.

She likes seasonal smells and glade plug-ins.  I come home from basketball sweaty and smelling less than seasonal.

She likes dryer sheets and lavender smelling detergents. My socks sometimes get crunchy and need to be tapped with a hammer before washing.

She likes accent walls and themes that flow throughout the house.  I like sports.

And now we’re having a boy.  That leaves her sufficiently outnumbered.  In a house full of males she tries her best to keep things presentable. 

The other day we were putting together the dresser in Simon’s room when my wife said simply, “Your shoes!” I realized that I was still wearing my shoes, the same shoes that I'd worn to walk the dogs through the mud and the puddles as they had played creek, rolled in the grass, and frolicked in the woods.  I looked down at the untarnished white carpet and then back up to my wife like a child caught in the act.  Crap.

I gently eased off of the white carpet, shamefully removing my shoes in the hallway when I noticed Mason--our puppy, stretched out on the bed, sound asleep on the white comforter. This is why my wife can’t have nice things.