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.  

The Pep Talk...

I don’t think a career as a motivational speaker is in my future.  For one I'm terrified of public speaking (unless you count Karaoke), but more importantly I'm highly ineffective.  I came to this conclusion only recently, after noticing that my wife seemed a bit discouraged after a string of exhausting days and sleepless nights. I decided to act, armed with my knack for never knowing what to say combined with my newly acquired knowledge of all of this pregnancy hormonal stuff, I sat down next to her and like any good coach, attempted to cheer her up with a good old fashioned pep talk. 

Let me just say this, things didn't go as planned. It’s a good thing I wasn’t leading troops into harm’s way, or a football team onto the field because the results would have been ghastly.  In my head this endearing speech concluded with her being inspired to finish the pregnancy with a blitz of enthusiasm, I would give her a smack on the rear and tell her to go get ‘em as she ran back onto the field, (I had a whistle and a headset too).  That's the way I pictured it anyway...

Your doing great!...I'm so proud of you....Only a few more months!...You're in the home stretch now!

I smiled, satisfied with my efforts, carefree and happy.  Look at me, I’ve got a baby boy on the way and all I have to do is wait for him to arrive.  And then I made a big mistake.  Trying to illustrate my feelings and show her that she wasn’t alone in this, I continued, inserting myself into the equation:  One day we’ll look back at this and laugh!

I had used the delicate We.  The hormones that have taken root inside my lovely wife came to life, and like any good coach, I knew it was time to take a knee and head for the bus.

I'm not exactly sure how this whole WE thing works.  Here's what I've gathered. We are not having a baby.  We are not pregnant.  We are not developing stretch marks. 

However, WE do need to clean the house, WE did this to her, and perhaps most importantly, WE do need to know when to stop talking.

The we in pregnancy is tricky.  Sometimes it works, other times it will get you a cold stare from the one who’s really pulling all of the weight (1.5 lbs!).  In the future, I will try to use the we in the correct context, as in WE are still learning how all of this works...

For the baby...

I am by no means an artist, but here I present a short comic of my week...

Sympathy...

Lately I’ve been hearing a lot about men with pregnant wives gaining sympathy weight.  There have been many articles published about this phenomenon, which actually isn’t very difficult to comprehend.  If there is food in the house, we are going to eat it.

I started to contemplate this theory, and relate it to everything.  Perhaps I’ve been tired lately due to sympathy.  Lazy, sympathy as well, mood swings?  Ditto.  How much can I get away with here?  I think I’ll call into work tomorrow due to my sympathetic irritable pms-like symptoms.  This may be pushing it.

But back to this sympathy weight thing, I’ve been wondering just what is my role in this pregnancy, besides of course, what I’ve already done.  Now I’ve found a way to help, pack on a few sympathetic pounds!  This way my wife can look over at her fat husband and think to herself….yep that’s my guy, the father of my child, dipping his pizza crust into the mayonnaise jar.

While I’m at it, perhaps I can go the extra mile and quit showering and walk around the house in my boxers.  Chalk it up to sympathy smell.  For my spare tire, I will have to drink lots of beer, but then I may suffer from the occasional sympathy hangover.  My hangovers may contribute to my bad mood, and also my sympathy headaches, until I get the much needed sympathy sleep.  I’m sure my wife would appreciate my efforts, but I think that I’ll just ask what I can do to help.