Father Shock

We are obsessed with my son’s diet. We follow every rule and abide every caution. But after a six month visit with our pediatrician, we drove home perplexed by her suggestion; Finger food? The idea of feeding him anything other than muted bowls of beige, brown, and green slop seemed bizarre.  A spark of excitement flicked between us as we considered our options.

My son has never been happier than the day he sat down to a small pile of cheerios. While his mother and I have meticulously investigated almost every bite of food that’s made its way past his tiny lips, the little O’s seemed beyond reproach. In fact, since we started feeding him solids, there has been a fresh box standing in the pantry just waiting to spill at his feet. Now, I’m not sure how cheerios got a free pass. As a new parent decisions are made on a tight rope, looming above a pit of sharply pointed possibilities.  But these little bits of breakfast transcend all manner of scrutiny and intention. Possessed by the spirit of General Mills himself, I passed hand full’s of O’s to my wide-eyed son.

Cheerios have become a staple in our home. Our son will sit quietly chasing the O’s around the perimeter of his small tray, buying us precious minutes to fold a little laundry or do some important bathroom reading. It’s really amazing, we have tried peas, bits of fruit, vegetables, and pasta, but nothing occupies his attention like a crowded plate of O’s.

Just like every other subject on the planet, I’m sure everyone has an opinion. So, fire up your favorite search engine and push your way through the mob of recommendations on the net. Though, making these decisions with your family pediatrician seems like a solid idea to me.  Below is a site I found helpful and also General Mills, baby bullets for Cheerios…

According to General Mills, Cheerios…

 -are the #1 choice of cereals for moms with toddlers.

       -are recommended by 4 out of 5 pediatricians as a finger food for toddlers.

        -have only 1 gram of sugar per serving.

         -have no artificial colors or flavors.

-are made with whole grain oats and is a good source of fiber. The 2005 Dietary Guidelines recommend that Americans consume three or more servings of whole grain each day (for a total of at least 48 grams of whole grain.)

-are easily managed by little fingers and helps develop motor skills because the O’s are easy to pick up, firm and resist crumbling.

-are easy for little fingers to hold.

-provide at least 10% of the Daily Value of 14 essential vitamins and minerals, including iron and folic acid.

-taste great and is fun to eat!

Try this helpful finger food link:  http://www.babycenter.com/0_finger-foods_105.bc

Ok, so maybe this is a little dramatic…With all the suffering in the world even the worst of aliments pale in comparison. But pain is subjective and really just a matter of perspective. So, this is mine and this is how it continues to warp.

My son exists in limbo, somewhere in a realm akin to Lassie or Geppetto’s Pinocchio. While he is a real boy, there are only a handful of ways you can truly interact with him and most of the time you can’t be sure if he is with you or just amused by movements and sound.

The second thing my son gave me was this cold. We woke up one morning and found him even more pink and chubby than usual. He was really uncomfortable and visibly disgusted with his fist big cold. After suffering a few days with the fever and snot, he passed it on. In fact he gave it to my entire family and all their friends and significant others. I’ve never seen a common cold spread so uncommonly. It was like wildfire, leaving death and destruction in its wake. Or at least bed full’s of groaning adults and empty bottles of ‘Tussin scattered about.

Now, I’m pretty sure I’ve never gotten the flu from my dog, and I’m damn sure I’ve never caught a thing from a hand carve wooden puppet; even one that can dance and sing. So this whole episode really caught me off guard.

As I lay their sucking breath through clogged pipes, I realized I’m pretty damn high maintenance when it comes to relationships. I need feed back, validation, or at the very least a high five. I revel in the happy mess of family and favor deep friendships over casual acquaintances. So bonding with my boy is my minds single anticipation. This however was not the type of connection I was thinking of.

For now, I will take what I can get. If tossing around in bed, feverish and broken for a week allows me to see the world though his little peepers, then so be it. I apologize to the rest of you; collateral damage to my cause. You took one for the team, and in my twisted way I am grateful.

By the way, the first thing my son gave me was a new sense of vitality and an eagerness for the days ahead. I guess this is just another example of that gift springing to life.

I drive everyday. As a younger person I guess I was excited by my time behind the wheel, even years after hitting the road.  I let moments at red lights and in traffic jams just slip away into oblivion without a second thought. Seduced by the open road, freedom had its way with me and I was a most willing victim. Now it’s a different story. I grind my teeth more than the gears. At every turn there seems to be obstacles in my path; idiots on the road. Today as I drive, I spend most of my time practicing my adult vocabulary and doing finger calisthenics.

My wife has been on my case. I wouldn’t say that I have a “potty mouth” as she would so delicately put it. But I am familiar with the power of well timed obscenities. I started thinking about how I picked up this little ability; my vehicle vulgarity. A few weeks ago I took a ride with my father. He seems to have a similar problem. When he puts the key into the ignition, every idiot on the road immediately adjusts their course for collision.

As we drove, I could feel rage building inside me. And just as my brain was rustling up the appropriate curse, a string of four-letter words poured from my father’s mouth. They were so finely crafted that I could only sit in awe.

I got my stunning good looks and superior muscular physique (ensuing laughter) from my father. Could I have also inherited this ability as well? Some might say we learn by example while others would qualify this ability as adapting to the environment. No matter how you mash nature and nurture into the equation, the simple fact is I’m probably a lot like him and my son will probably be a lot like me.

I am grateful for and frightened by this at the same time. While my anecdote is designed to poke fun at a frustrating situation, the truth is that everything good in me comes from my folks. If I am anything like my father, than I am a lucky man. My hope is that my son can say the same. But what does that mean?

David Bly, a popular author said, “Your children will become what you are; so be what you want them to be.” When I consider all that I hope for my son, this sentiment becomes a pretty tall order. But there’s truth in these words. I’m thankful for those that led me, not just because they pointed out the path, but also because they showed me it could be traveled.

Who knows, my son will probably cuss at the bumpers of cars just like his father before him. He’ll most likely have a list of bad habits that at some level I will be responsible for, but hopefully I can show him what I was shown. Hopefully he’ll be like the best parts of me, and the best parts of my father.

We had a baby…and today it suddenly means something a little different than it did yesterday. A baby, when you bring it home, is like a very significant pet. It sleeps, it eats, it poops when and where you’d rather it didn’t, and you have no idea what is going through its little mind. I know this probably defies normal thinking, but it sounds kind of like a puppy to me.

 Like a baby, a puppy possesses the features of its more mature counterparts. It has a nose for smelling, a voice for barking, and claws for digging and scratching. It requires almost constant attention and makes plenty of noise. Now, before I completely exhaust your patients and offend your sensibilities by bad mouthing puppies and babies, let me assure you I am not an evil man and also make an important distinction. A puppy is always a puppy. Sure it may grow older and learn a few tricks, but its nose is always for smelling, its claws are always for digging and scratching, and its voice is always for barking.

 My wife and I have been knee deep in diapers and breast milk for the last several months. While my son brings such of sense of satisfaction and wonder to my life, sometimes the repetition of maintaining him makes him pet-like. Believe it or not, attending to the needs of my schnauzer is remarkably similar to sustaining my boy. Consideration for structure and routine has become absolutely essential. And while it makes his needs manageable, it has a tendency to focus my attention towards the full diaper and the open mouth.

 This week I learned my son has a voice for laughing. While there are similarities between a laugh and a puppy’s bark, his laugh is a doorway to his personality. I can hear words in his laugh, that and songs, stories and jokes. In the last several days I have desperately searched out his laugh and realized, there is somebody in there!

 It seems obvious, right? Each of us is unique, so why would it stun a father that his son should have his own personality, his own voice? Well, there’s nothing unique about a steaming Huggie or a pale bowl of rice cereal. And that’s where my attention has been fixed. Making sure he lives. It’s a big responsibility. But now that I’ve heard his voice, I get to make sure he flourishes…and that’s an even bigger one.

 I see him now sitting in his playpen, quietly organizing his toys. It seems there is intention behind his wild swings, as he slams one toy against the other. I’ve watched him scoot around the room in his little wheeled saucer, searching out cabinets and drawers to investigate. He looks inquisitive to me, maybe forming simple conclusions and developing opinions about his surroundings. He presses his hands against my chest, leaning away from his crib when its bedtime. To hell with being tired, he wants to be out in the world and doesn’t give in easily anymore to weariness.

 There is someone in there! My son is no longer like a puppy. His voice could be for singing; his hands might be for painting or lovingly holding another’s. All the things he might say, the things he might do, the possibilities come rushing into my mind like a river. It is truly overwhelming. Something so big you can only see a small piece at any moment. I feel like I am experiencing the first glimpses of what being a father really means, and I’m amazed.

Happy New Year folks…Things are looking up in my household, as my son has made a surprising new years resolution…he has decided to sleep. I’ve discussed the finer points of sleep deprivation in several of my posts and while it has become something of a wonder to me, I will try not to ramble on about my own fatigue… I’m too tired anyways. The little guy didn’t make this turn on his own, and while I’d like to say it was a result of fine parenting and a strong example, the truth is we just sort of stumbled into it.

The day my son was born has quickly become one of the happiest moments of my life. It was such an overwhelming event that I couldn’t fully wrap my mind around it while surrounded by the smiles and sobs of my family. The quality of each moment beyond that day, has defined it in my memory and continues to deepen its meaning.

In contrast to that first day was the second night. Although it would be a complete exaggeration to say that it was an unhappy one, there were moments where my wife and I lost ourselves to a fierce panic of inadequacy. Now, the fear of being unprepared has hidden itself, masked by routine and distorted by the blur of our tired eyes. We’ve traded the sharp pain for a dull ache.

I was warned on the first day that the second would be a challenge. The revolving door on our hospital room spewed white coats and blue booties. Every nurse, doc, and nanny offering up their gifts of advice. Soon we were shrouded in a blanket of helpful pamphlets, hospital release forms, recovery recommendation pages, and poop tracking spreadsheets.

They say that the second night is the time when your child finally realizes that his adventure outside the womb is not just a day trip, but a permanent vacation. He gets cold, is unprotected from light and loud noises, and the soothing rhythmic tone of mothers hart is no longer ringing in his ears. As you might imagine this could be extremely disorientating. So, our cute little baby boy who spent the day quietly cuddled in our arms decided that someone would need to answer for forcing him from his perfect home.

He was inconsolable. The crying lasted for hours. We rocked, swaddled, fed him, took walks, adjusted the temperature in the room, sang comforting songs, showered him with love, but nothing would sooth the relentless cry. The birth had taken its toll and deep into the second night we were quickly reaching the end of our rope. At about three AM a bright-faced nurse, fresh on shift, popped into our room.

She fluttered over my wife and child like a butterfly. Taking vitals and adjusting pillows her jovial face and obnoxiously colored nurse garb were the only things bringing life to the room. She offered a smile and waddled towards the door. As she turned the knob she looked back saying, “Hang in there the night is almost over. You might want to look over the yellow form again, have a good morning.” Then she was gone.

What? Wait… what form? I sorted through the pile of papers. Delirious, flashes of pink, blue, and red jumped in front of my eyes. With more haste I tore towards the bottom and there it was, the yellow form. In great big letters, “Surviving the Second Night!” Where the hell had this come from?! Not only was it written with the most comforting and encouraging voice, it had a list of perfectly helpful tips on managing this transition. If it weren’t for that damn yellow form, I might not be here today at this very keyboard, writing these words. That’s how bad it was, I’m not sure how many more minutes we could of held out. But all it took was a stumble in the right direction and we survived.

For the last several months we have been struggling getting our son to sleep. It hasn’t been nearly as dramatic as the second night, but it’s been difficult nonetheless. New Years day my wife and I were cleaning out a closet and found a book on the floor. We had received so many; this one just took its place in the mix. Its title jumped out at us so we sat together on the couch for a read.

The book claims that any baby will sleep thought the night within two weeks using its methods. Pretty cool right, but I’m thinking where’s my free bathrobe and set of stake knives. Seems way to good to be true. For the last week our son has slept like…well, a baby. It works for him. We’ve had several nights of great rest, but there’s something more valuable to me here.

I have been thinking about these happy stumbles. I was grateful to survive the second night in the hospital and I am equally appreciative of the sleep improvements. During my short time as a father I have been inquisitive, I’ve tried as much as possible to study parenting, to be well informed. To do the best I can for my child and my family. However, no amount of preparation will see me through every struggle. I can’t guess every challenge and my son simply won’t find satisfaction in all my solutions. Sometimes you’ve got a square peg and nothing but round holes.

What comforts me is a growing faith in perseverance. I am still frightened that I won’t have the answers when it matters. But I am confident in my determination. By my own hand, by the hands of those who love me, by a happy stumble, or by something greater, that I have not yet found the words to define, we will survive well. The second night and all the those after.

Book: On Becoming Baby Wise: Giving Your Infant the Gift of Nighttime Sleep

-By Robert Bucknam

Today I am a zombie. Not the sort that would eat your face like an overly ripened red delicious, but the kind that found himself sitting at his desk this morning and can’t remember how he got here.

About three years ago I bought my wife a puppy for her birthday. I made this purchase not only to provide her with a perfect Hallmark birthday moment, but also because I could hear the baby train off in the distance getting closer and closer with each passing day. I still had a list of things to accomplish and like many men; I assumed my life would come to an end as I became a father. The dog was… well…you know…a pacifier of sorts.

Over the years this animal has become a member of our family. We have a perfect little son and a slightly hairier daughter. Last night Lucy, our dog, was very sick. I rushed her to the emergency veterinarian just before midnight. The details of her illness are not important, let’s just say its nothing you’d enjoy looking at while munchin’ on dinner.

Several hours later I returned home worn out and a few hundred dollars lighter. As I closed the front door, Lucy stumbled to her bed exhausted from the ordeal. I turned the bolt on the lock, and my son began to stir. That was it, no more sweet dreams for him or me. He’s been teething and last night was a rough one for him. He couldn’t pull together more than an hour or two of rest and was very vocal about his discomfort.

Dog vomit, crying, screaming, scratches at the door, howling, blood, and dirty diapers; its pretty close to the worst horror flick I’ve ever seen. Needless to say, getting sleep was an issue for all of us and that’s why now we are a family of walking zombies.

The undead have a single purpose. They are compelled to consume the flesh of the living. Similarly, I have a single function; to get sleep. I will attack any bed, futon, or lazy boy with a viciousness reserved for the most shocking of films. Unfortunately, I’ve seen enough of these silly movies to know that just as a zombie gets inches from fulfilling its purpose, it is typically killed in the most fantastic manner imaginable. So, even when I do finally get a chance to sleep, it will be with one eye open.

This morning at 3:30am I kicked my son’s miniature John Deere tractor across his bedroom floor. BANG! It hurt my foot and woke my wife. I told her it had been an accident and she rolled back into the covers of our bed grimacing. I think she bought it, but the truth is I was in a sleepless rage.

It’s funny the things that wake me up. I can sleep through a savage thunderstorm or even a sixteen wheeler crashing into the telephone pole in my front yard, but the sound of my sons head rustling against the covers wakes me from the dead. That’s how it starts. It takes about four minutes for him to reach full meltdown. I’ve never timed it, but I have counted breaths, praying between each one that somehow he’d drift back to sleep.

The slow struggle builds with a melody of grunts and moans. His small fingernails start to scratch against the lattice work of fabric that holds him in. All the while my jaw clinches tighter and my limp fingers find fists. Pavlov himself could not elicit more complete conditioned responses. He’s methodical and calculating. Now wailing at full volume, he begins twisting and turning, pounding his chubby little feet on the mattress until finally I fling open the sheets and stumble to attention.

Typically, I am an instant victim, powerless against his cuddly little frame. This morning I was immune. I collected him from his bed holding him tightly in my arms. Not so tight that he might be hurt, but enough to relieve him of his devices and stir up some fatherly satisfaction. I struggled for a moment and then before I realized it my residual anger was channeled into the small toy. It took flight and then found the wall.

Dealing with this irritability has been an interesting challenge. Running on a half tank, it sometimes becomes hard to see all that I am grateful for. Even in the eyes of my child. Dim moments like these are normal, and I am not concerned that I will ever do anything to regret. I just want to be aware of myself and see my choices more clearly. Even through swollen eyes at three in the morning.

My friends would describe me as even keel. Mellow and collected. Though, over the last few months I’ve been living outside myself. I’m finding the hat of fatherhood comfortable to wear; it’s just that it has to be on almost always. In the meantime, my party hat and drinking shoes are collecting dust in the closet.

Lately, each time I’ve met with friends for a casual evening, I’ve put both feet in my mouth. You know that obnoxious friend who’s constantly egging you on to stay out later, drink harder, and go home broke and exhausted? Well, that’s been me. In an effort to convince myself that fatherhood isn’t cramping my style, I’ve tortured my poor friends daring them to tie one on.

My wife, either from a place of wisdom or just out of sheer exhaustion, called my bluff. She contacted my friends and planned a night for me to go out. No strings attached, no curfews, no calls home, just a night of pure freedom. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what happened next. Just like any over compensating man in crisis would do, I went out and wasted my night of freedom on loads of booze and smokes. It was a mess.

I realized a few things the next day, as I nursed the worst hangover I’ve had in ten years. Fatherhood isn’t cramping my style; it is my style. While I love my friends and will always take pleasure in their company, I don’t have to do it from behind a stack of Budweisers. It proves nothing about my freedom to make choices and it does little to confirm my vitality.

Things are not as cut and dry as they might seem. Fatherhood is not a door that closes on the rest of your desires as you walk through it. In fact, every choice that stood before me as a single man stands there now. I just want different things. My desires no longer rest at the bottom of a bottle or in the dim neon lights of my favorite haunt. But it doesn’t mean I can’t visit from time to time… maybe with a little more composure.

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I’ve got a tank for a son. We made our first trip together to the pediatrician yesterday and the measuring sticks came flinging out like switch blades. He is nearly four months old, but carries the weight and the head of a ten month old. The guy is just off the chart in most of the areas they measure… If only these were calculations of intellect and charm, I think I would feel much more comfortable.

Insecurities I never new I had came racing to the surface. Protecting my own self-esteem from the vicious attacks of normalcy is bad enough. Now I gotta look out for this little guy as well. To make matters worse my wife and the judge (the doctor) were both grinning at me like I’m to blame, like I’m the one driving the chubby train.

So, the hour reeled on with question after question. When should he be rolling over? Is drooling normal? Why does he cry like that, is it ok? When can we expect him to crawl? How can we tell if he is overweight? So on and so on… There is so much to take in, so much to worry about. Is my child going to be smart, strong, charming, and slender, or at least close to my favorite pictures of normal? When it comes down to it, what ever his is, I made him that way…the pressure was maddening…

But just at the outside of this growing tornado of questions and judgments, sat a pudgy little man grinning and drooling from ear to ear. With his smiling eyes, he saved me from a spiraling mess of anxiety and concern. What a happy little guy. That’s what I want normal to look like. Take your conversion charts and slide rules and pitch’em. I wish I were that normal.

So the challenge, right from the start is to remember that version of my son. Happy and satisfied by simply being held on the lap of his father. Sure other indications of growth and health are important to monitor. But nothing is a better measure than that chubby little smile…

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My son was born three months ago. I’ve been waiting patiently for a moment of realization; things are changed forever. Everyone’s told me it would hit me in the face, a vicious cocktail of fear and exhilaration. So, I’ve pictured this epiphany as a ton of bricks or with images of a life flashing before my eyes. The truth though, is that it’s appeared as small flickers, brightening many moments. A slow ooze of understanding.

A weekend ago it was Halloween and I believe it is the right of all grown men to dawn the drawers of their favorite hero or goblin. To touch beers with friends and ogle over a French maid or a naughty girl scout. Ritual is in our nature. In fact, I might go as far to suggest, that all the Halloween years leading up to the this adult version of myself have been nothing more than preparation for this very important celebration of manhood.

At last, I find myself on a street corner with a small drooling chicken for a sidekick. Cooing into the cool October evening, he and I make our way from house to house. Stopping every few blocks, we are met by older men, men who have long since mourned the passing of the Halloween keg stand or the dive bar costume contest. Their sidekicks have swiftly grown into the stars of their own shows. As we pass, knowing glances send new Halloween chills down my spine. Their grins hold back well-earned secrets and satisfactions.

Looking past self-pity, I silenced the calls of less experienced men and abandoned my former Halloween self. Pushing my phone deep into my pocket we carry on into the night. Some things have to give; the rights of the father pass to the son. When I put that chubby little Halloween chicken to bed, I found something truly gratifying about our evening. I’m not completely sure, but I think the idea of being his tour guide to the world is pretty damn cool.  He doesn’t understand any of this Halloween hullabaloo and he won’t for a while. What he does know is that his dad will be standing right next to him sharing in celebration and protecting him from the boogieman. That makes up for the missing schoolgirls and fallen angles… just barely.