Father Shock

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.

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.

Lately, I’ve been taking inventory of the stuff that bothers me. I’m underpaid, tired, overweight, and have no time to myself. Over the last few weeks, I’ve spent hours considering the details of each predicament, easily abandoning finer thoughts of things that bring me joy. Like many slopes, this is a slippery one. It doesn’t take long until most moments are shadowed in discontent.

Sounds dramatic I know, but a few days ago something simple interrupted my bender of self-pity.  My Grandmother knocked on my door at seven AM. She’s been doing this now for the last several weeks. Every Thursday she makes her way to my house to look after my son while I’m at work.

She has a quiet little routine she performs each time she comes into the house. She sets up her coffee and paper, checks in on my son, and then stands at the door as I leave, well wishing and locking up. This week as I stepped onto the patio I paused and realized how loved I felt and how grateful I am that my son lives at the center of a world where such wonderful people treasure him.

Each year at about this time my family gathers for Thanksgiving. Sometimes the tradition of sharing our appreciation for people or things in our life creates an awkward tension at the table; a pressure to produce a genuine moment of thanks on cue. While moments like this usually occur under more spontaneous conditions for me, this year I won’t struggle.

I am now living in a state of gratitude. I am thankful for my father who takes my son on long walks of discovery, my mother who showers him with love at bath time, my brother and his family that set many happy examples, and my wife for more reasons than I can mention. So many have contributed to the happiness of my son. For aunts that rearrange their work schedules and spend day after day fawning over my boy and for last minute grandmother babysitters…I am truly grateful.

It’s so hard to linger in the shadows with so many lighting the way… Thank you.

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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The Baby Bjorn classic carrier is one of the most popular baby carriers on the market. I have used the product and become a reluctant fan. While I think it looks goofy and believe that a man shouldn’t necessarily be walking around with a baby strapped to his chest, I still decided to give it a go. Surprisingly, I found it really convenient. Strolling along conflicted with my preconceptions, I was truly enjoying the freedom. My son was so safe and close and I felt really confident in the quality of the carrier. (In the interest of better protecting my manhood, I will not be giving mini-vans a go!)

The product is very sturdy. It supports my son well. The plastic attachments are securely fastened and Bjorn goes the extra mile to ensure that the plastics and fabrics are free from harmful chemicals like BPA (Remember everything goes in your baby’s mouth).

Once you figure out the puzzle of hooks and snaps, it really becomes easy to use. Also, Bjorn guarantees that your child’s legs and arms will be in physiologically correct positions when they ride in the carrier. How they make that guarantee, I’m not sure, but they make it none the less. If you care about color, the standard carriers come in man friendly tones.

Price is a drawback. Some models can list for over $175. If your tyke is a little on the large side, he/she will out grow the carrier pretty quickly. Although it is very adjustable, once you hit the twenty-five pound mark it gets tough to squeeze the little sucker in. It’s pretty useless after that point. It might make a good pot holder or you could just jam the thing into a dark hole in the closet.

Overall it is a nice product. It’s more of a luxury than a necessity.  My son seems to enjoy the ride, but unfortunately the Bjorn  has a very short usable lifespan. If you can find a well maintained used one or have extra cash to burn, then I say pick one up. Otherwise, just use the carriers you were born with … your arms.

Image from “The Hangover” – Warnerbros

According to the National Sleep Research Project, “A new baby typically results in 400-750 hours lost sleep for parents in the first year.”  That’s up to a month of lost sleep… in just the first year!

Now sleep deprivation is not all bad, there is an upside. “After five nights of partial sleep deprivation, three drinks will have the same effect on your body as six would when you’ve slept enough.” So, when your wallet starts to hurt from the strain of diapers and formula, this little factoid can be a lifesaver for the self medicating.

It could be much worse.  Scientists calculate that, “Humans sleep on average around three hours less than other primates like chimps, rhesus monkeys, squirrel monkeys and baboons, all of whom sleep for ten hours.” I can think of nothing worse than an irritable squirrel monkey. Trust me; be glad you’re not married to a sleep deprived chimpanzee that has to get up every three hours to breastfeed. You think mornings are rough now! Chimps have the strength of four men and can wield sticks and clubs!

“The record for the longest period without sleep is 18 days, 21 hours, 40 minutes during a rocking chair marathon. The record holder reported hallucinations, paranoia, blurred vision, slurred speech and memory and concentration lapses.” It’s ironic that the record was set in a rocking chair. That’s where I spend the majority of my sleepless hours. Guess I should give Guinness a call.  First, I better shake this big pink dinosaur of my tail… I think he’s following me.

Finally, “Experts say one of the most alluring sleep distractions is the 24-hour accessibility of the internet.” So really, this blog isn’t helping you or I. Click it off man and get some sleep!

Find other facts about sleep deprivation at the National Sleep Research Project. Quoted material was obtained from their site.

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.