Father Shock

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.

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.

For the last few weeks the mothers in my family have all been clattering about my little boy getting teeth. Granted, he’s been drooling and sucking on anything that gets within inches of his face, but I just didn’t believe them. He’s always so smiley and never really seems uncomfortable.

So yesterday it became official, they know more than I do; he’s got a tooth! Just one and I really wouldn’t call it a tooth; it’s more of a nub. Not really good for eating beef jerky or smiling at the ladies, but it’s a start. Apparently he’s going to have twenty of these little “primary” teeth when he’s done. He’s got a lot of work to do.

It never ceases to amaze me how our bodies work. You might say, “How can you get excited about such a little moment?” Well, I’m eager to share life with my son. A tooth means at some point he will be able to shape sounds and speak. It means food, real food with interesting tastes and textures. It seems like each day he and I get a little closer. Interactions have grown in complexity, moving from random eye contact to intentional laughter and hand motions. I want to know him and I want him to know me and a tooth is a simple step in that direction.

So apparently the teething process takes some time. Most kids have their full set of primary teeth by the age of two or three. The teeth arrive in stages, and appear with an assortment of annoying symptoms. They can increase irritability, cause drooling, chin rashes, discomfort in the jaw and ear, coughing, and more frequent interruptions in sleep (for baby and dad).

As this tooth has arrived so has the advice. I will no doubt be sorting through the recommendations of friends and family, choosing what remedies to attempt first. Suggestions like cold teething rings and baby Tylenol seem most reasonable. Though, I’m sure if I lose enough sleep I might be willing to try more extreme methods, like rubbing some Jack Daniels on his gums. A finger for him, and two for me…straight up!

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.

It’s been just over four and a half months since my son took his first breath. The learning curve in those first few months has been brutal. Each time I start to feel like I’ve got this thing handled, I find another hitch in my giddy up.

It seems the quickest way to stabilize the chaotic day to day is through routine. It’s a dirty word, I know. Routines are vicious taskmasters that strip the pleasure from most situations. In the past if anyone were to approach me about bringing structure to my life, I’d probably cry out, singing praises for the spontaneous. I’d sit back and make some clever remark about appreciating the regularity of a bowel movement, but to hell with the rest.

The truth is my propensity towards a spontaneous life, probably has more to do with laziness than a fervent belief in the unplanned. It’s difficult to admit, but being accountable is hard work. I’ve sloppily juggled responsibilities like work, family, health, and my bills. This is a reasonable feat for the novice juggler and I’ve been pretty successful. Now I’m supposed to hurl sixteen flaming chainsaws into the air like some crazy sideshow carnie. It’s a good bet I’m going to lose an arm and suffer several third degree burns if I can’t pull things together.

While I’m sure there is research that confirms the value of stability to the happiness of a child, at this point I’m mostly concerned about getting to work with my pants on and making sure the electric bill gets paid. So, with a white flag in my hand, I surrender to the weight of chaos. No longer will I live oblivious to the clock and immune to plans. I will rely on routine to organize the important so I can consider the rest, choosing wisely instead of purely by whim. It’s the only way I can survive… because my beautiful assistant is at the edge of the stage firing up the seventeenth chainsaw as we speak.

Robert Grunberg pictured above. See www.westland.net/VENICE/performers.htm to learn more.

This year there are an estimated 74.9 million kids living in the United States. That’s over 25 million asking to barrow the keys to their parent’s car for the first time, 25 million signing along with Dora the Explorer, and another 25 million packing their shorts and cooing at the air.

There are a lot of us parents, with children of all design. I’m not sure about you, but I don’t spend my time knee deep in pamphlets, books, and articles trying to find the keys to parenthood. I’m spending it stumbling through each day just fumbling with the basics; eat, poop, sleep, & play. (My little one is still packs his shorts)

With what seems like an endless amount of detail and opinion converging from every angle, it makes finding clear and helpful information tricky at times. Here are a few online resources that I’ve found useful:

• United States Government – Parenting Resource This site provides official information and services from the U.S. government. It offers links to online resources like the U.S. Department of Human Health and Services.  It covers important topics like adoption, education, parental health concerns, crime prevention and nutrition.
• Family Education.com This is a comprehensive tool. While it does cover an overwhelming amount of information, it organizes it in a really convenient manner. You can search by age and find any thing from a toddler toy recall to tips on high school graduation.
• Parenthood.com The most helpful piece of this online resource is its catalogue of articles. They have efficiently organized hundreds of articles on popular parenting topics. Most of the article are brief and to the point.
• Mayoclinic.com There are so many medical resources online. While these resources can never take the place of a trained professional, it is helpful to have well-organized, accurate information at your fingertips. There are many to choose from, but I have found this site to be the easiest to use and also very credible.

As a new parent, I am finding that time is absolutely the scarcest of resources. I will probably never consider much of the information presented by these sites. However it is comforting to know,  information about many of my specific questions rests on the pages of these collections and it’s only a click away.

Picture barrowed form: www.thedailygreen.com please support this interesting site.

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.

Picture barrowed from : http://corriecanuck.wordpress.com Please support this blogger.

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…

Picture taken from: www.mssinglemama.com please visit her blog and support this interesting writer.

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.