The Day You Were Born

Hey Buddy,

I've got a lot of ground to cover. I could go on and on about how much you've grown, how smart you are, and how much fun it is being your dad. But I won't do that now. Telling a child that he's older is really only interesting for grown-ups, not so much for the kids.

What I wanted to talk about today was the day you were born. I'm not sure if I ever really wrote down everything, and I didn't want to forget since it's still relatively fresh in my memory.

You were born exactly on-time. When your mom was 4 months pregnant the doctor told her that your "Due Date" was March 28th. Not many children are born on their due dates, but you were.

You had a little help, though. On the Friday before you were born the doctor was looking at ultrasound pictures and she noticed that the fluid levels in your mom's belly (that you were floating in) were a little low. So the doctor told us, "Let's schedule the pregnancy for Monday, unless he comes before then."

You didn't. Monday was the 28th.

You were right on time.

We got up really early that morning and drove to the hospital. Your grandma was with us, helping out. When we got there they took us directly to the room that you were going to be born in -- it had a nice view of a hillside and there was a neat statue on the hill that we could see from the room. Here's a picture of that statue:

It's called the "Tower of Redemption" statue, but it's affectionately known as the "Touchdown Jesus" statue. Either way, it seemed like the guy on the statue was doing a good job of welcoming you in to the world.

Once we were settled into the birthing room the nurses hooked your mom up to a bunch of monitors and started giving her something called "pitocin" to start her contractions. They started pretty quick.

A contraction is basically just a wave of pain that happens every couple of minutes. That's all that pregnancy is, really -- just waves of pain that the mom gets to experience, and eventually a baby comes out. We'd gone to classes to help manage that pain, and I tried to be a supporting dad the whole time but eventually your mom got pretty tired of being told how to breathe correctly and she asked for pain medication called an epidural.

Turns out we could have asked for the epidural a lot sooner. But one one told us that. Anyway, when they got around to giving it to your mom (this was after about 6 hours riding the waves of pain) she slumped back in relief. Almost all of the pain went away, and she could relax a little bit.

But things were far from over.

Eventually, after about 12 hours of enduring contractions, the doctor decided that it was time for your mom to start "pushing." What you're supposed to do is, every time you have a contraction, you start "pushing." It normally takes about 20 minutes.

Your mom was pushing for an hour-and-a-half. It was really exhausting.

You made me scared, too. There were monitors for your mom on the screen, but there were also monitors for your little baby heart. And every time your mom pushed, you little heart would slow down. But it'd always go back to normal after she finished pushing. I was worried about you, buddy. I think I always will be.

Also, not to be too gross, but every time your mom pushed I could see your little head popping out just a bit. You were so close, but you were being pretty stubborn. I hear the womb is a pretty nice place.

Eventually the doctor came in for the final "pushing" session. They threw a sheet over your mom and she pushed two times.

On the third push our little Henry popped out.

They cleaned your mouth out and gave the most adorable little squeal I've ever heard. Then they cleaned you up and handed you to your mom.

You were pretty handsome for a newborn kid...I got to say. I'd heard that newborns look like little deformed alien creatures, but not you, my boy. You were a handsome devil.

After we had a chance to hold you the nurses took you away to get your measurements. This gave us a chance to grab a snack, which consisted of a cold turkey sandwich, mayonnaise, and a bag of chips. Your mom hadn't eaten all day, and I was pretty darn hungry too.

I had to fetch something from our room, and on the way I passed by the nursing station and they were all fawning over you (you little heart-breaker), but while I was walking I got my second scare of the day. One of the nurses said something to the effect of, "He's going to have it pretty rough." Another nurse asked, "Have you told them yet?" And the first nurse said, "No, not yet."

A million things ran through my mind. I was terrified that something was seriously wrong. I panicked, but tried to put on a brave face for your mom.

Turns out all that was wrong was that you had a little bit of "jaundice," which is pretty common for babies. Other than that, you were a healthy little dude.

We stayed in the hospital for two more nights. It was pretty boring stuff -- we watched a lot of TV, and we fed you every two hours. There were birth certificates to sign, hospital bills to pay, and diapers to change.

Eventually we got the okay to bring you home, so we put you in a fancy new onesie, strapped you into your car seat, and drove you home.

Happiness

Hey Bug,

I can't really call you "Bloophus" any more...because it described you better when you were just this gurgling, drooling, helpless little blob of goo.

Now you're this little boy that I can actually talk to. When I leave in the morning you should "BYE DADOO!" When I come home you go pound on the screen door and scream "DAAAAAAD!"

Which makes me think that, eventually, I won't have to tell you things on this blog. I can just do it in-person.

When I was in my 20s I kept a journal. I didn't write in it every day, but I wrote enough so that it was over 100 pages long by the time I stopped. I wrote in it for a number of reasons. First because I needed a place to talk about things completely honestly -- without worrying about being boring or being forced to say "polite" things. Secondly I was a fairly lonely young man. I had plenty of friends and a great family...but I couldn't talk to those people about the things I really wanted to talk about because it was private, embarrassing, boring, or all three. Finally, I just really wanted to document that time in my life.

When I started dating someone I thought it would get better, I wound up being pretty unhappy...and I would write in my journal to "vent." When I read back my entries from those years I sound very mean-spirited and bitter. Not that I was unhappy all of the time, but when I was unhappy I would write in the journal.

Eventually that relationship ended and I started dating your mother. Surprisingly my journal entries got fewer and farther apart until I stopped writing in it altogether. I just didn't have anything to say...and if I did, I just said it to your mom.

I'm telling you this stuff for two reasons. First, if you feel like you've got no one that you can talk to honestly, just know that you can always talk to me if you want. I hope we never get to a point where you feel like you can't talk to me in spite of the fact that I'm your DAAAAAD.

Second, I want you to remember that, no matter what, you must try to be happy. At all times. If you've got something in your life that is just constantly making you unhappy (no matter what it is) then get rid of that thing as soon as possible. I spent far too much of my life being unhappy for one reason or another, and I've really got no one but myself to blame for that.

Finally, always be honest to yourself. It's harder than it sounds -- we lie to ourselves all of the time, and that causes a lot of unhappiness. If you can talk to me, then great. If you only feel comfortable talking to a journal, that's fine too. But promise me that you'll have at least one place where you can go to be completely honest. It's good for your head.


Okay. That's all for now. Love you, bud.


Daaaaaaaaaaad

A Quote I Like

Here is a quote I like. It's from my favorite author. I've altered it a bit, which I hope Mr. Vonnegut could forgive:

"Hello, son. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, son, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of,son —God damn it, you've got to be kind." -- Kurt Vonnegut, in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater

Little Man

A lot of times when I come home you head to the screen door and pound away, shouting "Dad!" Occasionally I'll make it inside and see you in the dining room, and you'll either start spinning in circles or you'll run away from me with an impish grin on your face.

Yesterday, though, I came home and found you sitting on your chair, watching TV, chewing on your fingers. You were running a slight fever, so you weren't your usually active self.

But I was just struck by the fact that you've just grown into this independent, funny, charming little person. For the longest time we had to take care of you, monitor your every move, and stay nearby in case you needed anything.

You're becoming a little man...and I love it.

Your mom told me that she got choked up yesterday, because she realized that there's going to be a day when you don't want to run up to her, grab her by the leg and say "mammamamma." And when I think of a time when you're not going to yell "DAD!" at me from across a room, I'm going to be a little sad too.

But it's okay. We all grow up, and it's great seeing you grow up too.

A Letter to Bean

Hey handsome,

Here's a letter I wrote to you when your mom was 3 months pregnant. It's on my other blog, which is probably a little too grown-up for you to read...but you might enjoy it eventually.

Anyhow...on with the letter:

Dear Bean,

That's what we called you, early on. The bean. Our little bean. Two little centimeters of human, growing inside of my wife. Or, at least you were the first time I saw you.

It probably doesn't mean much to you now. If you're old enough to be reading this, you're probably old enough to forget about all that crap that happened while you were in the womb. The placenta, the uterine lining, the umbilical cord, the muffled sound of the theme song to the show Top Chef...all a distant memory.

Who am I? Who was I? Well...I'm your father, dammit. Don't you ever forget that. Mom says to eat your vegetables, so do it, dammit. Listen to your mother.

Sorry. Truth?

First, I'll give you some history. To be frank, I had a bit of a different idea in mind when I thought about "me being a father." I thought what I wanted to do was bring a child into a perfect little world, where I owned a home, had no debt, and had enough money to cover a full college tuition to the "Ivy League University of your Choosing." I wanted to be making a bunch of money that I could give you so you wouldn't have to actually hold a job until you graduated college at 23.

But that wasn't reality. I have a hell of a time trying to save money, and I've never really been much for "stability." When I met your mother, I fell madly in love with her, and I believed that I owed it to humanity to bring a copy of her into the world.

Consequently, all my thoughts of this "perfect little world" fantasy met with my new reality. But, I mean, no parent is ever really ready to embark on this "child rearing" adventure, right? So, once the "let's make a baby" idea was proposed to me, I thought, "Yeah. Let's do it. Sounds like fun."

So we made you. You're probably not old enough yet to learn how we did it...but needless to say, it's one of the great perks of trying to have children. The process was, really, much easier than I thought it'd be. Two months of (really) inconsistent attempts and suddenly you blipped into existence. Heck, the ink was barely dry on my health insurance plan...if you'd come two months earlier, you would have been a really terrible financial burden.

Not that that's your fault, or anything. You're just a prune-sized glob of goo. In fact, I hear your baby teeth are just starting to form as I type...so congrats on that. I have grown-up teeth...which makes me better than you. Boom. How does that feel?

Sorry. So, who was your dad? I know, I haven't answered that yet. It's a good question.

Well I tell you, I have one hell of a dad (which means you've got one hell of a granddad). He's a guy that I deified, really...which means, I made him to be "God-like" (sorry, I'm going to use some big words here -- ask you mother what they mean if you're confused). In fact, he's such a great guy that I can't imagine being as great a dad as he was...and I find it hard to believe that one day you could be typing a letter to your unborn child where you're saying that you ever deified me.

Don't get me wrong. It'd be an honor. I'm just saying...it's hard for me to imagine.

Because, who was your dad? Again, I'm failing to answer the question. But, to be honest, it's a hell of a question.

I don't know who I am, really. You little bastard. Geez. Get off my back.

Sorry. I get angry sometimes.

I'm a guy who likes new paragraphs and sentence fragments.

Apparently.

Here's the truth: I'm scared. You're probably scared, too. You're all, "Where the hell am I? Why's it so dark? Why do my fingers have webs?"

Of course, all new dads are scared...I guess that's just part of the experience, right? I'm thinking, "Jesus...I have all this credit card debt. I don't even own a car, or a home. I don't know what I'm going to do for money when my wife is out of work. And I'm supposed to be the provider? Holy crap."

But the reality is, I'm going to do the best I can. You won't know any better -- hell, you probably won't be smarter than me until you're well into your 20s, and I'll have built up enough life experience by that time that I'll seem smarter than you anyway. And you will respect me, dammit. No child of mine is going to go through life not respecting his damn parents.

So, who was your dad? Dammit, that's a stupid question. Who is anyone? I'm just another guy, trying to enjoy himself in this short time that he's schlepping around this rock. I'm not perfect. In fact, I'm probably less perfect than most people. I found my soul mate, and we decided to create you.

We were successful...lucky you.

The better question is, what did I want to be once I found out you existed? Well, here's how I feel now:

I will do everything in my power to make sure you have a great life. I will try my hardest...sacrifice every part of me...do whatever it takes to give you happiness (hee hee...penis), and make sure you stay happy. I might suck at it. You won't know, of course, because kids never know whether or not their parents suck at being parents until they're much older

Regardless, I'll try to be (objectively) the best dad possible. I'm not working with much, frankly. As we speak, I've got about $150.00 to my name. I mean, I've got a good job with health insurance and everything...but things are pretty tight right now. And you're due to pop into the world in about 6 months. Yikes.

Luckily for both of us you've got a terrific mom, and we work really well together. You've also got a great extended family, who will probably be very annoyed with me as they're reading this...talking about death, debt, and all that icky stuff. But the Rhoades' and Godwin's are all very sane people...especially your mom and I. So you won't have to worry about turning out mental because part of your genetic seed is faulty.

Though, hopefully, whether you're a boy or a girl, you end up with more of your mom's looks than mine. Or, at least, you're spared my overly broad nose, squinky eyes, and receding hairline. But there's nothing you can do to help that -- I mean, I've lived with those things, and I managed to attract a babe like your mother, so it's probably not nearly as bad as I make it out to be.

But more than anything, I hope you're happy. Content. All that. You don't need to be successful, or rich, or powerful, or famous, or any of those things people strive for. You don't have to achieve great things, or leave some kind of lasting impression on humanity. I just want you to enjoy yourself. Do things that make you proud. Things that interest you; excite you. And if you're doing something that makes you unhappy, knock it off and do something else.

I'll be chock full of wise wisdom like that...provided I don't die suddenly before you're carried to term. Because, even though I'm scared, feeling unworthy, and totally unprepared for your arrival...I'm really looking forward to it. It's one of those unselfish, rewarding parts of human nature that I want to experience. I think I can help raise you right. If, somehow, I failed? Well...I hope you can see that I tried with every ounce of my being, and gave you as good a shot as anyone out there.

Guess that's it. Did I answer your questions? Did you have anything else? Shoe size? Um. 11 1/2. College GPA? 3.3. Any other questions, I mean, about my personality or anything?

No? Okay, good. Good luck. And make me proud, dammit. As if I could ever not make me proud, you rad little bean.


Love,

Dad

Dah-Doo and Ma-ma-ma-ma

Hey Buddy,

So...you're talking now. At least, I'm pretty sure you are. Your mom (who you call "mamamma") has determined that several of your babbles are actually "words." She gets to be around you a lot more than I do, so she's a little better at translating. The only words I understand are mama, "Dah-doo" (Daddy), "Ah-doo" (all done), and "bah-dah" (bath time).

You're also walking all over the place. Last Thursday, we took you to a playground, and you were less interested in the toys...and more interested in just running all over the place.

What I'm trying to say is...you're a lot of fun right now, little guy. You're a funny little dude, and even though it's tough sometimes...I've got to say that your mom and I sure are enjoying being your parents.


Love you,

Dad

Morning Glory

Hey Bud,

Just wanted to tell you this, because I think it's frigging adorable. Your mom (bless her heart) wakes up with you every morning, anywhere from 5:30 AM to 7:00 AM. I don't know where you got those "waking up early" genes, but it sure wasn't from me.

Anyhow, when I do finally get up (around 8:00 AM) I'll walk out and see you. Now, a couple of months ago, you used to run and give me a hug every morning.

But now, when you see me, you go rushing into your room to grab this little pink shopping cart that mom bought for you. You drag it into the living room, and dump the contents onto the floor.

I have no idea why you do this, but I love it. I just thought you should know.