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.

Night Night

Hey Handsome,

We're in the middle of "sleep training" you now, bud...and it's hard. I mean, I feel bad, because it requires me to allow you to cry for a set period of time every night. You cry for 5 minutes, and then I go in and "comfort" you as best I can. Then I leave, and typically you start crying harder than before.

Your mom couldn't even really do it when we started -- she went in to comfort you, then came out almost in tears because it was so hard to watch you crying like that.

Anyhow, you might be upset now, but when you get older you'll understand, and when you have kids of your own you'll understand even more.

Because I was allowed to cry for extended periods of time, and I turned out just fine. I don't blame my parents now, and I never have. But the thing is, all of these "baby experts" out there are telling us that letting your child cry, even for a little bit, could hurt the child's brain.

It's scary. We've already given what will likely be a life-long scar on your forehead, but are we also damaging your brain? It all has something to do with something called "cortisol." According to doctors, non-stop crying causes a lot of cortisol. When there's too much cortisol in the body, it's a bad thing. So people assume that allowing a baby to cry creates a lot of cortisol, and that's a bad thing.

But I don't think it's that simple, because the important tests were done on rats...and humans are much more complicated than rats. That's why I'm okay with letting you cry.

I just hope it was the right choice.

Third Eye

Hey Bud,

Well...you went and did it now, didn't you? Again, this isn't your fault (nothing really is until you get a little older), but you've gone ahead and sustained your first "big" injury.

It happened at daycare. Apparently you were playing outside and you tripped or stumbled into a cement ledge. This opened up a pretty big wound on your forehead that was about the size of a small marble...pretty scary stuff.

Anyhow, mom went and picked you up, and I drove over from work and met you both at our doctor's office. The injury was actually a lot worse than I thought it'd be -- certainly worse than any cut I've had in a long time. It was pretty scary, my man. You were doing okay, but you kept rubbing it.

In order to help the wound heal, the doctor decided to glue it shut (in my day, doctors used to "stitch" wounds closed...apparently your cut was just small enough that the doctor could use glue instead). It was a good thing I came to the doctor's office, because you sure as heck did not want any part of it. I'm pretty sure everyone in the office could hear your screams, and man oh man did you squirm like crazy.

Eventually our doctor got the wound closed. I hope it doesn't scar too badly. I mean, we all have scars, but I feel bad that you got yours before you are even old enough to remember it. Maybe it'll heal well...otherwise you'll have a lot of people asking you, "Hey, where'd you get that scar from?"

Might not be so bad...especially if it's a girl asking. Chicks dig scars...or so I'm told. Either way, I feel pretty bad about it, even though I was miles away when it happened. Hope you're not too ticked off about it...but I think you'll be fine in the long run. I mean, if these people made it, I'm sure you'll be fine too: http://www.spike.com/articles/41tl4u/the-top-10-celebrities-with-deformities

Please Go To Sleep...

Hey Bud,

So, first of all, I forgive you. You didn't do anything wrong...but at the same time, I forgive you.

We've been going through a bit of a rough patch lately. For some reason you're not sleeping through the night. Your mom and I are trying to figure it out -- did we do something wrong? Was there some kind of "sleep training" thing that we messed up?

It's possible. Right now, the easiest way to get you to sleep is to get you out of your crib and hold you until you nod off. The problem is, if you wake up, you won't be able to put yourself back to sleep. You see where I'm going with this?

Anyhow, I know it's not your fault, but that sure doesn't stop me from begging you to somehow find the ability to sleep soundly though the night.

I dunno', bud. I guess you'll figure it out. Some day, I'm sure you'll love sleep as much as your dad does.

In other news, you're turning 1 year old in a couple weeks. It's a pretty big milestone...but I'm sure at this point it'll just be "another day" for you (albeit with a tasty "cake" to rub all over your face). Should be fun...

Hugs!

Hey Bud,

So...real quick. This morning your mom wanted to take a shower, so she woke me up and asked me to watch you for a couple minutes.

I was more than happy to do so; part of being a dad and husband, I suppose. Anyhow, one of the greatest things on earth is that first moment when you hear my voice. You smile so big and wide...and you've got a mouth full of these tiny, crooked little teeth. But the absolute best part is how you stumble across the room and give me what can only be described as a "big ol' baby hug."

Tell you what, I cannot think of anything better than getting a hug from my son. You have no idea how happy you've made my life, little man. I realize that this is a super-duper über corny post, but I just wanted you to know that.

Love You

Hey Bud,

Nothing much to report tonight -- everything is still the same, really. Just wanted to tell you that I love you, and I always will.

We're All Sick

Hey Bud,

Been a crazy couple of weeks, health-wise. First off, your dad is fighting some kind of illness. I'm not sure what it is, and I've seen a bunch of doctors who have assured me that, in spite of the fact that I feel sick, my body appears to be "functioning normally." Again, this blog is secretly one of those things where I worry that something will happen to me before you're old enough to know me.

So, just in case, "Hi, Henry. I love you. I'm your father. Make me proud, and for god's sake, behave yourself."

Got it? Cool. Anyway, so that's my thing. I've been feeling just "off" for about 3 months now. Some days are fine, some days less so...but all of usual danger signs are absent. So that's where I'm at.

You? Well, you're currently dribbling snot out of your nose at a record pace. Yesterday you sneezed one of the most epic, long-lasting "snot bubbles" that I've ever seen. It's been quite a problem for you...this congestion. I try to wipe your nose when I can, but you don't like that too much. I'd tell you to "blow your nose," but you can't quite understand the things I say yet. So, we're at something of an impasse.

Speaking of which, you could be talking now, but it's hard for me to tell the difference between "babble" and "words." Whenever you're in an "echo-y" area, you jabber like a madman...it's pretty adorable. You say things like "Ah-doo! Ah-doo!" I'm assuming that's something like "Hello." You also say "da da da da da," which I interpret to mean "Dadda." You also say "Ma ma ma ma," which I also interpret to mean "Momma." But you're not using them consistently...so I wouldn't want to claim a "first word" prematurely. Either way, you're doing just fine.

That is, other than your fever, runny nose, and a sleeping problems. It's too bad...you're such a sweet, well-behaved kid. If we hold you and you don't want to sleep, you buck like a bronco (and there's no chance of you going down). But man, if you're tired, you'll fall right asleep in our arms. It's very cute -- you're a very cute kid, and I'm just shocked that I was able to produce something so adorable.

Last night was interesting. We had some friends over to watch the Academy Awards (if you're looking for movie recommendations when you read this, check out "The Artist." It is a damn fine movie). You were up way past your bedtime, but you were having a ball with all of those people around. You're quite a little charmer -- again, very surprised that I'd helped create such a handsome, well-behaved, charming son. But that's you, my man.

After the show your mother and I were cleaning up...when all the sudden she bent over at the waist and cupped her hand over her eye. She was in a lot of pain...and frankly I was a little freaked out. She told me it felt like something was in her eye. I took a look, but didn't see anything. I put some eye drops in there, but she was still in a lot of pain that wouldn't go away. Finally, I decided that we needed to go into the emergency room.

I thought all of her poor eye hygiene had caught up with her, or something. I feared the worst. I just wanted to make her pain go away.

This was at around 11:00 PM. Your bedtime is 6:00 PM, but you'd stayed up until 8:00 PM that night with everyone else...so you'd only been asleep for 3 hours (that was some pretty quick math right there). I gently woke you up, buckled you into your seat, took a seat next to your mom, and drove off to the emergency room...as one happy family.

We checked in and waited to be admitted. As we were sitting there, you decided it'd be a good time to test our the acoustics of the room...so you were jabbering up a storm (to the annoyance of the other people in the waiting room, unfortunately).

After about ten minutes of waiting, your mother bolted upright, turned to me and said, "I think I got it." She held her finger out, and I saw the tiniest, lightest, finest little hair on the tip of her finger.

"Was that it?" I asked.

She blinked a couple of times. "Yep. That was it."

Relief washed over me. She wasn't going blind...she actually just had something in her eye. So we told the nurse to cancel everything and left post-haste. We got home, and went to be pretty quick.

That's where things stand right now, bud. Everyone in the house happens to have something wrong with them. I hope the thing I have isn't too serious. Frankly, that's what's causing me the most anxiety. I want to see you grow up into the awesome man I know you'll be, but I don't know why I'm feeling so crappy right now.

I have another appointment on Wednesday...hopefully this new doctor will be able to give me some answers...and eventually get me all patched up so I can watch you grow into an amazing man some day.

For Bloophus

Hey Bud,

So, you might not know it now, but I'm your father. You're about 11 months old, and to you I'm sure I'm just one of the two people who happens to be around you all the time. Eventually you'll understand the concept.

Either way, I wanted to write you a secret blog. Not totally secret, of course...but maybe "just out of view." I hope to tell you about this some day...or maybe if I forget, perhaps you'll just stumble upon it.

I just wanted a place to talk to you for a bit, since you can't exactly talk back to me. Yet.

Who knows how long I'll do this...or if I'll even post a second blog entry. I put the odds at 50/50.

And "Bloophus" is the nickname we gave you as a child. I have no idea where it came from. I feel like it was a mix of Bocephus and Booger. Not the most flattering origin...but hey, nicknames aren't always supposed to be flattering.

Anyhow, today I took you to the playground for the first time ever. You've only been walking for a couple of weeks, so there wasn't a whole lot you could do. You ran around a little bit, but most of the time you sat down and tried to eat whatever you found on the ground. That's not a real great idea in Los Angeles, unfortunately...so I had to stop you.

It was a lot of fun for me. And you had a pretty good time too. It was only one hour, but it was amazing. I'm looking forward to many more years of stuff like this.