Well, they say when you can't write, the best thing to do is just write anyway. Which sounds like gibberish, but it's worth a shot. I haven't touched this blog since December of last year, and was shocked to find that the website didn't even exist anymore. Long story short, my kid napped for two hours, so I had time to re-purchase the website and the reconfigure whatever settings needed to be changed to make this whole operation legit again.
In the background to all that computing, I was half listening to the maddening drivel from Republican Senator Susan Collins, who's vote will end up swinging this whole Brett Kavanaugh confirmation craziness in the worst direction possible.
I mean, what are we coming to as a society when Republican Senators have no problem voting this beer-guzzling sexual predator into one of the highest positions in the country, but his own drinking buddies would not. Not to mention the 700+ law school professors, the American Bar Association, and the former Supreme Court Justices who also publicly stated that this man was an incompetent baffoon.
Good lord, the tides are turning, and this looks to be one evil night ahead of us.
My son, however, remains blissfully unaware of this situation, at least for now. Not even one year old yet, his main concerns are whether or not we feed him on time, which is fine, but his future is being carved for him by the swine currently holding public office. And it needs stating that these bastards work for US, it's not the other way around, but sweet jesus it doesn't feel that way.
Well, let's hope for a miracle so that people like my son can grow up in a world where we damn well believe survivors of sexual assault, and where we don't elect ill-tempered dope fiends to the Supreme Court.
Wednesday, December 27, 2017
Preparing for a kid in no way shape or form actually prepares you for a kid. I feel it is akin to looking both ways for cars before crossing the street, but then getting hit by some random alien space ship crashing down on you from the sky. You just have no idea what is coming.
I mean, I read a bunch books. I watched videos on youtube. I was pretty sure that I knew what I was supposed to do. Put him to sleep, change his diaper, hang out with him, the usual baby stuff. I was also aware that my sleep would suffer. This is all stuff that I knew. What I didn’t know is that the devil is in the details, and sweet jesus that devil would not go unnoticed.
Changing diapers seems like a logical place to start. This is something that you do ten times a day at least, but at the beginning at least, it is one awkward gig. Now, maybe I’m just some irresponsible nitwit that just didn’t pay attention, but those videos sure made it look simple. The baby would just lay there, a big smile on its face, and the parent would go about their job of changing that barely-soiled diaper in a very nonchalant fashion. So it came as somewhat of a surprise to me the first time I actually attempted this feat that babies are NOT always calm and laughing on the changing table. In fact, they’re generally downright pissed. AND pissing. Like, literally. On me. A screaming mini human peeing all over me. The videos did not prepare me for this! I took the old diaper off, used approximately 37 water wipes to clean what seemed at the time to be an inappropriate amount of poop off of his entire torso area, and put the new diaper on. Well shit, how tight is this thing supposed to be? I was told that two fingers should be able to fit between the diaper and his skin. But I could make this thing tight AF and still get two fingers in. And geez I didn’t want to make it so tight that he couldn’t breathe, so I kept it loose. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?
Well, it turns out that the worst thing that would happen is that he pees and poops and it goes all up his body and down his legs, and that’s why the diaper needs to be tighter. I am ashamed to say that it took upwards of two goddam weeks for me to realize that the reason he was getting pee on his onesies all the time was because I am not an intelligent person. Learned that one the hard way.
WHY DO THE VIDEOS MAKE IT LOOK TO SIMPLE…
At this point the diaper gig is an easy one, now that I’ve figured it out. It’s all about having A Plan, and sticking to The Plan. So now after I set him down on the changing table, I prepare everything with surgical precision. I open and lay out the fresh diaper, I prepare his butt spatula with the ointment, and I remove two water wipes in preparation for the task. Then I remove the diaper, clean the hell out of his area, apply the ointment, and get the new diaper on. This whole process now takes less than 20 seconds, but good lord I wish I had had this approach for the first couple of weeks. I’m pretty sure Rohen is less annoyed with me too…
The long and short of this pointless diatribe is that if you are preparing for a kid, you should still read the books and watch the videos and talk to as many new parents as you can. But don’t think that you know anything. Don’t you dare go into this gig with the mindset that you are prepared. Because that alien ship will crash down on your head with such ferocious intensity that you won’t even know what hit you.
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
This post took me literally five weeks to write, because having a kiddo around means you are now lieterally unable to perform even the most basic human tasks (showering, eating, etc...) without making sure he's in the care of the other parent. So apologies for the delay in getting this out, and also, it has not been edited at all. I wrote it, and here it is. So if it lacks flow, is repetitive, or seems disjointed, I'm sure I don't care. I actually finished the damn thing.
So, childbirth is one crazy experience. One minute you’re drinking a beer and watching MTV’s ‘Catfish’ (how are there enough clueless chatroom fiends out there to keep this show going? SEVEN seasons?!?), and the next minute you’re 100% responsible for the life of a brand new human being.
What follows is the story of the birth of my son, Rohen Grey McCarthy. While every birth story is different and special and amazing, this is the only one that has happened to ME, and so bear with me as I recount the most intense day that I have ever experienced in my 37 years on this planet.
Pregnancy had been pretty easy on me. My wife was the one that had to literally create a new life in her belly, but my part (after the initial fraternization) was relatively limited. Sure, I rubbed some feet and cooked come meals, but my life was relatively unchanged for those first nine months. Which at the time seemed just hunky dory with me, although in hindsight, perhaps a little more ramp up into this whole parenthood thing might have been a tad helpful.
Our due date came and went (which I understand is a normal thing, especially for first time parents), and the following day we headed over to Methodist Hospital in Park Slope, Brooklyn, for a check up to make sure that baby and placenta was healthy and doing ok. During this visit, they checked things like the heartbeat, which were all normal, and they also did a scan to show the approximate size and weight of baby. When the doctors told us that he was 8.5lbs, my wife and I were somewhat stunned, knowing that this was a pretty hefty size for a baby that had yet to show his face in this world.
“Don’t worry,” the docs told us. “These scans can be up to a pound off, so he could just as easily be seven and a half pounds!”.
Well shit, I thought, that’s not good news. Your treacherous scanning means that our baby could also be NINE and a half pounds, did you ever think of THAT? Still, I tried to minimize those thoughts, because sweet jesus, I can’t imagine anyone trying to push a baby that big out of their bodies.
Anyway, the people at the hospital also asked my wife if she was feeling the contractions that she was having as they were checking baby. She, nor I, had any idea that there were any contractions even happening, and even if they were there, minor contractions can happen up to a week before the little mini-me starts to make his evacuation.
We got home and spent the rest of the day as we had most of our others, watching mindless TV and wondering when this little thing was finally going to make his entrance into our lives. We didn’t have to wait long.
That evening, as we were getting into the battle rounds of The Voice, my wife seemed to have a somewhat pained expression on her face through one of the songs. I agreed that they weren’t exactly hitting the notes, but my wife corrected me and said that she thought that she was actually having contractions, and that they were about ten minutes apart. Huh, I thought. Could this whole baby thing actually be real? Could it be HAPPENING? Nothing much progressed from that point, and so we went to bed.
It is important, at this point, to mention a couple of facts that feel very relevant to me. The first is that for the last month, I had been sleeping on the couch in the living room due to the simple fact that pregnancy had turned my wife’s airway into a bullhorn at night. The snoring was real, and there was no sleeping in that bedroom. The second point to be made here is that all throughout those nine months, from birth classes to OB appointments, we had been told that it was actually very rare for labor to start with water breaking, like it always does on TV. Normally you’ll labor for a while before it happens, and sometimes the water has to actually be broken at the hospital. So I was very prepared to labor at home for a while. We had candles, exercise balls, and our doula even had magic crystals that would bring peace to our person on their voyage to the Outerworld. I was Ready To Labor. So needless to say I was shocked when I was awoken at 1am by my wife waddling in to the living room, moaning in pain, yelling, “Dan, get UP, my water broke!”. A quick timing of contractions showed that they were 45 seconds long, and happening every three minutes.
What madness IS this, I thought? Where was this slow boat to China? This gradual ramp to labor? One minute I’m sleeping, dreaming of an episode of Catfish where everyone lives happily goddam after (he IS the man I’ve been talking to!), and the next minute, ZANG, I’m thrust into a sequence of events so unexpected that it took me a minute to remember how to speak english properly.
After some random mumbling, I called the labor line (yes, that’s a real thing, non-parents), and were told that we needed to get to the hospital immediately. Thank goodness I had prepped our fridge with the most monstrous sized Red Bull I could find that day. I chugged it, called an Uber, and we were off the the hospital.
The next few hours went relatively well, all things considered. We checked in to the Labor and delivery Triage, and my wife moved deeper into the throws of labor with a comforting ease. Now, I’m not saying that SHE was comfortable, far from it, but at least things were moving at the correct pace.
From 2am until noon the net day, things looked good. Our doula arrived around 3am (thank GOD for our doula - more to come on that later), and we were placed in our L&D room to await the moment that we had been waiting for.
At noon, however, things went weird.
When the doctors told us that everything was looking good and we were a GO to push, we asked the doula about how long this phase would take.
“Generally an hour, and maybe up to two,” was the answer. My wife was not pleased at this answer, but we both told her that even if it was two hours, that we would be there with her the whole time, and that she would get through it. If only I knew then what I knew now…
I must digress here for a second to make a very important point. The absolute best thing that we did for this pregnancy was to hire our doula, Jillian. Going in to this whole thing, I wasn’t sure just how much of a purpose she might serve, considering we would be at a hospital with doctors and nurses and all that jazz. And when we skipped the whole ‘labor-at-home’ thing, I was even more skeptical. But oh my good god was I wrong. Having her there was what made me able to actually maintain any semblance of normalcy as the rest of this afternoon progressed. If you’re currently expecting and are on the fence about getting a doula, jesus christ man, HIRE HER IMMEDIATELY. Having Jillian there in the room with us for the whole day was a life-saver; we had someone that knew what was going on, and was on OUR team. She could advocate for us, and explain things to us when the going got weird.
Anyway, back to the madness. I won’t get into too much detail at this point, but the pushing part of this gig lasted six hours. It was probably six of the hardest hours of my life, seeing my wife in that much pain for that long, with nothing that I could really do. She had the epidural, she started pushing, nothing. Change positions, push, nothing. Ok, now let’s add some pitocin! Nothing? This is getting serious. Let’s increase the pitocin! Nothing. Wait what, you can feel that? It shouldn’t hurt! More epidural! Break? Sure. MORE PITOCIN! Nope, still no head. Well keep pushing, and for the love of god, let’s increase that pitocin! You know what they say; the more dope, the better.
By 6pm, there was no baby, and my wife was on the brink of passing out. Even the doula looked concerned that there was no head peaking out. So I was absolutely goddam relieved when the doctor finally said that he just wasn’t coming, and that they would have to perform a last-minute C-section. While a cesarean wasn’t something that we really wanted, by that point we were all so relieved to hear those words.
She was wheeled away to the OR while I was given scrubs so I could sit with her in the room while they operated. The relief of the pushing coming to an end was short-lived, and the fear of major surgery was setting in. I kept telling myself that this was something that happens all the time, and these are professionals, goddamit, and they were here to Do Their Job. When I was finally let in to the OR, I sat next to my wife’s head and waited for the surgery to start.
It didn’t take long, or at least it didn’t feel long. I sat there, holding my wife’s hand, and that’s when I heard this baby crying from the other side of the curtain. I don’t think there is any way to explain the emotion that you feel when you hear your baby cry for the first time, but I just sat there, weeping, holding my wife’s hand, thankful that we had gotten this far, and that everyone was healthy and ok.
They took my son and put him on the scale, where it showed his birth weight at 9lbs, 7oz. The entire OR was shocked at the weight, and then the six hours of fruitless pushing suddenly made so much more sense. He was just too big to come out. I was allowed to hold him, I cut the cord, and then he was taken away to be checked, while my wife was sewn back up. Rohen Grey McCarthy had entered my world.
The next few days were a mix of intermittent sleep and vending machine dinners. Due to the fact that my wife had spiked a fever during the six hours of pushing, Rohen had to spend a few days in the Neonatal ICU (or NICU for short). This meant that we could only visit him during certain times, and we had to get him out from his incubator for any actual skin-to-skin time, or even just to hold him. It was tough seeing him there, but I also realize that there are many babies that aren’t as lucky as him, and I counted my blessings every time I was able to hold him.
By Friday afternoon, after a bout with jaundice and a scare involving a skin tack on his ear, we were finally cleared to take him home. The relief and fear set in at about the same time. We were going home with a baby. Good lord, help us.
I learned an incredible amount in those few days spent at Methodist. First, there is absolutely no experience on this earth quite like childbirth. That’s an obvious one. But I also learned that having a true teammate as your partner makes everything ok, even when you have no idea how you’ll get through what is going on. And I learned that my wife is the absolute strongest person that I know.
I also learned that having a doula is an absolute MUST. And that I certainly did not bring enough snacks or changes of clothes for an event of this magnitude. So if you’re reading this and preparing for your own birth, here’s a short checklist of things that you will absolutely need, in addition to whatever other list you may have already made:
- Caffeinated beverage(s)
- Other snacks
- A doula, but you should already have this one already
- Changes of clothes! You’ll be in a stressful situation for hours (days?!?) at a time, and sweating through your clothes just makes you smell bad. Trust me, you’ll want this.
- Cell phone portable battery charger with at least enough charge to refill your phone a couple of times. You won’t be near a wall outlet, and while you shouldn’t be using your phone often, you will want it to be on and close at all times.
- Fucking snacks, man.
- Comfy-ass slippers.
With these things, you’ll be alright, as I was. Even if it doesn’t feel like it at the time.
As our time at the hospital finally ended, a good friend of ours came and picked us up. They had the same car seat we had, and he installed our seat in their car so I wouldn’t have to worry about it. A seemingly small thing, but in my weakened mental state, it was a hero’s task. As we drove home with this tiny (almost 10lbs...) new person, I was still mostly in shock. I kept turning around to make sure he was breathing. We got home, and went inside. The three of us. We introduced our newest roommate to the cat, and started to settle in.
Wednesday, July 26, 2017
I start almost every morning by drinking copious amounts of coffee while I sit with my wife in our living room. On most days, we can open the window, and enjoy the fresh morning air. it’s one of the best parts of my day. But everyday, at some rotten point, I decide to ask Alexa to play is the NPR news briefing, and everything falls to shit.
“Man rescues family of kittens stuck up a tree, becomes neighborhood hero” is not, nor will ever be, a story that we hear. I don’t think that good news is even a form of reporting that anyone is comfortable with these. In fact, each briefing follows roughly the same outline:
Trump did some fucking shit today
A bunch of people died because of some awful dirtbag scum
Other people died because of this weather thing
Trump also did this fucking thing
Today was worse than normal. The “fucking shit” that Trump did today was actually two fucking shits.
That evil shyster Pence cast a tie breaking vote to begin the process of “Repeal and Replace” in regards to Obamacare. A special thank you goes out to John McCain, who, just back from life-saving surgery, swooped in just in time to vote against keeping 22 million people insured. Well thank god for that piece of garbage. I don’t even know where to begin with healthcare in this country, so I’ll just leave that for now.
The other little tidbit of news that Trump decided to tweet early this morning was that he’s decided that transgender people are now no longer fit to serve in the military. Some gibberish about medical costs. Clearly a bullshit reason, as the armed forces spends more on viagra than it does on health care for trans people.
I took to Facebook to try and make sense of this argument, but the only “reason” for this that I was able to discern from the uneducated twits re-spewing this hateful rhetoric was that trans people (and women too, for the record) shouldn’t be allowed into the military because they would distract the men. That’s right - we shouldn’t let capable Americans fight for this country because some scurvy honky bastard from Mississippi can’t cope with having a woman, or worse yet, a transgendered person (GASP), fighting by their side. When will we, as a country, grow up?
This, ladies and gentlemen, is the world that I am bringing a child in to.
But it’s that fact that actually pulls me up from the depression that is brought on by the current state of evil in this world. I am bringing a person into the world. A person that I will get to teach. A person that I will guide. A person that I will love, and will show how to love others. And it’s exactly these things that we need right now, trying to fight this war of ignorance and hate. We need to teach the next generation of people that there is no room for hate and bigotry anymore.
So I give thanks that this little unborn person is actually saving me from the sadness that this world can create, and giving me the energy and courage to stand up for those that can’t, and leave a better world for those that follow.
And maybe it’s time I take a day or two off from those damn NPR news briefings.
Thursday, July 6, 2017
When I was in sixth grade, I was bullied and beat up by almost every juvenile delinquent bastard (friend and foe alike) that I crossed paths with to the point where I was forced to change schools and never look back, thus forever effecting my ability to socialize and trust the human population in general.
How’s that for a goddam thesis statement?
I feel the need to disclose right off the bat that it took a giant glass of whiskey on ice just to get the courage to write this piece. And so now I sit here, listening to Jefferson Airplane, sipping on The Good Stuff, and preparing to share the story of the worst and most hideously poignant year of my life.
Ok, I may have come off kind of strong in those initial paragraphs. But in fairness, it wasn’t an exaggeration; instead it feels good to know that I’m finally putting out in public something that has become a part of who I am, something that has shaped and carried me in one way or another every day of my life.
My parents put me in French Immersion when I was in kindergarten. (For my American readers out there, it means that all my classes were in french: history, math, even gym). It was a wonderful experience, and I made some friends that I am still connected with to this day (thanks, Facebook). It’s an experience that I hope I can extend to my child(ren), even if most of that french has slipped from my brain. I keep telling myself that it’s still in there somewhere, and if I ever travel to Bordeaux or Burgundy or the rotten slums of dirty Quebec that it will come roaring back with a vengeance, and I’ll remember my bilingual geniusness (Geniusity? Geniusissity?). For now though, I’m content to remember that “camion” means “truck”, and “pamplemousse” means “pineapple”. (FUCK - it means grapefruit! Time, you evil bastard, you’ve even taken away pamplemousse… “Pineapple” is actually “ananas”, which I always felt would be a better word for “banana”, but now I’ve lost even a basic sense of direction or point to this story…).
School had always been an enjoyable place for me. Then, in grade four, (three? nah, pretty sure four) we had a student transfer in from somewhere else. His name was Brian, and he was Cool. He had the newest Reebok Pumps, he listened to 2 Live Crew, and He Didn’t Care About The Establishment, Man… (Ok, none of us had a goddam clue what The Establishment was at that time, but you get the drift.)
And for some reason, he liked me. We became friends. There were four of us (as memory serves, although as pamplemousse has already illustrated, my memory isn’t always the most accurate source of evidence…), and we always hung out. At school, after school, sleepovers, sports teams, we were best friends, whatever that means in grades four and five.
Brian was always the rebel. He got in trouble at school. He didn’t listen to his dad. He even wore his hat sideways in our baseball team photo. Somehow, he also convinced me to do the same, and man, did I get in trouble for that… Because shit, I’m really regretting that choice now, whenever I look back on that photo. I definitely don’t wear my hat sideways anymore, and I obviously look at that photo every night before bed. But you see what I’m getting at, he was what we all aspired to be; cool.
And all this was great. We graduated from fifth grade and that meant that we were off to a new school; a school that was only for grades six, seven, and eight.
Now, maybe I was naive, maybe I was simple, or maybe I just unconsciously turned a blind eye to Brian in the earlier years, but I don’t remember him ever being a bully. This in no way is to say that he wasn't one, but it’s just that I don’t remember him being one. But here’s there reality of a social hierarchy; if there is a top, then there is a middle, and there is a bottom.
Grade six started like any other year at a new school. We made new friends in homeroom, we got acclimated to new teachers, and we went through the typical orientation that any student goes through. Brian and I didn’t have many classes together, but I figured that we would just hang out after school like we always did, and we would join whatever sports teams the school had. Little did I know that was the last normal thought I would have for a very long time.
Now, Brian had always been the cool kid. The rest of us hanging around with Brian were Cool By Proximity, but on our own we were just normal kids. Brian was the one that we all orbited around, and we knew he’d be cool no matter who was around him. What we didn’t know was how.
As I mentioned, a social hierarchy required people to play their part, and what I didn’t see coming, what I didn’t think was ever a possibility, was that in order for Brian to maintain his status at a new school (especially when you’re in the bottom grade), he had to establish dominance over someone. Who that person was probably made no difference to the fucknut dingbats that ruled over grades seven and eight, but they needed to know that Brian was Not To Be Fucked With.
And so who better to terrorize than me.
I don’t remember how it started, but I do remember it was awful. My best friend transformed instantly to the person on this planet that I feared the most. There would be physical beatings, where he would hit me and push me around and knock me down. And then there were the mental and emotional beatings, that in most ways were worse. I walked around in a state of shock, fear, and paranoia; how did this happen?
And getting down to the nitty gritty of this goddam awful scene, nobody else wants to be the target of a bully either. And what’s the best way to find yourself in their sights? Align yourself with the victim. So one by one, my friends stepped away. Some did so silently, and some did so aggressively; they would also torment me, not wanting to be thought of, even for a second, as a Friend Of Daniel’s. This hurt probably as much, if not more, than the initial bullying.
As an aside, I feel it is important to say that I bear no ill-will to those that turned on me as a result of not wanting to be in Brian’s sights; when you're 11 years old, you do what you have to do for self-preservation. It’s hard to Take The Moral Highground… I would not wish upon anyone the horrors of what I was forced to go through, and my friends did what they had to do. I have had many of them apologize to me years later; something that has meant the world to me.
By the end of grade six, the decision to flee the school permanently came easily. There was no reason for me to stay. The few friends that I did have were practically urging me to leave. They knew the pain that I was going through daily; they knew I had to go.
The next few years of school were much better. I had other friends at a different school, and making the transition wasn’t difficult. Daily life became enjoyable again. I picked up new hobbies and passions, and life moved on. I rarely even thought of that fateful year.
But the scars that were left from the experience have reappeared in ways throughout life that I never expected at the time. I came to learn that trusting anyone was a monumental task. I was always convinced deep down that anyone that I was close with would eventually turn on me and make my life a living hell. It has been extremely difficult for me to maintain male friendships in general, and any relationship that I have been in has always suffered toto my inability to trust that they weren’t really out to hurt me in the long run. I have spoken to therapists and psychologists, and it has helped, but I feel that this is something that I will carry with me until the day that I die. It has improved throughout the years and decades, don’t get me wrong, but it will always be inside, jabbing me every now and then, wishing me nothing but fear and loathing.
I have tried to find Brian on Facebook every now and then, but with no luck. A few years ago one of the guys that was in our little Group Of Four back in junior school came to visit NYC, and we got to talking about those days. After apologizing, he told me that last he had heard of Brian was that he was some coke addict dope-fiend in Toronto, living a pretty shitty life. And in some ways this brought me some vindication; in others, I felt bad for him.
Because I have no idea what was happening to him in his home life, or what caused him to do the things he did to me. I know his parents were divorced. I know that his older brother bullied him. I know that he had his own issues that he was dealing with, albeit very poorly. And so while he caused me the greatest pain I’ve ever known, I still can’t wish him a life of misery.
Ultimately, there is no point to this story, I suppose. Except to say that as I move towards this new stage of my life, being the parent of this soon-to-be-born little boy, the thing that scares me more than anything is that there is a possibility that he will have to go through the same pain and suffering that I did. And more to the point, that there’s really nothing I can do about it, just as there was really nothing my parents could do about mine (try as they might, and they sure as hell did try). All I can do is encourage him (and all people) to be good to one another, and to speak up when you see bad things happening.
But I will say this; being bullied does not mean you are weak, nor does it make you weak. I wish I had learned that much earlier. I felt for years that the reason that this happened was because I was weak. I felt that if I had been stronger, than he wouldn’t have chosen me. But I’ve come to realize that that’s not the case. He needed someone to hate. He needed someone to destroy. If anything, he chose me because I was strong.
So don’t let the dope fiends and wackos and ruffians in your life win. Stay strong, in any way that you can. Love each other, trust each other, and lift each other up. Stay strong in the face of adversity, and never be silent when you know something is wrong. These are the lessons that I will teach my son, these are the lessons that I pray he learns and practices every single goddam day of his life.
Tuesday, July 4, 2017
Tomorrow my unborn kiddo will have been a thing for five months. Five months of just hanging out in the womb and growing and kicking my wife at rather inopportune times. My wife’s life has been rapidly changing for those five months, and the reality of this situation has really sunk in for her. Her body has changed, her diet has changed, she can no longer drink alcohol, and hormonally, she is almost a completely different person. I, on the other hand, have not gone through one goddam change, and it’s starting to make me wonder when this whole kid-thing will really sink in.
I mean, logically, I know it's happening. I know that we have a tiny crib and a tiny dresser and tiny hangers and tiny outfits and tiny books. I know that I will be a father by the end of this year. But at the same time, it doesn’t actually feel like it’s happening to me.
A baby versus my baby. Semantics? Maybe. But for me, this is the crux of this entire undertaking; this is my disconnect.
I know that this crib and dresser and all these clothes are for a baby. I think I even realize they’re for a baby that will be living here. But what I don’t understand is that all these things are for my baby. If you’ve never gone through a pregnancy before, you’re probably wondering if I ate some of my leftover Percocet and chased it with a Budweiser before beginning this article; I know it sounds crazy. But those of you that have been here know exactly what I'm talking about.
Or maybe not? Maybe all you dads and dads-to-be out there have already connected with this gig in ways that I refuse to understand, at least at this point in time. But I don’t think so; I think that realizing this new reality just takes longer for a lot of us.
I’ve spoken to a few people close to me that have had kids very recently, and the overall consensus is that it doesn’t hit you, really, until the kid has been home for a couple of weeks. Which is absolutely insane, when you think about it. Mom undergoes physical and mental changes for a year in preparation of this monumental life-changing event, and dad is left to read a book or two, in hopes that he is as prepared. I mean, Jesus, talk about starting the game from behind.
I don’t bring all this up to complain; instead I offer it up as a topic that seems to be rarely discussed in the realm of new parenthood. For the first few months of this pregnancy, I felt like I was doing something wrong, or was somehow not allowing myself to really feel the emotions necessary to make it real. But it was only after speaking with friends that I realized that it wasn’t my fault, hell, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Fathers and mothers are just on different pages for a while.
I do realize that part of this most likely stems from the loss of baby #1 last year. Losing it has caused my defenses to remain high, as my brain is tries to protect me from pain by keeping this new reality at an arms length. It’s amazing how much effect one event can have on your emotions for years to come; but I’m hoping that even just being aware of this fact is a good sign.
But maybe this isn’t a big deal at all; maybe when I hold that child in my arms on the day he is born, I will experience nine months of emotional growth instantly, and this entire post will become inconsequential. But for now, I will just continue on reading books, buying baby clothes, and setting up the nursery. Because no matter how I feel now, there will be a baby in that room in four months. And if I play my cards right, it might even be my baby.
Saturday, July 1, 2017
So I received three books in the mail yesterday. And there was a decent amount of excitement surrounding the delivery of these books, even though these would be books that would not take me more than a minute to read at most, nor would these be intellectually stimulating pieces of prose or political commentary.
I used to get excited when I found a used first edition hardcover of one of Hunter Thompson’s books. And then I would wait (usually for weeks, because those bastards at the used bookstore in Valparaiso, IN. where I finally found a copy of the book, don’t feel the same sense of urgency that we do as God Damned New Yorkers, and so while Hubert would eventually get his lazy ass in gear to package up my order and ship it, it certainly didn't make the top of his rotten To Do List for at least a week or two…).
But the book would eventually arrive, in all its withered glory, and I would read it, and just appreciate his wisdom and acumen, enhanced by the book’s creases and tears and stains. These books had personality. And I’ve read almost every word that Hunter, in all his psychedelic brilliance, has ever written. I even have some twisted and misguided sense of ritual surrounding the reading of his books, which generally involves pouring myself a tall glass of whiskey on ice, turning on Cream or The Grateful Dead at unreasonable levels, and really trying to put myself into his story. Truth be told, that's still one of my favorite ways to unwind. Fear and Loathing On The Campaign Trail ’72 is the only thing that got me through the dreaded election of 2016, and The Great Shark Hunt and Hell’s Angels are my only refuge from the terrible times that this country seems to be currently weathering. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is something I can read day or night, and it makes me feel home. “We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid…”
So yesterday, when ‘Is Your Mama A Llama’, ‘Close Your Eyes’, and ‘Guess How Much I Love You’ arrived in the mail, I was surprised at how giddy I was for these new arrivals. There would be no whiskey ritual surrounding these titles, no, this was a different trip altogether.
Yesterday, I started reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas for the millionth time, which opens with, “We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs began to take hold.” And today, I will be sitting next to my pregnant wife, slowly sipping a tall glass of kombucha (with no ice), and will speak to her belly, “‘Is your mama a Llama’, I asked my friend Dave. ‘No she is not’, is the answer Dave gave”.
I have traded in Thompson for board books, whiskey for kombucha, and going to bed at midnight to going to bed at 9pm (because what drug0addled dope-fiend of a person has the energy to stay up past 9pm anyway, I mean Jesus, the sun is down, people, go to bed). And here’s the handle; I love it.
It wasn’t a change that I felt would happen, or at least happen this quickly. I thought there would be some crazy adjustment period, where I would slowly let go of my childless hobbies, but it really flips fast. I spend my time looking at what new tech tools new dads should buy first. How many apps can I download onto my phone to make this parenting thing as easy as possible? And how on earth do we choose a name for this little creature?
This is not to say that I have abandoned my old passions; I’ve read countless books on becoming a new dad, and one of the common themes throughout all of these scribblings is that as a dad, You Shouldn’t Lose Who You Are As A Person. And so I will let myself hold on to some of these more atavistic rituals that I have enjoyed throughout the years. There will still be whiskey, but I’ll probably just opt for a smaller glass. And on a Sunday afternoon, I may crack open Generation Of Swine for an hour and just relax.
But man oh man, when that Llama finally finds his mama, I can’t help but feel that same sense of relief that Dr. Gonzo and Raoul Duke felt when they finally left Vegas for good; things really are going to be just fine.
I’m going to be a fucking dad.
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