On Fatherhood Pt.3

Monday, May 16th was our due date. It's now Wednesday, May 18th. I know due dates are really, at best, a suggestion. But I was kind of hoping the baby would be here by now, if for no other reason than to preserve my sanity. Seriously, I don't understand how my wife is so calm right now. 

I'm starting to feel like Lenny and Carl watching sun creep across the floor of Moe's bar.

I've set my phone up so I only get notifications from her, since Facebook reminding that it's someone's birthday every morning while I was at work was really starting to stress me out. My new job, the one I talked around in my last blog post, is about a 45 minute train ride from home. It's not that far, but it's far enough that I'm pretty much always ready to run out the door at this point. 

I know my family and friends are on edge, waiting impatiently to hear the news that the baby is here. I've been greatly amused by the probing text messages and over-analyzing of my beer check-ins on Untappd. Especially the beer check-ins, with people suggesting that because I haven't checked in a beer over the course of an evening means that maybe, just maybe, it's because I'm at the hospital. I have co-workers who are disappointed to see me in the morning, because it means the baby isn't here yet.

It's weird, being so excited to meet someone I don't know and have never met before. To be absolutely thrilled at the thought of holding our baby. A couple years ago I would've recoiled at the idea of becoming a father anytime soon. Now it can't happen soon enough.

The fact that I'm bursting with excitement doesn't belay the fact that I'm still filled with sheer blind terror at the idea of becoming a dad, of my wife becoming a mom. That's still very much present right now. I probably won't quite grok the concept of what I've gotten myself into until the little poop factory bundle of joy is the room with us.

Life is weird. People are weird. We're so full of contradictory emotions and thoughts. It's a wonder our species has made it this far. Being excited and scared; nervous and happy. It doesn't make a lick of sense (neither does that expression, but the hell with it). I guess that's just part of the human condition. Just something else to introduce our little one to when the time finally comes.

On Fatherhood

This is going to be part of an ongoing series, as I try to make sense of what it means to be a father, since in a few short months (and they're increasingly feeling shorter and shorter) I'm going to become a dad. And I couldn't be more more excited. Or terrified.
 

Pictured: A baby version of me, 11 months old. Practicing for a modeling gig I never got.

Fathers are an intrinsic part of human society. Most of us have one. I say most, because some people have two, and some people have none, but the majority of people have a dad. Some dads are wonderful, amazing human beings, others are just okay, and some are, well, deadbeats. Dads are as varied in quality as any other people. I suppose the same can be said of moms.

My dad is one of the good ones. No, sorry, he's one of the amazing ones. He's taught me more life lessons than anyone else, and I feel like he (and my mom of course, but this blog is about dads, sorry Mom) is one of the primary reasons I feel I can consider myself a successful adult, whatever your definition of what that means. He taught me how to ride a bike, to fish, to build a fire and to change the oil in my car. He taught me to respect women and to appreciate a good rye. My dad can be summed up pretty accurately I feel, as a man of integrity. He says he's going to do something, and he does it. I've never seen him cheat or lie about anything, even Monopoly, and everyone cheats at that awful game. I'm secretly pretty sure that's how my grandmother won every game I played with her*; although maybe it's because she was as an accountant, and 8-year old me was rather lousy at math and didn't quite grasp the concept of what a "monopoly" actually is. But back on topic: Dads. My dad isn't perfect, he has his faults, but so do we all. But he's my dad, and I'm intensely proud of that fact. Dad, I'm pretty sure you're reading this, and I don't think I've ever said it before, but thanks for everything you've ever done for me. I love you.
 

My Dad, my sister, and I. 

It's soon going to become my responsibility to share in the care and maintenance of the life of another human being, one completely incapable of taking care of itself, or telling me what it needs or wants. A wholly uncontributing member of society. It's going to be my responsibility (and my wife's) to educate and teach our child how do this thing we do called living. I have to feed this person, clean up after them, keep them safe. They're going to puke, poop, and generally make a mess, and I'll have to clean it up. They'll get sick, I'll take care of them, then I'll get sick, then this cycle will repeat. This is going to last for the rest of my life. And to top it all off, like some sort of sadistic cherry on top, this tiny human being is going to seriously cut into my beer budget. This is, to put it in the bluntest of terms, fucking terrifying.

But at the same time that I feel the icy grip of fear envelope my heart, I can feel the warmth of joy prying those cold fingers loose. I get to experience everything in life over again, anew, through the eyes of a tiny little person who's never seen a tree before. Who's never seen the sky, who has no idea what anything tastes like, or feels like, or has any concept of, well, anything. And I'd be lying if I said the idea of all that didn't fill me with excitement and tumultuous joy. I get to sit down and read books to a tiny little person who's never seen a book before. How soon is too soon to start reading Tolkien to them? At what age can I introduce Neil Gaiman and Patrick Rothfuss to my child? These are serious, pertinent questions about parenting that I need answers to.

I'm looking forward to becoming a father, to being called "Dad" soon. I hope I can do as good a job raising this little one as my dad did raising me, and as his dad did raising him. 
 

*I don't really think my grandma cheated at Monopoly. She's beaten my entire family at it, many, many times. You'd think we'd learn to stop playing with her. Maybe she should have been an investment banker or something.