Be aware of dogs....

As an owner of two crazy, amazing dogs, Stella and my blind sidekick Oliver ( lovingly called Smols), I would classify myself, an animal lover. They truly are man's best friend. I've grown up with a dog in the house all my life. When I was younger though, dogs were "dogs." They weren't purse accessories, or considered members of the family necessarily. We loved them, but they had their place. My grandpa loved his dog, Scotty, probably more than most people, but Scotty was never licking his butt on grandpa'side of the bed. Welp, those days are over and dogs are really considered an extension of our family bloodline. We shop for them like they aren't wild animals. Their food costs more than ours damned near. We pamper, bathe, trim, manicure, cook for...we are actually picking up poop. 

I realize another line had been crossed...When we moved to our new complex, we met a couple who had a beautiful new little girl. They were glowing parents but you could tell they had been in the "dungeon of new baby" and wanted to connect with the outside world. Megan and I were that connection. They had us over for a great dinner and told stories of parenthood. Since we weren't parents yet, we countered with stories of our dogs. They told stories of baby cries. We told stories of puppy barking. They told stories of baby feeding. We told stories of figuring out what food was best for a puppy. They told stories of changing diapers. We told stories of having to steam clean carpet and crate training. They told stories of birth. We told stories of going to the animal shelter. They hadn't been out in months so the comparison of their beautiful child to our scruffy dog didn't seem to bother them. As we left, I felt like an asshole.  It seemed insensitive to me but...that's all we had. 

Well, it happened to me. My little prince, the future of my bloodline, the shining glimmer of my Family Jewels, was compared to a tail chasing, butt sniffing, rabbit-poop eating, ball licking, dog and I couldn't even get mad because I was guilty of the comparison. Pet owners, Be aware of dogs.

So...you're saying, I don't need shoes?

We've all heard the stories of our grandparents having to go without "luxuries" and having to make do with what they had, which wasn't much. We hear the stories of the depression era and how hard things were. Stories of having to walk miles to go to school, or sharing clothes with siblings, or sleeping 20 deep on a twin bed, were staples of a generation's lore. I never really understood the moral of the, "I didn't have shoes story." You know the familiar one old people tell about wrapping newspaper around their feet, or sharing shoes with a sibling. "Are you telling me I don't need shoes, grandpa?" I later figured out that these stories were about appreciating what we do have and understanding sacrifice. Thinking of grandpa with no shoes still didn't make me want to give up mine but I got the point.

As I sit here and order an entire wardrobe with the click of a button, not even a button, a picture of a button, I wonder what stories of the "make do" times I will have to get my point of sacrifice across to Jayden. My extent of sacrifice as a kid was getting John Madden 92 in 93 ( women ask your husbands for an explination), or wearing Bugle Boy jeans instead of Guess, Pro-wings instead of Nike, Cross Colour Jeans but not the matching shirt, eating a home cooked meal instead of McDonalds, wearing a $10 tee shirt from Hecht's instead of a $50 tee shirt from Up Against the Wall. Now, I'm not saying I was spoiled, but we grew up in a time when the economy was booming. My mom was smart enough to not live beyond her means but...when compared to grandpa, I was living it up.  I realize, my stories of "having to make do," won't  help my case of instilling the moral lessons that meant so much to my grandpa and to a whole generation, but....Jayden won't know that. So, I will continue the legacy of having worn newspaper shoes and having shared clothes with my 5 sisters (I have to add a few to up the stakes).  I will tell the story with the pain of a generation not my own with flare.

Oh, you're a boy...

Before I knew the sex of my future child, my mental state was a muted excitment with a tinge of fear. I knew that I was having a kid of some sorts, so the normal pressures of parenthood were there, food, shelter, protection, love. Those were the base expectations I had for myself as a father. In my heart I thought it was a girl. I dreamed of "Daddy's Little Princess." The little girl was going to be the most spoiled person on the planet and I was prepared to be wrapped, until nothing but my big toe dangled, around her little finger. I would hug her and kiss her and take a trip to the gun store the moment I dropped her and mommy off at home for the first time. My expectation of myself for her, was to destroy any thing that would try to destroy her peace in any way. 

 Milliseconds after I found out we would be having a boy, my mental state totally changed. I was so pensive for a few days because my expectations went from protecting a princess to raising a responsible Man. Not that my daughter wouldn't have become a responsible woman, but the responsibility of raising a man punched me in the gut. I totally skipped his infantile, toddler, preteen, puberty, wet behind the ears years. I saw the end result. I was preparing to raise a leader, a father, a husband, a responsible man. I was prepping for war. I was in the gym, vowing to be up to the challenge; pushing myself so I could push him. One of the funniest moments that stuck in my head thinking about his future is that I really want him to be that guy that when he shows up on prom-night, all pimple-faced and awkwardly tall, the parents of that princess will have peace of mind.

You're just speaking baby....

Oh the irony we men face when raising an infant. One of the biggest gripes women have with us is our lack of communication, well I can't speak for all men, but I know it was one of my biggest faults before I reached communication puberty about 5 years ago. Having a conversation about anything other than facts, sports, or opera caused my communication system to overload. That never stopped me from having relationships but it did cause some issues. Every conversation seemed to be about emotions and I was  stuck on stupid. The extent of my communication about emotions were happy, sad, horny. Inevitably it blew up to screaming because "horny" was never the answer to "I love you."  Screaming and crying were always my tipping point. I couldn't do it. I shut down and could not  hear anything that was being said. (See where I'm going with this?) 

We (men) have avoided screaming and crying because it was always wrapped up in what we think of as negative emotions and a trip to the sofa for the night. How ironic is it that the only way an infant can communicate is screaming and crying? The post traumatic stress of every screaming match hits me when I hear Jayden screaming and crying. I have to stop myself from grabbing the too short blanket and flat, flimsy pillow and sulking to the sofa with my tail between my legs. I had to realize he has no words, doesn't even know his ABC's....he's  just speaking baby. Needless to say, I have become bilingual and a certified interpreter of Baby Talk. I will be adding it to my résumé .

Mona Lisa Smile.....

Being pregnant creates an energy in the atmosphere and it becomes infectious. No one seems to get more excited than people who have experienced the joy of parenthood. The nostalgia of a baby takes them back to when they raised their now 30 year old and you can see the glow in their eyes. The fond memories play across their eyes like a flip book. The stories of the cuteness, rainbows, bunnies and unicorns flow from their mouths like a Shakespeare monologue. Every trip down memory lane ends with them being so happy for you as a new parent and the streamers and confetti fall from the sky because you are about to experience that joy. At the baby showers everyone sits around and plays games, laughs, jokes, eats, hugs, rubs the belly, tell you how amazing you look for being a pregnant woman ( is that a compliment?), and the gifts roll in. This little cherub has everything he needs for months to come. Never did I notice in all of these encounters, that little smirk; that smirk of "oh boy, you are in for a ride," that smirk of "welcome to the terror dome," that Mona Lisa Smile.  They know some thing that you don't yet and they aren't going to let you in on the secret. It's like an unspoken right of passage that every parent must go through. You will know you are inducted into the club when you see them for the first time post-eviction and the first question they ask is, Are you getting any sleep? that smirk becomes a chuckle as they see the glazed look in your eyes indicating that you are a shell and your brain has left the building. The next baby shower I attend I will not be gifting baby clothes, I will be bringing the parents the best Bourbon I can find and a bottle of red wine.

Well played nature....well played....

In the master plan of the universe, it had to have been well thought out and well planned. I'm not a anthropologist, but from what I do know, this fact crosses all species. We all have a natural reaction to babies. We instantly coo, and awwww, and get mushy at the sight.   A baby of any species has the cutest cute level of whatever it's parents look like. Now, I've heard some people, who aren't afraid to be rude, comment on an "ugly baby" ( Seinfeld fans) but that baby represents the cutest cuteness of that family, trust me. Also trust me that this is no mistake. Only from babies, and only from something that cute can we accept the things that we do from them. I mean really....first you shut down the playground for 6-8 weeks after you arrive, you puke on me, you pee on me, my walls and my favorite shirt, you poop in my arms and fling it on me as you kick uncontrollably as I'm trying to change you, you literally scream in my face as I make silly sounds like I'm a clown, and I hate clowns, but I'm trying to soothe you, you interrupt my sleep multiple times a night because you want to visit the " milk bar," you kick me out of my office/man cave so you can have room for a bunch of stuff you have no clue what to do with. You literally come in and start running my life and you can't even say my name. You actually order me around by SCREAMING at me. Now, if this were the Post Office, I would be really worried for the safety of all parties. "Going Postal" might actually be a legitimate response. But.... babies,  man...they have this NATURAL DEFENSE SYSYTEM...Cuteness. They get a away with it all and we love them for it.

I've been duped....

The excitement of months of anticipation, worrying and planning at some point comes to an end and the moment of truth is upon you. That water breaks and game is on. You rush to the hospital and eventually the deed is done and you have your "bundle of joy," or so you think. We made it through the high intensity of labor and the rush of cutting the cord and we (men) are wiping our brows because we have bobbed and weaved the death threats and that look that could bear a hole into your soul, because WE are the source of labor pains. Now, the euphoria of being In a room with wife and kid to relax after such a battle, is bliss. Nurses are coming in to check on you, wife is sleeping, food is brought in. Outside of your wife being whipped and having not taken a shower in two days, this is great. Baby sleeps for 23  1/2 of 24 hours, Perfect!!!! It's gonna be a breeze when we get home. This kid is a "natural born sleeper." Be warned, you are being duped. When you get home, baby transforms. He is no longer the "natural born sleeper." It's like the perfect girlfriend that flips the script the moment you say, "I do." That first 23 1/2 hours of sleep, you better relish every millisecond of it and store up because that "natural born sleeper" will become your sleep wrecker. Consider it, his or her warming up to challenge your every nerve of patience, you better sleep so you can come into the game fresh because that 7 lbs 8ounces will be ready to run you over.