“Life is a waterfall
we drink from the river
then we turn around and put up our walls”
-System of a Down: Aerials

One of my favorite photos is of my younger brother and I aged nine and three. We are sitting on my first bike, a red and white banana seat Huffy, and my arms are closed around him. It’s one of the happier memories of my childhood.

It’s from a time when I would routinely hug and kiss on my little baby brother.

The only way my brother and I are likely to hug these days is if it’s followed by razzing or perhaps a sarcastic comment or punch.

The reason – Number 7 in The Guy’s Code – Guys shall not hug each other*.

The asterisk beside this rule notates an exception which allows for hugging ONLY at very solemn events such as funerals or the birth of triplets or very joyous events such as your team winning a playoff game. However said hug must be accompanied by several whacks on the back.

Acts of affection are allowed only if mixed with aggression.

This story isn’t about my brother so much. It’s more about fathers and sons.

There is a distance in most male relationships, a guarded distance. Perhaps it is born of sibling rivalry or daddy issues or just the hardening that most men go through just to get by in the world without becoming the target of bullies and those looking to take advantage.
When I was a child, I hugged my mom and dad every night before bed. One night, I just stopped.

I’m not sure why, but as I was approaching the ripe old age of 10, hugging and kissing my parents goodnight didn’t seem cool anymore. It seemed weird. I barely remember the transition, but it was quick.

And with that act of pulling back, the last remnants of my childhood innocence slipped away like shedding skin.

In it’s place, I began building the wall that most guys build around themselves – that protective barrier against all that would harm or hug.

Recently, someone breached my wall – my son.

He is still a toddler, so he loves hugging and kissing big sloppy kisses which leave your nose or cheek wet. And I LOVE hugging him. The closeness in that moment, the energy, the LOVE in that bond is one of the most amazing feelings ever.

And it pains me to know that someday he will pull away.

Someday he will feel weird hugging me just as I had felt hugging my parents. I wonder if my dad gave much thought to my pulling away as a child. What he may have felt never occurred to me until now. It never occurred to me that maybe I hurt his feelings. Partly, because I was pretty certain my dad didn’t have feelings.

My dad is an Old School Tough As Nails Dad, the kind of guy that just does what needs to be done and doesn’t spend a whole lot of time contemplating his ‘feelings’. I certainly couldn’t have imagined him getting all torqued up because his son stopped hugging him.

But now that my son is born, I see a softer side of my dad. The side that probably existed back before my brother and I wore him down with our antics.

Last Tuesday, my father came to my house to install cabinets, a shelf and a rack in our laundry room. It was a Christmas gift to my wife and I. We worked much of the day putting the cabinets up and they look great. When I saw WE worked, I mean HE did most of the work, while I helped do the things which didn’t require much knowledge of tools.

At the end of the day, I thanked my dad. As he was leaving, he offered his hand. I shook it, grabbed it, then pulled him closer

and hugged him.

Want BloggerDad delivered to your email every time I post? Well, you’re not alone. Join the literally tens of others who have already subscribed for free! Email not your thing? That’s okay, you can also subscribe via RSS – It’s also free.

He was three months old and he got fussy nearly EVERY evening. The only way to cure his fussiness was to walk around the house while holding him (he wasn’t yet able to crawl or walk). He didn’t care what we were doing, even if we’re staring at a wall, he just wanted someone to stand and hold him.

And he was starting to get heavy.

If we sat down, though, he would cry. It was almost as if he was only happy if we were in discomfort.

I didn’t want to plop him down in front of a television, but at the same time, I wanted to find something to occupy him a bit when I needed a break.

Then, we found something which not only grabbed his attention, but absolutely enchanted him!

My wife was at the dining room table working on her laptop, E was in a high chair seat next to her. Suddenly, she heard him gurgling more than usual. When she looked to see if he was ‘talking’ to her, he wasn’t. Something else had his attention…

The multicolored pendant light hanging above the table.

Yes, my baby was talking to the light.

I assume this is normal baby behavior. I suppose I could have looked in one of the 2,000 baby books we have, but I’m fairly certain there isn’t a chapter titled “What To Do If Your Baby Talks To Lights.”

I’m sure if there were a chapter, it would say that babies talking to lights are either:

• normal
• weird
• have multiple personalities
• are talking to ghosts
• are messing with their parents.

That picture above? That’s him gurgling, laughing and ‘talking’ to the light…

…or with the light.

He continued the behavior for a long time, talking and pointing at the light on a regular basis. He doesn’t seem to talk to the light anymore, though occasionally he will look at it like someone might look at familiar face they pass on the street.

Reminder: If you’re interested in a one-of-a-kind custom written and drawn holiday gift for your favorite person, time is limited. We’re taking orders on a first come first served basis. Check out the details here.

Want BloggerDad delivered to your email every time I post? Well, you’re not alone. Join the literally tens of others who have already subscribed for free! Email not your thing? That’s okay, you can also subscribe via RSS – It’s also free.

Raising your first child, there are many ‘firsts’ you look forward to. Their first awareness of you, their first real smile, first gurgling noises, first attempts at words, first time they turn over, crawl, stand, walk, and others I can only imagine at this early stage.

Then there are firsts you don’t look forward to.

For the first time since I became a dad I had to use discipline.

E is 10 months old and though I have no knowledge of other kids at this age, people say he is a good boy. Of course, I can’t imagine a child not being good this young. I would think acting out would not come until later, either as they test their freedom or as a parent, you start screwing up. We’ve not reached either point… yet.

However, while playing today, E smacked me in the face - repeatedly.

I laughed it off at first ( I know, wrong message ) because a) he had this big goofy grin on his face as he clumsily struck me and b) I knew he was probably playing some form of the “got your nose” or the “bonk your nose” game he plays with my mother-in-law. (mental note: tell Nana no more nose bonking games).

I’m sure he thinks he is playing, having fun and interacting with me. After he hit me, he  was watching. He was smiling wide, his curious eyes waiting to see how I would respond.

Part of me wondered if he was in fact testing me, or simply watching my reaction because so much of what we do is a cause and effect relationship. He loves nothing more than to do something which causes daddy to make a goofy face. Well, a goofier face than usual.

His intent was certainly innocent, but I couldn’t help but wonder if this is the point where he begins to test boundaries?

So I asked my wife how to respond.

She said,”tell him ‘no’”

So, the next time it happened, I said, “no” in a deeper-than-normal dad voice, but not in any way as terrifying as I can be, say, when yelling at a certain giant runaway dog to stop running as I chase him through my neighborhood.

He did it again.

“No,” I said in that booming DAD voice.

Instantly, my son’s face changed.

His happy, playful countenance was replaced with a look of confusion. His eyes wide, looking unbelievably at me, and starting to water. Then his lower lip trembled, he turned downward as if ashamed, and began to cry. I tried to hug him but he wanted mommy.

And It broke my heart.

Especially since I know he didn’t mean to “hit” me.

So, this is what it feels like to be the “bad guy” the “wait ’til your father gets home” guy. I must say, it sucks. At the same time, I know it had to be done, because we don’t want him to hit others (even if his intent is to play) so I had to say “no”.

My wife saw how shaken up I was and she supported me by, of course, laughing at me.

Despite all my bragging how I will be a disciplinarian and will raise a respectful child, I melted at my first test.

“You’re going to be such a pushover,” she said laughing.

She has far more experience dealing with kids, and of course she’ll know all the right things to do. Me, on the other hand, who knows?

I’d like to think I know how to handle these situations.

God, to think that everything I do now, good or bad, could affect him his whole life – that’s a lot to live up to.

A part of me is sad that the all-trusting bond between my son and I was broken for the first time. I imagine it only gets harder the more you have to say “no”.

Reminder: If you’re interested in a one-of-a-kind custom written and drawn holiday gift for your favorite person, time is limited. We’re taking orders on a first come first served basis. Check out the details here.

Want BloggerDad delivered to your email every time I post? Well, you’re not alone. Join the literally tens of others who have already subscribed for free! Email not your thing? That’s okay, you can also subscribe via RSS – It’s also free.

(One more note: This post originally appeared elsewhere in February, pre-dating the existence of this blog. I figured you might enjoy reading it.)

Apparently I’m as handy at installing a baby gate as I am at installing a car seat.

Yet, I found myself doing just that this weekend. Ever since my son started crawling a few months ago, he’s been determined to get a hold of the cats’ food. My wife (and the cats) demanded that I put up a gate to keep him out of the kitchen. While we have a small portable and easy to use expanding fence at one kitchen entrance, we had to purchase a larger permanent gate with an swinging door for the larger opening. Which meant I had to install it.

As you may recall from my last post, I dread Weekend Projects, because a) I work long hours during the week and I don’t want to spend my weekends fulfilling an endless list of Things To Be Done like some husbands I know and b) I am about as handy with tools as a blind monkey in a straight jacket.

The gate looked easy enough to install. The box proclaimed that “all you need is a screwdriver.” I can do that. I HAVE a screwdriver! The fewer tools needed, the more likely I am to buy a product. So, I figured that I couldn’t screw this up (pun not intended).

I figured wrong.

But it’s not my fault. The box lied.

Only after I opened the box at home did I see the instructions, which read:

“USING A DRILL AND 3/15 BIT, DRILL A BUNCH OF RANDOM HOLES IN THE WALL”

The box didn’t tell me that I needed a drill! Lying box.

It’s not that I don’t have a drill. I just don’t know where it is. It’s not in my garage with the rest of the cobweb covered tools. It isn’t in the laundry room. The only thing I can think of is that my subconscious, in an effort to avoid all future home improvement projects, guided me to bury the drill in the backyard one night while sleepwalking.

So where does one go when one needs to borrow a drill?

I called my dad, who is an old school Man’s Man. He can build anything and has the tools to do it. Not only does he have a drill, but likely several of them, each which perform some function that I probably should’ve learned in shop class when I was busy reading X-Men comic books I smuggled in. While it occurred to me to ask my dad for help, my ego wouldn’t let me. I’m a man. A man should be able to install a baby gate without calling daddy.

With drill in hand I returned home, ready to install that bastard gate.

Next step on the instructions:  mark eight spots to drill holes where both ends of the gate will connect to the wall via connectors and screws. The box even included a handy EASY TO USE template!  I’d have to be an idiot to mess this up!

Hi, I’m Blogger Dad, also known as Idiot.

While measuring with the template, which is supposed to start at the floor and measure up, I failed to take into account the trim which run along the floor. I, of course, realized this only AFTER drilling four holes and attempting to line the gate up.

Then I had to locate the proper spot to drill FOUR MORE HOLES.

“SH*%!” I cursed as I looked at the holes. I tried to keep my voice down but it wasn’t low enough. My wife immediately popped into the living room, “What? What did you do?” (God, that is about the least comforting thing a woman can ask a guy who is working on something.)

So, I told her. She was not happy about the holes.

“Why don’t you just call your dad to come over?” she asked.

Because a man should be able to install a baby gate!

After drilling the holes and connecting one side, I went to work on the other wall. I vowed to not make the same mistake on this wall.

Of course, I didn’t vow not to make a NEW mistake.

SOMEHOW, despite careful measuring and keeping the trim in mind, I managed to measure and drill one of the sets of holes incorrectly, off by less than a centimeter. Just enough to ensure that nothing lined up and connected.

So… I had to drill FOUR MORE HOLES.

More cursing. More questions from my wife.

My wall was starting to look like Swiss Cheese.

To make matters worse, since I didn’t realize my error until it was too late, I managed to lose four plastic anchors in the wall. I was able to pull them out, but they were mangled all to hell.

I have a question: Am I the only one who destroys plastic anchors every time I attempt to drill them into a wall?

And of course, the gate didn’t come with any extra anchors.

While I would love to have let loose a stream of obscenities so loud that God Himself would pause to look down from the Heavens to see the source of such a torrential of vulgarities, a wide eyed innocent Baby Wright was inches away, watching his inept daddy work. I was pretty sure I saw him shake his head in shame.

I didn’t want him to see me screaming at the fence. So I kept my cool, went to Lowes, picked up a box of 1,000 anchors (just in case I managed to REALLY screw up the gate) and drove home at about 140 mph.

A project which should have taken a half hour, tops, managed to take me nearly all day. I was annoyed. To make matters worse, my wife was annoyed at me being annoyed!

Yes, annoyed at me for the way I handled the whole situation.

Here I am doing something at her request. Something for The Baby, and she’s upset with me?

My wife, bless her soul, is a nice person who doesn’t get angry and curse at baby gates. She has this Pollyanna vision of a husband who smiles at each setback and screw up, who looks at the holes in the wall and cocks his head back and shares a wholesome chuckle with the entire Cleaver family – right before everybody practices Christmas Carols.

Unfortunately for her, she didn’t marry that guy.

The rest of the job went off without a hitch. And for my efforts, I have a nice secure baby fence and eight extra holes in the wall. Which of course means I have ANOTHER weekend project — repairing the holes and painting over them.

I can’t possibly screw that up.

Right?

Want BloggerDad delivered to your email every time I post? Well, you’re not alone. Join the literally tens of others who have already subscribed for free! Email not your thing? That’s okay, you can also subscribe via RSS – It’s also free.

(note: this piece originally appeared elsewhere in February. But since I just started this blog two months ago, I doubt any of you have read it.)
(another note: This piece has the distinction of being the first thing I wrote which ticked my wife off. And yet, I post it again.)
(and yet another note: Sorry, baby. I told you that I sometimes exaggerate for comedic effect.)

I had to install a car seat this weekend. Baby Wright (at nine months) has already outgrown his first seat. Kid is tall! Must be all those toxins in the toys he seems to carry around in his mouth.

I’m not sure who installed our first car seat, my wife must’ve found some guy more mechanically inclined than myself, which could’ve been Richard Simmons for all I know.  So, I set out to install this monstrosity (sucker is big) into the car, figuring it can’t be THAT difficult. Right?

Then I read the instruction manual.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?!

I like to think I’m a fairly intelligent guy. My job as a reporter oftentimes immerses me in complex issues that I have little experience or knowledge of. It is my job to quickly get up to speed on such things in order to explain them to readers in a way that makes it seem like I actually know what I‘m talking about.

If I had to write a story on how to install a car seat, I don’t think I could. Not unless it’s a photo essay of me jumping up and down on the thing while cursing.

I’m not sure WHO the instruction manual is written for (guys with engineering degrees? rocket scientists? ) but it certainly didn’t make any sense to me.

Oh, I tried to figure it out. I even managed to get some straps connected to The Anchors. However, the car seat was still loose. I considered just grabbing some duct tape and bungee cords, but since it’s The Baby, I actually have to Do Things The Right Way. I can usually figure things like this out by looking at them for a while. When that invariably fails, I look for someone who actually Knows What They’re Doing.

Luckily, my boss was working on the weekend, and I was able to ask him for assistance. Having installed many a car seats, he was able to do this one with relative ease. He certainly didn’t refer to the thing as a Mother F-word-er… Seventeen times (like I did).

This weekend I have another Baby Project. I have to install a baby gate in the house to keep my son from wandering out of the safety of our living room. My wife has a fear that he will wander into the kitchen and start snacking from the cat’s litter box. I would call the fear irrational if E hadn’t already tried.

Goodbye, freedom

Man, I remember a time when I could actually do what I wanted on the weekend! I could draw comics, relax, watch some TV. Not anymore though… Somehow, my time has ceased to be my own.

Let this serve as a lesson to all you people out there (teens and adults alike) not to have sex. Remember, sex leads to car seats and baby gates.

I say if some of these morality police-types want to stop unmarried people from having sex, they ought to just create a public service announcement with some miserable guy trying to put baby stuff together. Underneath, could be some text, reading, “Remember when you were able to watch the game? Parenthood – it’s all car seats and baby gates.”

I could almost see the lines forming for vasectomies.

as always, thanks for reading.

coming tomorrow: The baby gate project and more cursing.

Want BloggerDad delivered to your email every time I post? Well, you’re not alone. Join the literally tens of others who have already subscribed for free! Email not your thing? That’s okay, you can also subscribe via RSS – It’s also free.

While many people choose to have a C-section for various reasons ranging from medical need to convenience, my wife wanted to tough it out and have our baby the “old fashioned way.”  And by old fashioned, I mean breathing, grunting, pushing and writhing in pain for nearly 24 hours.

Meanwhile, entered and exited a number of hospital staffers who attempted to give her an epidural. I say attempt because apparently everyone who knew what the hell they were doing had taken the day off.

What ensued was a nightmarish daisy chain of people poking and prodding attempting to thread the needle into my wife’s spine while she was doubled over in pain. I knelt on the floor beneath her for support as she clutched my hands and shoulders VERY tightly.

I would have given anything at the time to switch places with her.

All the while, nurses made visits to see if my wife was dilated enough to begin the birthing process. They wanted her to give birth within 24 hours of her water breaking -after that, the odds of something going wrong increased, they warned. Time for a natural birth was quickly ticking away. If nothing happened soon, the doctor suggested that a C-section would be necessary.

The look on my wife’s face was of utter disappointment, as if she had somehow failed. She cried. I cried for her, though I hid it. Her mother and I, along with the doctor, tried to lift her spirits and congratulated her for battling for as long as she did. She suffered through the pain a whole hell of a lot longer than I would have!

She relented and said yes to the procedure.

I pulled the doctor aside and asked if she was in any danger from the C-section. He didn’t mince words, warning me, “Well, with any operation, there is always some danger, but it is a very routine procedure and things should be okay.”

Thanks, doc, that was re-assuring.

My mind flashed on all the horror stories I’d heard or read while new ones unfurled on the movie screen in my mind. As the doctor rolled my wife out of the room, fear began to choke me. Fear that something would go wrong with either her or our baby. I looked at her, told her I loved her, I think I kissed her – just in case.

Waiting is the hardest part

I was asked to stand outside the surgery room until they got her prepped. I was told it would be a few minutes, but time was stretching into infinity. Fear returned like a spurned lover, gnawing at me, whispering unsweet notions in my ear. What the hell was taking so long?

Something was wrong. God, please no. I found myself praying, though I am agnostic at best.

So, this is what parenthood is like? Lot’s of fear and feeling helpless.

Soon, the surgery room doors swung open and I was invited to sit down beside my wife’s head which was resting on a surgery table. Doctors, equipment and lights surrounded her as the show was about to being. The rest of her body was blocked off by a blue curtain. I was advised that I might not want to look behind the curtain.

Blogger Dad words of wisdom: When someone says not to look behind the curtain, don’t look behind the curtain.

I did. And saw in the mirror above the operating table as doctors were opening my wife up. You should never have to see your loved ones’ internal organs.

Suddenly, my wife began to say she felt pain. Whatever they had given her had worn off. Suddenly a doctor scrambled to inject more medicine into an IV.

She was so vulnerable there on the table and fear began to whisper again, it’s cold harsh warning of all the things that could go wrong. Suddenly a scene began to play out in my mind where my wife suddenly felt everything, started screaming and something horrible would happen to her or our baby. I prayed again.

Whatever they gave her seemed to work.

Soon, doctors were pulling my son out. I expected a cry but I didn’t hear one.

Fear chattered louder.

Then, nurses rushed him over to another area.

Fear again, “what’s wrong, why are they bringing him there?”

Then he cried.

A sigh of relief from me.

I was asked if I wanted to cut the cord. I declined. Let the pro’s handle it.

And now introducing…

My hear began to pound as the moment where I would first get a good look at my son was about to occur. Emotions flooded my system, I’m sure I was crying, though I was trying not to show it.

A smiling nurse brought my son to me. He was bundled in a blue wrap like a baby burrito.

I looked down at him and felt myself tearing up. “Hello,” I said.

He seemed to be looking back at me, though I’m not sure if he could see anything so soon. I held him up to show my wife, but she was out of it.

I was escorted out of the room while my wife was sewn back up and our baby was brought to the nursery. I would wait an hour before seeing him or my wife again.

My wife, her mother and I were waiting in the recovery room when a nurse peeked in and said that our son was ready to come into the room. I grabbed the camera and caught one of the most beautiful pictures I’ve ever taken. The first moment that my wife saw her child.

She melted, cried and smiled all at once, while making one of those “oh so cute” sounds she normally reserved for baby sneakers.

Though I’ve tried, a description can’t describe the joy in her expression with any justice. I would post the photo here, but she’d probably not approve (as she looked like she just had a kid or something), so you’ll have to take my word, it was a beautiful moment.

The first of many beautiful moments in our baby story.

Here’s a couple of photos from E’s first night in the hospital and one from when we got home.

I’d love to hear about your birth stories in the comments downstairs. Thank you to everyone who has shared your stories so far. I appreciate you joining me on this look back.

As always, thanks for reading.

Click below to continue reading Our Baby Story.

• Our baby story – Part One: “Surprise, I’m pregnant”
• Our baby story – Part Two : I’m not ready!
• Our baby story – part Three: Everything changes
• Our baby story – part Four: uh oh, my water broke
• Our baby story part Five: Hello, world

Want BloggerDad delivered to your email every time I post? Well, you’re not alone. Join the literally tens of others who have already subscribed for free! Email not your thing? That’s okay, you can also subscribe via RSS – It’s also free.

So, there I was, standing there holding the pregnancy test in my hand, shocked into silence.

Several thoughts were running through my head. While I was happy for my wife, I could have waited another 20 years to have a child. She wanted a baby – she loves kids – and she was worried that we might not be able to conceive if we wait until we’re seniors. While I stood there silent, my mind was screaming:

oh crap, oh crap, oh crap, oh crap – I’m going to be a father!

The following thoughts raced through my head seemingly all at once:

• We can’t afford a child
• I’m too selfish to have a child
• I’ll never sleep again
• I’m not ready yet
• I barely know how to fix things around the house, what kind of dad doesn’t know how to change oil?
• We REALLY can’t afford to have a child
• I can kiss all my hopes and dreams goodbye

Let me explain the last one.

There are certain things that I wanted to do before life as I knew it would end. Because let’s face it, parenthood changes you. And I was resistant to ANY form of change. I was a busy guy! I had Great Novels to write, comics to draw, dreams to dream and sports to watch! Very Important Stuff that couldn’t be sidetracked by the constant wants and needs of a baby!

See, I told you that I was selfish.

But at the same time, other thoughts came to mind:

• We WILL find a way to afford a child
• It’s not all about ME
• I never slept all that well to begin with
• If not now, then when?
• This goal, to be happily married and to have a family is more important than all the others
• As for my other hopes and dreams… well, now I have even more inspiration to fulfill them
• Even though I can’t change my oil, I have lots to offer my child – such as burping on command

So there we were, standing in the kitchen, me silent and my wife waiting for my reaction. I know I hugged her, though I can’t remember what I said. I’m sure my prolonged silence betrayed whatever happy words stumbled from my lips, tinging the sweetness with sour.

We went to dinner where we discussed baby names, parenting differences and all the other things you talk about when you realize you are going to be bringing a person into this world.

In nine months, everything was about to change.

Actually, things started changing sooner than nine months.

Find out more, tomorrow.

What sorts of hopes and fears did you have when you found out you were going to be a parent? Share your story in the comments section.

Click below to continue reading Our Baby Story.

• Our baby story – Part One: “Surprise, I’m pregnant”
• Our baby story – Part Two : I’m not ready!
• Our baby story – part Three: Everything changes
• Our baby story – part Four: uh oh, my water broke
• Our baby story part Five: Hello, world

Want BloggerDad delivered to your email every time I post? Well, you’re not alone. Join the literally tens of others who have already subscribed for free! Email not your thing? That’s okay, you can also subscribe via RSS – It’s also free.

(BloggerDad.com turned two months old on Saturday – still wearing a diaper, but at least no longer pooping all over the place. I’ve decided now would be a good time to tell you a story about another baby – my son. I’ll spare you the conception story – I’m saving that for the ‘Member’s Only Pay Section’

Instead, we’ll start with the day I found out I was going to be a father and we’ll work our way forward over the course of the week. Each day I’ll also ask you to share your story.)

My wife and I married in 2002. I was 32, she was 29. We both wanted children, though I always saw kids as something that would be nice to have… someday. You know, like a large screen TV or a Ferrari. In other words, I was in no rush. Women, however, are a little less cavalier about the matter. You know, the whole biological clock and all that womanly stuff I don’t pretend to comprehend.

We started trying to have a baby in late 2005 or so. It took some time and it was a bit frustrating for us. I’m pretty sure my sperm were holding out in attempts to “save me” from a life of fatherhood and parental responsibility. Eventually, they lost their battle and one of my swimmers found themselves lost in the deep end of the pool, saying, “uh, oh.”

Surprise!

I’ll never forget how my wife surprised me with the news. However, our recollections of the moment differ.

It was August 2006. I’d just come back home from visiting my friend in South Florida. My wife and I were standing in the kitchen and were about to go out to eat for my birthday dinner. She left the room for a moment, then came back and handed me a long jewelry box. I thought to myself, “oh crap, she got me a watch for my birthday! She knows I don’t like to wear watches. Man, I’m going to feel like a jerk if she picks up on my disappointment.”

I opened the box, mentally preparing to plaster a big fat smile on my face. Instead, a look of confusion washed over my mug.

“Is this a thermometer?” I asked, holding the pregnancy test in my hand. My mind hadn’t made the connection to what I was holding. It was seeing two plus two and coming up with 9,875. It’s kind of like seeing a canary in your refrigerator. You don’t expect to see a canary, so your brain takes a second to register what you’re looking at.

“No,” she said.

And then it hit me.

I saw the two lines.

“You’re pregnant?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

Now, here is where our accounts dovetail into two different stories – hers and the truth. ( I kid!)

What I remember:

Me saying something, though I can’t recall what, and hugging her.

What she remembers:

Me standing silent for an eternity, as if I’d just witnessed a jetliner crash into a school bus parked inches from a church/orphanage on a Sunday.

While our accounts differ, I do remember what I thought when she told me. It went something like this:

“RUN! Run as far and as fast as you can!”

No, not really.

So what DID I think? What did I do? Find out tomorrow in part two.

So, now it’s your turn. How did you either tell your significant other of your first pregnancy together or if you’re a guy, how did your girlfriend/wife/secretary tell you?

Click below to continue reading Our Baby Story.

• Our baby story – Part One: “Surprise, I’m pregnant”
• Our baby story – Part Two : I’m not ready!
• Our baby story – part Three: Everything changes
• Our baby story – part Four: uh oh, my water broke
• Our baby story part Five: Hello, world

Want BloggerDad delivered to your email every time I post? Well, you’re not alone. Join the literally tens of others who have already subscribed for free! Email not your thing? That’s okay, you can also subscribe via RSS – It’s also free.

(This is the second part of a post which begins here)

Back at the park…

E stood by my side at the entrance of the park, clutching the soccer ball I’d found in the sand. He was holding it with two hands, sort of like a security blanket as he watched the other kids. I was following his lead. If he wanted to leave, we could. If he wanted to walk over to one of the other groups of kids, we could do that, also.

A toddler wobbled his way over to my son. He was close to E in age, and was also holding a ball. Despite their obvious shared love of balls, their interaction was minimal.

Suddenly a bigger kid – about nine – entered the park, walked over to my son and without saying a word, snatched the ball from him! How dare he? No way I’m gonna’ let some punk bully take something from my son!

Without even thinking what I was doing, I grabbed the ball back and glared down at the kid. “He was playing with that,” I said, holding back my instinct to yell. I handed the ball back to my son, as my mind started processing how the scene looked to my son. I want to set a good example of dealing with conflict.

The kid looked up at me, and said without any trace of anything but sincerity, “But it’s my ball.”

Oh crap.

I felt about five inches high.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and took the ball back from my son (praying he wouldn’t get upset – he didn’t, thank God) and handed it to the kid. Though I’m sure my son didn’t understand what I was saying, I explained that it was the boy’s ball and we had to give it back.

The boy took his ball and ran away. I felt like a big meanie.

I began to wonder how I will handle it the day my son runs into REAL bullies? And then I began to think of my own experiences growing up.

Somewhere the innocence of childhood gives way to the pain of growing up.

Like my son, I often watch people. I watch how they interact with one another and try to figure out what makes them do the things that they do. I’ve spent years trying to figure out how we as a species can be capable of such great things yet also have such an endless capacity for evil.

I was raised to be a good child. I respected my parents and other adults, I was the first person to offer help when someone was either moving to or from our neighborhood. I was the product of a relatively strict upbringing and I’d like to think my parents raised me right, if not a bit old fashioned.

I grew up in an inner city which had turned to crap. By the time I was 10, I’d witnessed my mother getting mugged, I was nearly dragged into the bushes by a man with a knife as I was on my way home from school, and I’d been chased down by a carload of thugs for the crime of being a “honkey”. My dad decided that enough was enough and sacrificed everything to bring us to the safety of the suburbs. That safety came at a cost, though. My dad bought a house at the height of a real estate boom and for a long time, we lived on a very tight budget.

Unfortunately, I didn’t fit into my new surroundings. I was essentially a poor kid who was suddenly thrust in with the children of wealthy parents. My kindness and naiveté made me a target. I was called a “goodie two shoes” and as kids got crueler, “a faggot” simply because I was different from them. I became a target for bullies who picked on me because I tried to turn the other cheek and wouldn’t fight back. I remember many nights crying myself to sleep wondering what the hell was wrong with me.

Kids have an innate ability to sniff out the weakest of the herd.

So, I did what I had to do to survive. I hardened. I stopped trusting people. I honed a razor sharp wit. Humor was a good defense, but it didn’t always work. I eventually had to fight back. I began to hate – others for what they did to me and myself for what I’d become.

Adapting, I was able to fit in, and in time, even made friends. However, at some point, I mourned my innocence that was forever lost. I had changed, and not in ways that I wanted. It took me a while to rediscover what mattered most to me.

Only when I stopped caring what others thought, was I able to find the strength to be myself.

I don’t feel sorry for myself and the hell I went through. I imagine most kids have a tough time at some point in their lives. Had I grown up happy and fitting in, perhaps I would never have turned to writing and drawing. Maybe that hell helped shape my talents.

And now…

I do not want my son to go through the same hell. I look at him, so full of happiness, love and innocence. And I want him to stay this way forever. I don’t want him to feel the awful stings of the many arrows that life has aimed at us.

Yet, part of me knows that pain is a part of life. And you have to let your children stumble or they will never learn to pick themselves up.

So while I want to hold him and protect him forever in a big Daddy Bubble of Protection, I know I can’t. In time, I’ll have to teach him to be strong. I might even have to teach him how to fight. It pains me that any parent should have to teach their children violence.

For now, the best thing I can do is to simply keep letting him know that he is loved. Hopefully the love of parents will help protect him from life’s cruel arrows. I know it helped me.

Thank you mom and dad.

Want BloggerDad delivered to your email every time I post? Well, you’re not alone. Join the literally tens of others who have already subscribed for free!

Email not your thing? That’s okay, you can also subscribe via RSS – It’s also free.

Parenthood is full of memorable and significant firsts – the first time your baby smiles, laughs, crawls, walks and says their first words. There’s also a not so memorable first – the first time you realize you are powerless to protect them from the world.

Earlier this summer, I took my son (E) to a small neighborhood park. It was our first such trip without my wife. It was just “us guys.” I wasn’t sure what we would do at the park, as most of the playground equipment is for older children. However, E enjoys the toddler swing.

He also LOVES watching other people.

There were 10 or so children at the park, one who was close to E’s age, all the rest of them a bit older, ranging from four to nine years old. They were accompanied by mostly stay at home moms and some grandparents. I was the only young dad there.

As I pushed E in the swing, his eyes were on the other children. His attention was drawn to the closest group, four boys and one girl who were climbing a rope mountain. They were engaged in talk of who could climb higher, and who was “king of the mountain.” One boy, about five years old, proudly exclaimed that he was “queen of the mountain.” He wasn’t trying to be funny, he just didn’t know better. He reminded me of Ralph Wiggum from The Simpsons. From a nearby bench, a six year old girl, who I took to be his older sister, crossed her arms, correcting the boy, “You can’t be a queen, you’re a boy.”

I thought it was funny how this girl, who was barely older than the boy, was mimicking a maternal way of talking to the boy as she crossed her legs and her arms as her mother must surely do when correcting the children. It was a funny moment which drew my interest as well as my son’s. I watched how the children interacted and my mind flashed forward to thoughts of how my son will interact with others as he grows. Will he fit in or will he be like me, painfully shy and a bit of an outcast?

I’m hoping he won’t be shy. He is a very friendly child and has one advantage that I didn’t have as a toddler. He goes to daycare, where he gets to interact with lots of children his own age. He also has a few family and friends similar in age who he sees on occasion. So, he is getting key socialization skills early in life, which I hope will make a difference.

After he got tired of swinging, I stood him up in the sand and we started walking, looking for something else he could do. I decided to just follow his lead and see where he wanted to go. But he wasn’t moving.

He just stood there in the middle of the playground, watching everybody, absentmindedly folding his hands together.

I spotted a ball about 10 yards away, close to the fence which surrounds the park. E loves balls, so I went to get it. I thought he might follow me.

Instead, he stayed put. Watching.

I picked up the ball and was heading back, when I stopped in my tracks. This was the first time I’d ever observed E from afar, on his own, surrounded by others. I was getting a rare chance to see how he interacts without my interference.

I stood there, watching him watch the other kids as he sucked on his paci.

He was absolutely adorable.

I was curious if he would approach anyone or if anybody would approach him. If so, what would happen next?

He just stood there, quiet and curious. His big blue eyes were wide and innocent, taking everything in as his head tilted from one direction to another. While a few kids looked at him as they ran by, E was too young to garner much interest, save for the occasional comment from girls who would say, “Oh, how cute,” as they ran by.

I wondered if he was afraid to approach anyone. Maybe he didn’t know what to do. When your vocabulary is limited to a few words, it’s probably hard to strike up conversations. I tried to imagine what he was thinking and how he was feeling.

It occurred to me at that moment how incredibly vulnerable he was. Just standing there, all by himself, in a sea of chaos. And while I was standing nearby, watching over him in case he fell or some jerky kid knocked him down, I realized for the first time that I will not always be there to watch over and protect him.

And all at once, my heart broke. I wanted to run over and scoop him up and hug him.

So, I did.

(Click here to read Part Two)

(note: I wasn’t sure if I was going to post this story, as it felt a bit too personal – for reasons which will become clear tomorrow. However, I was inspired by my buddy, Sean (Writer Dad) Platt’s rather personal and touching post and I decided to share, despite my uneasiness.)

Want BloggerDad delivered to your email every time I post? Well, you’re not alone. Join the literally tens of others who have already subscribed for free!

Email not your thing? That’s okay, you can also subscribe via RSS – It’s also free.