Right Around The Corner . . .

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Originally uploaded by Blaine A. Flamig

If all goes according to plan, I'll be a new father again in a week and a day. That's the time that has been deemed appropriate enough for a birth, and it's as good as any with me. I want to meet my daughter already. I'm hoping she wants to meet me, too. We've been conversing, but it's time I put a face to the name and the squirming she's been doing in her mother's stomach. I think she's anxious to see the world anyway. The other night she nearly punched a hole in her mommy's tummy trying to get out. Great punch this little has already. She'll probably need it in the house she's coming into. Brother and sisters to survive and all. But I have a feeling she'll do just fine and fit in without trouble. I almost think she's more ready than me, and although I wish that wasn't the case, we could have another nine months to prepare and probably wouldn't be ready still. But that's how it goes. Every day when I look at her ultrasound snapshots and every night when I pray for her health and well-being, I'm convinced I'll be ready even when I'm not. I'll always do what's necessary, from day one until I'm out of days. That's a certainty. That's the greatest gift I can giver her. It can't begin to compare with the gifts she has and will give me, but I'll work to make her life everything I can. That's a promise, kiddo.

Another teenager in the house.

It doesn't seem at all possible, but my daughter turned 13 today. Where did the years go? And why do I seem to be asking myself that question so much more lately? I just want the days to slow down. To crawl instead of run. I want the minutes to trudge along, not skip. I want each second to last years. Some days I think I can control time in such ways. Other days I know it's no use even contemplating the notion. I have no power over time. Some days I refuse to even believe in time. Other days, time refuses to believe in me. I've never been someone who's terribly big on birthdays. I'm definitely not a sour-puss who believes "a birthday is just another day," but I'm also aware that a birthday doesn't always turn out special just because it's a birthday. Shouldn't each day be as equally special? Probably. But I'm smart enough to know that doesn't always work out, either. Anyway, I'm grateful for my daughter's birth and for celebrating it. It means I'm around for another day in her life, and so is she. It means that she's in my life, and I'm in hers. It means another opportunity to tell her that she is someone special to me, and I'm grateful for her presence. I wish she was turning three instead of 13, but I'm happy she's in a good place, surrounded by good people, and experiencing good things. Happy Birthday, kid, and many more.

Halloween Is The New X-mas

OK, not really, but in our house, Halloween comes a very close second to Jesus' birthday, at least from the singular notion of having fun. It's become a tradition with my youngest daughter and I to make her costume from scratch rather than buy one. Besides giving us an afternoon to spend together trekking from Goodwill to Goodwill to piece together what we need, we put our money back into an institution that could use it rather than one such as Target or Wal-Mart that doesn't. Hey, no big morality lesson here or anything, but damn if the Goodwill doesn't have a purpose in the world. Better, making her costume forces us to use our own creativity and not rely on others to supply it for us. A much better approach, IMHO. The last couple of Halloweens I've noticed a sadness starting to creep in me, I guess because I began to realize that there weren't too many more years my kids would be actively participating. Not too many more Goodwill-costume adventures or getting out around the neighborhood to collect candy and getting to know our neighbors. Now, with a new baby on the way, I know there are many Halloweens left in my future, and hopefully my older children will help her discover the greatness that is Halloween.

It Figures

Uncle M was in town for probably the first and only time in his or my lifetimes and I missed it. So much I would have liked to ask him or even just thank him for. "Hey M, 'Big Mouth Strikes Again' was so money. Thanks, fella." That's it. That's all I would have really like to him.

Hey M, next time you're in town, how about a little warning. I wouldn't have gotten all creepy fan-stalker on your or anything. Just a quick "thanks," maybe a handshake, and I'd have been on my way. Damn.

The Countdown Is On

Although summer is desperately clinging on, fall is beating down the door. The sun is taking longer each day to greet me and it's going to bed earlier each night. It won't be long until the day's temporary chilliness is a permanent fixture. It also won't be long until our baby-to-be becomes a permanent fixture in our lives. I only wish she was present already. Some days I can picture her face. Smell her new baby skin. Feel the smallness of her hands in the largeness of my own. The anticipation is too much to take some minutes. The fear of how I'll handle this new adventure is momentarily frightening, as well. Baby showers. Constructing cribs. Painting walls. Adding curtains. Buying toys. Cleaning high chairs. Reading, preparing, training, reconditioning. Change, change, change. The move forward was so desperately needed, however. The stagnation that life had somewhat become was full of messages that I'm no where near done evolving. I've known such things for so long, but sometimes putting evolution into motion rather than waiting for it to occur naturally are two entirely different things. I lacked motion. I've found it again. I lacked motivation. I've found it. I lacked vision. I can see again. Thank you little one. Your gifts are already welcomed, and you've yet to arrive.

The morning of my new nightmare . . .

There is no good reason for a man of 40 to start a summer morning in Nebraska by putting on his tennies and running for all he's worth, other than to save his life. That's how my day began, and I'm fulfilled for now. Shape. I have to get in it. I'm not nearly overweight. I'm definitely presentable. But I'm 40, and I have a baby coming. He needs endurance. That I don't own. But I will. One foot in front of the other, despite angry lungs taunting me. Despite shoulders so tight I could pluck them like guitar strings. Despite a head pounding so hard I could rap over the beat. Despite legs so leaden I could erect a tent by their poles. Horrible. Yet, I'm fulfilled for now. Even as my daughters incessantly bicker and battle upstairs, their footsteps so thuddingly heavy the floor might collapse on my head. Even as my dog snores near my feet, relieving himself of pent up gas as he does. (Horrible.) Even as mowers outside cutting brown grass that's too frustrated with heat to grow ruins the silence. (Most horrible.) I'm fulfilled for now.

My little camper is away

And the house is silent. Too silent. Why do I feel so guilty that she's at camp? Maybe because she didn't want to go. Do I think she's having a good time? Probably. But I can't shake the feeling, or more specifically, the sight of her as her mom and I walked away while she was trying to fit in with the rest of the girls already in the cabin. I'm glad she got the top bunk. She always likes the top bunk best. I'm glad we turned around and went back home to get her hat. She loves her hat. And I'm glad she at least knew someone as we stood in line to check in. I'm worried about her cold. I'm worried that she'll get homesick. I'm worried that she'll be sad until she gets back. But she's stronger than me. She's more secure. She's able to adapt. Her tolerance level is amazing. And after all, it is camp. Hell, I wished I'd have been able to stay. Swimming all day. Stomping around in mud. Canoe riding. Zip lines. Midnight polar swims. Hell, what's not to like. Except being away from home, I guess. I miss you, bean.

Winter Park Isn't West Chester, PA . . .

But a vacation is a vacation. WC was our destination of choice this summer, but a baby to be kind of put a kink in those plans. So we're off to Winter Park, and really, is WP that much of a compromise? Nah. The alpine slide awaits, and I have a feeling my kids will wear it out. I'm going to give it a shot, myself.

Why WC in the first place? To visit family, and missing that puts much regret in my bones. I'd rather be there, soaking up the wisdom of June and Marianne. Soaking up the spirit that is there enthusiasm. Soaking up the nature of family. Until next year . . .

Swimming, summer, and exploring.

My kids adore swimming. They go every chance they get now with the weather picking up, steam-wise. Regrettably, we don't have a pool in our backyard (I wouldn't want one if we could manage it), and we don't have a city pool nearby, either. Yet, they've managed to make the connections necessary to get themselves into the few pools we do have nearby. They're resourceful, and I admire that. You have to be in this world. Lesson learned, children. Keep up the good work.

They'll get plenty of swimming this summer, and camping, and camps, and other stuff I didn't get a chance to do regularly. And for that, I'm thankful. That was one of the big reasons I wanted to become a parent. Giving them opportunities I didn't have is a big reason I get out of bed. Some days, it's the only reason. Other days, not so much. On those days, they seem to make their own opportunities. Some times for the better; others the worse. Another lesson learned.

Pregnant Ladies

It's funny how I seem to be noticing pregnant women more these days. They're everywhere. Maybe it's my keen sense of what's to come. Maybe it's my keen sense of not knowing what's to come. At any rate, each time I see a woman expecting child, I'm reminded of my own. I'm also reminded how much younger these women seem than me. I think a lot about being 40 when I'll have these child. I try to comfort myself with the fact that Jimmy Stewart, Hugh Hefner, and the like were great-grandfather age when they helped conceive. I try to forget that they are/were very rich men. I don't know what kind of father Jimmy Stewart was, but I'll compare myself to Heff anyday, although I'm sure his sons aren't complaining of their lineage. I can't offer my child, if he is a son, the same kind of visual perks flooding my house (if you dare call women "visual perks"), but I'll offer him better. If my child is a girl, I'll offer her protection to my death, without question or hestitation. My daughters now could probably verify as much. I'm too involved. Too protective. But I'm not bothered by that. It's my job, and I take it seriously. Too much? As long as they are alive, laughing, and thinking for themselves, I don't really care. Label me an idiot, meddler, overbearing, or extreme. I'll take all of the above for their happiness and well being. I'm sure in hell not handing them over to just any moron without a stitch of character. Won't happen. My girls have too much to offer.

Integers

Tonight, I helped my 13-year-old prepare for her end-of-the-year math test by doing far too many review problems. Good Lord, what am I getting myself into with having another baby? Before, during, and after integers, I read my nine-year-old 50 pages of "Matilda." After that it was on to help my significant other fill out online applications. Am I insane for adding another chick to the nest? How am I ever going to find enough worms to feed the birds? Speaking of birds, my 110-pound dog started the evening by terrorizing two sparrows in our backyard into such fear, I'm sure they'll never squawk again. Squawkless birds are a site no man should ever envision.

Running With The Dogs

I've been out of the game of parenting a baby for more than 10 years. It's a whole different ballgame. My children now are at the age where they think for themselves (very ably, I'll add). They reason on their own. They make judgments and decisions on their own (not always ably, I'll add), and they take credit on their own, deservingly. They know their likes and dislikes, and they experiment and face new days on their own because they want to. Babies do none of those things. It's been quite awhile since another human being has been totally dependent on me, and that's scary. I've had a lot of years of (semi) freedom, and I have to be honest that I'll miss that. I know there are great trade-offs I'll get in return, and I plan on taking them in as completely as possible each and every time one surfaces. I can't wait, in fact. But I'll miss heading out the door day or night and walking around the block without worry. Sitting on the steps at midnight watching the moon pass through the sky without worrying about getting up because someone else needs me to. I'll miss hoping on the bike with my daughter and heading down to the gas station to get a soda. I'll miss sitting up late at night watching movies with my increasingly insightful 14-year-old. I'll miss running with the dogs in the early morning, catching the day's first breaths deep in the lungs.

But for each thing I'll miss, I can't wait to adapt my life in new ways. I can't wait to buckle the little guy/girl into the car seat and head out for a ride. To strap him/her in the stroller and let him/her experience the sun. Feel the wind on the face. See snowflakes falling from the sky above. To hear thunder and watch lightening. To take in fireworks for the first time. To feel cold water on the toes. I can't wait to play him/her songs on the guitar and sing him/her to sleep. To take naps together. To draw and paint and buy hot wheels or dolls. To experience the library and ballgames and going to the movies for the first of many times. I can't wait to hear him/her say "puppy" and come to love running with the dogs on his/her own.

I'm starting to think life is a lot about trade-offs and what you're willing to give up to get something in return. I don't know really what I need to get these days. That confuses me more than I can probably comprehend. Even if I knew what I wanted, I'm not sure I'd know how to go about getting it. My job these days seems to be helping other people get what they need and want. And that's OK. There comes a point, however, where that's not satisfying any longer, and when I reach that point, I'll adapt and move on to where I need to go and go with who I need to. I'm smart enough to remember how difficult it is having a baby, emotionally and physically. I'm smart enough to know that the worrying and stress and responsibility are going to feel like bricks falling on my head some days. I also know that I've felt nothing in life that begins to approach the true unselfishness and unconditional love as a baby invokes. I'm also smart enough to know that a very big part of having a baby is helping that baby grow to discover what trade-offs he or she is going to be willing to make.

Expectations

Today I told most of my friends that I am going to be a father again. The reception was mostly good. In a couple of cases, the reactions definitely weren't what I expected, primarily in unpleasant ways. By unpleasant I mean disappointing. There wasn't a specific tone or words or gestures I was looking for. Just happiness, I guess. In a few cases, what was returned was strange, and I'm still trying to put my finger on exactly what it all means. Am I misinterpreting matters? Did I get something wrong? It's difficult to say. It's difficult to know. It's certainly not something I'm going to ask clarification for. I don't think you should have to. And ultimately I'm not concerned enough to really want clarification. I don't need it. My mind is clear and able, and I'm confident in my position. I know the task at hand, and it's a good one. And the relationship I really want to foster remains ahead of me with this child. That's the bond that matters most, because that's my responsibility. That's mine to get right or wrong. And that's the clarity I'm in pursuit of. I've surrounded myself with good people. The people I've chosen to keep in my life are in my life for a reason. Good and bad. And lord knows I'm a demanding son of a bitch some days, and I accept that. And I think they accept that about me. But expectations work both ways, and those who expect something from me, I try not to disappoint if it means enough to me and to them. I know what's important. What's important right now isn't the scenario under which I'm welcoming this child into the world. What's important is the scenario for the child when he or she enters the world. Maintaining that atmosphere will always be what's most important, just as it has been for my children now.

Musing on becoming a father again . . .

I'm sitting here listening to Elliott Smith while contemplating recent news that I'm going to become a father again. ES probably isn't the best soundtrack for such thoughts, but he's calm, and I'm not. He's even-keeled, and I'm not. I'm amped, revved, and juiced. Fatherhood at 40 will be a mission. A terrifying, enlightening, rapturous mission.

How bizarre to share news about something so personal and life-changing with strangers, with non-faces. But this is the world he/she belongs to. This is the state of matters. This is the score. I'll be prepared. I'll be locked in. Honed. Dedicated and in all the way. Never been a doubt about that. But as I listen to ES, I realize pain and discomfort and uncertainty is always a step away, waiting to pounce. So be it. Make your move. I'm ready. Committed. Fierce. Certainly battle-worthy and experienced. Frightened? Maybe. Weak. No.

Welcome, little one. I can't wait to meet you.