Six Minutes

That's how much time I spent with Benjamin yesterday. Needless to say, I'm feeling the weight of ALL the Ides of March at work. You would be surprised at the amount of work that goes into creating a :30 commercial, you know the ones you fast forward through thanks to Tivo - jerk. Our agency works smartly to stretch our client's dollars, so we shoot 5 at at time. So I am prepping these spots and in the process of creating the next slew of spots that shoot the following month - ergo, a whoppin' 6 minutes with Benjamin.

It didn't even occur to me until I laid down in the late a.m. - "Did I even hold Benjamin today? Yeah, of course I did...right?" I guess if it was a really big deal I would have rushed in and swiped him from his crib and rock him until the rooster crowed. No, I let the wheels of justification grind away and concluded that he is still in deep infancy and my face probably resembles a warped potato in his eyes, - therefore my absence was not even noticed.

But, I do feel like I missed a little sliver of his life. No tears were shed and I didn't feel the guilt that drives fathers out to buy their children a diamond-encrusted pony, but it was significant enough for me to notice. And know that I want to avoid that from happening again, especially when he is older and I no longer look like Mr. Potatohead®.

Steady As He Goes

Benjamin celebrated his 1 month birthday a few days back (I told him your card was still in the mail). It wasn't necessarily a momentous occasion, but it was hard to believe it has been a month already, only 215 months left in my tenure as Benjamin's legal guardian. Oddly enough, that's fewer months than my mortgage.

And with the 1 month marker comes the 1 month doctor's visit. I am happy to report that young Benjamin has gained (drumroll strikes up)...3 lbs in 3 weeks. Our 1 month-old weighs 12.4 lbs and is 23" long. His vertical jump is still pretty low, but the pediatrician was willing to give me a couple more months to workshop him. His gain also affirms our hypothesis that Cheetos can in fact add the proper amount of weight to a baby's frame. I'm sure it's also the cause of his baby acne, and his affinity for jazz-lovin' cheetahs.

The doctor was very positive about his development, making the first part of our visit a smile invoking success. Then came the second part, ye olde Hepatitis B shot. I'm fine with getting shots. I don't look forward to them and I don't plan them as a leisure activity, but I suck it up and take my medicine. The difference between me and a baby is that I'm aware of what the needle is for, what it's going to do and what it is going to feel like. Babies are naturally clueless.

The sweet nurse is chatting with us and rubbing his thigh with an alcohol rub, telling us about how she hates this part of what she has to do. Then she pulls out a 12 gauge needle, one that would make both horses and junkies run to the hills. And as soon as I see the shimmer of the needle - poke. I look to Benjamin's face, his primordial nervous system is slow to react - the pain hasn't registered yet. And then - GWAAAAAAH! Not a "Wah", not an "Aah" it was a guttural "SOMEONEJUSTPOKEDMYLEGWITHAFRIGGINNEEDLE!!!" cry.

This cry was new to both Emily and I. And I think it made both of us want to punch this sweet nurse in the face for doing this to our son. Emily's eyes welled up with tears and all I wanted to do was make him feel better AND to make sure he knew that I wasn't the person that did this to him. He calmed down quicker than Emily did, but she said something enlightening, "Seeing that made me realize how much I love our little boy."

I thought about that statement as I drove to work. All too often we don't really think about or consider how much we like or love someone until something tragic happens to either you or them. And sometimes, you're even denied the opportunity to do that. It wasn't the birthing, it wasn't the 200+ feedings and it wasn't the dozens of kisses that truly brought out a parent's special brand of love. It was seeing him in pain that ignited the instinct.

So I guess my advice for you this weekend is to give a loved one a Hepatitis B shot so you can tell them you love them. It will be totally worth it.

The First Trip Away

It's late. I'm physically beat, but my mind is still on West Coast time. I had to travel for work this week, making this the first time away from the baby for any real length. And it was a bit of a personal dilemma - I didn't want to leave Emily and Benjamin per se, but the trip required me to go to the Presidio in SanFran (home of Lucasfilm and Industrial Light & Magic) to view some hush-hush stuff. Needless to say my dork meter was redlined.

I was excited about the trip, I enjoyed the trip, I'm glad I went on the trip. But the flip side of the coin is talking to Emily on the phone and hearing between the lines and detecting that she would REALLY like me to step into a teleportation device and be there right then. Other than consoling words and sweet nothings, I couldn't really do much. And I'm sure in the dark recesses of her mind she was picturing Obi-Dale Kenobi having the time of my life playing Dejarik holo-chess with my new Wookie friends and blasting womprats. Well she is mistaken...we were blasting Ewoks.

I did load my iTouch with pictures of both E & B and enjoyed looking at them when the whimsy hit me - it so beats have the trifold picture holder in your wallet which usually holds, mildly bent and sweaty outdated pictures of your family. I beat down a stewardess on my return flight with an impromptu slideshow - "Conception to Present: A Benjamin Alexander Retrospective Pt. 1"

That's all I got. Like I said it's late. It did feel nice to pick him up from a snooze and sniff his baby hair. He never opened his eyes, but he did wince at my cold hands so at least he knows that Daddy's home.

Parenting Advice From The FAA

During Emily's pregnancy I pondered more than once what kind of father I would be, but it is impossible to prognosticate such things. So I thought about the types of fathers I didn't want to become. Obviously I didn't want to be an abusive father or one that checks in on his kid(s) on a quarterly basis. I also didn't want to be the vicarious dad that forces his child to pick up the torch of my own youth and run it to the finish line.

And there was another archetype I wanted to avoid too, the father that is too into his kids. Before you "well, I never!" me, allow me to explain. I have seen plenty of parents, first and secondhand, that become husks of themselves because they invest so much of their lives and revolve everything around their kids. All conversations are about their kids, cool life events are missed because run-of-the-mill kid activities take precedence - they cease being "Steve" or "Randy" or "Jill" and are simply "Mom" or "Dad."

"Well obviously you don't love your child, because raising your kids is the most important thing in the world." Wrong and wrong. And this is where the FAA comes in. Their helpful advice for when you hit turbulence and the airmasks plop down is to first put your mask on and THEN put your child's mask on them. The logic goes that you need to be running at optimal efficiency so you can actually best protect and service your child. I think this logic carries over nicely to parenthood too. In fact I've already put this into practice.

I am a better person, husband, father, employee when I'm able to workout and have some leisure time (reading, video games, etc.). All work and no play makes Dale something-something (Simpsons wink). If I am deficient in these areas, the sparkle in my eyes just isn't there and I am more reluctant to help out or work after hours. I have 30 years experience of being Dale, and I don't want to throw all of my hard work away. And I don't think parents should look at life as an all-or-nothing proposition - person vs parent.

I know everything cannot remain the same as pre-kid. You have a child and it takes a lot of time to do the daily necessities and also do the fun stuff parenting allows you to do. And I absolutely recognize the sacrifices that parents must make to make sure their kids stay alive and thrive. You can't have it both ways, but I contend that you can have it some of the way. If you were into music before, keep the amp plugged in. If you were into crafts, keep your beads out or whatever. If you played video games, carve out some time to frag people.

It's those things that made you "you", and what's the point of raising your child so all they know if this caregiver of a person and not the real "you". Until of course when you pull out the photo albums and they gawk over a picture of you on a motorcycle "whoa, you had a motorcycle!?" or the picture of mom wearing something besides sweatpants, "Wow Mom, you were hot?!"

Beyond fighting for your right to be yourself, there is also the responsibility to your spouse. If you too are a Christian, we should strive to keep God first, our spouse second and our children third. I'm guessing kids don't agree with this hierarchy, but that's too bad for them. I feel bad for the couples who wake up the day the kids leave and wonder who this stranger is sitting across from them at the dinner table, because they ceased to relate to each other on a level that wasn't kid-centered.

That's my story. I know, I know - I've only been a parent for 1-month and I already know everything. The people reading this without kids will probably high-5 me. The people with multiple kids are probably giving me a different hand signal. That's fine, I'm off to play some Call of Duty before I enjoy the simple pleasure of giving Benjamin his bath, cuz that's the kind of Dad I want to be.

P.S. Benjamin is doing great!

This Genie Needs A New Job

Another item that modern parents are brainwashed into putting on their "must have" list is some kind of dirty diaper holder unit. This dirty business gets even dirtier because I think it is an oligopoly that needs to be investigated by the Anti-Trust committee. It is run by two factions, the Diaper Champs and Diaper Genies.

Diaper Champ made me think of Mike Tyson's Punch-Out for some reason. It sounded like a ridiculous buffoon of a character you have to box and all he wears is a diaper and gloves, passing gas as you belt him in the stomach.

The Diaper Genie carried a sense of mystique about it, as if it were a portal to the netherworld where you simply drop the diaper and it is banished to the 5th Circle of Hell. It also made me imagine a jovial Genie who would wisecrack with me every time I had a new deposit.

Genie: Greetings, what gifts do you have for me today?
Me: Hey Genie, this one's got a #1 AND a #2.
Genie: An embarrassment of riches, huzzah!
(Musical dance number goes here)

Sadly, the Diaper Genie is basically a double-layered plastic trashcan that costs three times as much. Nothing magical about it, but it does work and I can't say that I've smelt any offending odors. I also recognize that it is an inanimate object, but I feel bad for its station in life. I felt the same way about public toilets when I was younger too, they got a bum deal. No pun intended.

This evening I pulled out a trash bag from the Genie and it felt like I pulled a calf from its mother. It weighed about 25 pounds. 25 pounds of dirty diapers. Barf. So the poor Genie has been sitting there with two Thanksgiving turkeys worth of poop and pee in its gullet for a couple of days. That's a terrible existence.

And after reading a popular children's book, I've got more bad news for my Genie friend, Everyone Poops.

I will pay you $10,000 to stop crying

Nothing is more frustrating than trying to calm a crying baby. I wanted to sell Benjamin to a roving band of gypsies yesterday. Here's the set up: all was calm on the western front in the afternoon and Emily needed to get out and do some personal errands. I encouraged her to go and the baby should be fine since he was just fed. As soon as the garage door was closed...WAAHHHHHHH!!!

I pick him up to calm him down and he is not having it. I change his diaper, nope. I try the swing, nothing. I swaddle and rock him, unh-unh. He is crying at a decibel level unsafe to the human ear. I can feel the tightening of the vises on my temples. Now he is trying to eat his hands, obviously he is hungry and I can't do a thing about it - his food source is out and about and we aren't using bottles yet. We don't want to give him, wait for it - nipple confusion (clinical term).

The minutes are dragging by on the microwave clock. All I can do is hold and bounce him to try and give him some comfort. It is about now that I want to find those gypsies and take their first offer. I of course start to get defensive and daydream of Emily driving around with the windows down, sipping on an iced Starbuck's® treat, singing background for whatever is on her easy-listening station, intentionally taking the long way back home.

I hear the garage door open, the baby goes silent into a nap - perfect. Emily walks in and my face apparently spoke a thousand words. I needed to pass the baby off and not be around him for a bit. I wasn't going to hurt him, but I instantly could see how some of the horror stories you hear on the news about parents mistreating their babies could be possible. Not condoning it, but now I know that it isn't fiction when I hear about it.

On a lighter note, it snowed here in north Texas last night. We didn't get outside in it until the morning, but it is still technically his first snow day. Emily and I took turns pelting him with snowballs, he was a REAL easy target.

You only need 146 things to raise a baby

I have been mulling over whether or not technology is a help or a hindrance to new parents. You want to prepare your nest with everything you may need to aid in the rearing of your child. But there is SOOO much stuff (junk) out there. There are holders, warmers, coolers, bracers, pouches, genies, champs, bags, bags to hold bags, boxes to store bag-holding bags.

The factory workers in China making all of this stuff (junk) must think that Americans never actually touch their children until junior high. Especially when they go home to their government mandated one (1) child and wrap them up in simple blankets, cloth diapers and use the same set of pots to cook their meals and sanitize their baby wares. The cumulative eye rolling of 1.4 billion people is probably what keeps the Earth spinning on its axis.

Think about it, before Spongebob was a global hit, the Chinese workers creating all of the toys and plushies must think we are nutz. "Why Americans play with dish sponge? And do they put pants on all their dish sponges?!" I digress.

Baby Monitors - helpful Walkie-Talkie® that allows you to do other things while keeping tabs on your baby, or fear-instilling device that lets you think the worst is happening to your baby...in stereo-reo-reo. The first time we set up the monitor we huddled around it so closely you would mistake us for Cold War KGB agents at a listening station in Irtusk, minus the Sobranie cigarettes.

"Is he breathing? Was that an inhale? I think he's awake? What's that clicking noise? I'm GOIN' IN!!" Of course things are fine 99.2% of the time, but your mind and ears will play tricks on you. The ambient sound of the room to an already frazzled parent sounds like your baby has some how pretzel-tied their onesie around their nose and mouth. Then your own paranoia sets up stage two of this trap: you check on your blissful baby, you see them, they see you, you creep back out, and "WAH!!! Come back...why are you leaving me...is it because I keep pooping on myself...I'm sorrie!! (for authenticity, babies can't spell yet)"

Ultimately, with time, the monitors will undoubtedly be one of the baby gadgets that will definitely be useful. But the sci-fi lover in me is secretly wishing that during an electrical storm our monitors will some how be able to listen to the future or pick up an other-worldly transmission. Should that happen, I must not rule out the possibility that it is a ruse by the People's Republic having some fun with America's wacko parents.