Who the Hell Blogs With Weather Like This?

It’s been so easy not to write a thing on my beloved blog.  So easy, in fact, that I haven’t bothered to write a damned thing in over a week.  “To Hell with that!” I told no one in particular, “gimmie that friggin’ keyboard!”

It’s been a bit of a trying last few weeks for my partner and me, which seems par for the course closing in on the eight month mark of pregnancy.  We have a lot to do, and it’s getting done slowly but surely – sometimes more slowly than surely, but we’re headed in the right direction.

We’ll seriously be tackling the nursery this weekend, and we’re gearing up for our tour of the hospital early next week.  To say we’re getting excited for our impending bundle of joy would be a huge understatement.  To say we’re fully prepared would be a bold faced lie.

It's a real unique thing to start a family.  We’ve started setting certain parameters and boundaries.  We’ve dreamt about the future, and lamented about the past.  We’re excited and emotional.  It’s been fun and a bit scary, but more fun than scary.  It’s nice.

Dialectical Parental-ism

I am increasingly convinced that three trimesters of pregnancy is nature’s way of allowing people to prepare for parenthood.  Sure, this time allows for the collection of hardware required by the modern parent – Lord knows Babies™ simply can’t make it in this world without a Diaper Genie™ and the complete works of Baby Einstein™.  No, what I’m getting at is more a  man versus nature kind of thing; think, a combination of a warrior psyching up for battle and a Buddhist monk at one with the universe.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what type of man makes a good father, which is a fancy way of wondering what kind of parent I’ll need to be for this kid.  Being introspective; it’s an emotional and scary time, where ghosts of lifetime past can rear their ugly heads.  Things you think you’ve come to grips with tend to surface, and if you’re not careful, you can let some bad feelings and resentments appear that were better left in the past. When you’re primarily thinking about parenting matters, it’s inevitable that the mistakes of your own parents may enter into the mix.

Now, I’ve never understood families that are too happy. I think it’s kind of creepy.  Like all families, my partner’s and mine have their fair shares of joys and hurt.  Our parents were young and we are both the eldest, which is sometimes a recipe for bone-headed punishments and flat out parenting mistakes.  They aren’t perfect, but we certainly do love them.  They managed to impart enough cobbled together wisdom that we both came out all right.

 “No family is perfect,” my grandmother told my expectant parents, “We did things better than our parents, you’ll do things better than we did, and your kids will do things better than you did.”   I have faith in this sentiment. 

Good parents learn from the mistakes they witnessed their parents make.  Sometimes it’s hard to let go of the hurt old memories can bring, but it’s also nice to understand that those mistakes don’t need to be repeated with your own children.  And sometimes, just sometimes, you realize that those weren’t mistakes at all – you’d piss your kids off in exactly the same way your parents pissed you off – it’s just what parents do sometimes.

Barroom Babies

In the dying months of 2009 we moved from a filthy, disgusting, douchebag-filled hip neighborhood to a residential ‘hood.  Initially we felt like we’d resigned ourselves to living in the ‘burbs, which seems ludicrous now considering we’re a ten minute walk from the subway.  We were skeptical of fringe-urban living, but you know what? We actually really like it.

For one, it’s quiet. For two there aren’t people pissing on our house, shitting on our lawn, or screaming until their voice is hoarse.  For three, Oooh for three; it isn’t filled with self-absorbed fashionistas and too cool for school losers hipsters and think they own the place, neighborhood usurpers, gentrifying gen-Xers.

Like most couples, we started seeing kids everywhere when we found out we were having a baby.  I should restate that: we started seeing parents with their kids everywhere.  Inevitably this led to watching these parent/kid combos, and judging studying how they interacted.

There’s been a bit of a buzz about this blogging dad bringing his child to a bar.  A post from Accidents Will Happen, encapsulates how I feel about this issue: “I have no tolerance for people who think children shouldn’t be allowed in public spaces. I also have no tolerance for parents whose expectations for others far outstrip common courtesy.”

As a regular Jer with no kiddies on the horizon, I was pretty annoyed when parents brought their kids to inappropriate places; as a parent-to-be it makes me downright angry.  What the hell are these people thinking?

Last autumn, shortly after we found out my partner was el-prego, we ventured out for some eats at a little bar that does a bluegrass brunch on the weekends.  It’s a totally cool place that has good bands and a great atmosphere, but not a place I’d even consider brining a kid to – even for brunch. It’s dirty and smells like last evening's regrets (i.e. like every other heavy drinking establishment).

We got there to find a large line of hung-over hipsters with the very same booze and stale smoke smell of regret on their breath.  They were waiting for a seat.  It seems a group of too cool for school parents had booked the place for a kid’s birthday party!  I was am still furious.  I wish I could go back in time to express what I felt at that moment: "No, it’s not cool for you and your other parent friends to take over a bar because you think it would be cool to have a kid’s party there.  Grow up; your kid’s too young to be hip, so stop using your child as a new accessory."

Sadly, kids-as-accessory-parents are infesting our urban landscapes; folks with an uncompromising belief that it’s their right as a parent to bring kids wherever the hell they want.  Now, I don’t think there’s a thing wrong with a well behaved kid at a pub in the middle of the day – the operative words here being well behaved and middle of the day.  The minute that kid starts acting like a kid, rather than a very small and quiet adult, it’s time to leave.  The minute the clock strikes evening, it’s time to go too.  Pubs are adult places, so I figure they should have a higher behavioral standard than, say, Chuck E Cheese, or even a kid-friendly diner.

The real problem parents here are the ones who think that adult places and adult customers should accommodate their parenthood, and thus their children, in the slightest.  Not only does this understanding of the universe create shitty self-entitled kids, but it pisses off the people who don’t have kids.  It’s also a total bummer for those parents who responsibly paid for a sitter so they could have a night out alone.

Behold...Another Little Horn

Several dads have told me of the impending doom my child will bring.  My days of sleep and freedom are a few months from extinction, they say.  There are sometimes self-satisfied smiles that accompany their warnings; eager, almost giddy rushes to tell me my life is essentially over.  "Heh, heh.  You don't know what you're in for pal."


We recently had breakfast with my cousin and his young family.  In a follow up e-mail he offered me the some great advice: don't listen to anyone who tries to scare you.  Having a kid, he said, brings immeasurable joy to you, your family and your friends.  It won't always be easy, but the joy will far outweigh the negatives.


My cousin and his wife's skills as parents are as obvious as their children are well behaved and cute.  I respect his opinion on the matter.  


I know I'm in store for some sleepless nights, and that having a baby is not all roses.  What; did these guys think their lives would just stay the same as they were before they had kids?

Case of Beer Fashion Sense

I’d just told a colleague about our impending bundle of joy.  He congratulated me, mentioning how cool it is to be a dad, then looked with a knowing smile. 

“So those clothes you’re wearing…”

“Ya?”

“Get used to them.”

And boy, have I.  I’m starting to understand that “I’m a dad” is code for “I have holes in my shoes and will bring leftovers to work for lunch, no matter how disgusting they were for dinner”.  This kid comes before my fashion and dietary needs; its just what you do when you’re a dad (or dad to be in my case).

Truth be told, I’m kind of glad that we’ve had to tighten our proverbial belts (I say proverbial because Lord knows my sympathy weight has resulted in a bit of belt loosening).  I’m  now in league with poor dad’s the world over, who wear free shirts from cases of beer and swag they’ve picked up at conferences; men who know the value of a dollar.

I look forward to the future embarrassment this will cause.  Kids shouldn’t have parents who are too cool anyway.  Thankfully for my daughter, there’s no danger of that happening to her father any time soon. 

Fame and Fortune With a Side of Delusion

“When did you know you’d be famous?”

I smile thoughtfully, shift slightly in my seat, leaning back as a cross my legs; a pensive and knowing look greets millions of adoring fans.

“I suppose you could say I knew I was bound for stardom the moment I began What Did Your Mom Say?”

My gigantic Tony Robbins ego bends down, whispering daily affirmations through a thousand pearly white teeth, “Visualize your blogging success.  See your fame and be it.”  There I am, famous and telling the daily talk show circuit the secrets to my cut-throat-world-of-parental-blogging success . 

It’s common knowledge that parents are a deluded bunch.  As soon as I heard that little muffled heartbeat it was: “HOLY SHIT, we created a life” and I understood exactly why.  Everyone else in the world must surely understand the significance of me (ME?!) and my partner creating a human being - OUR human being.  Already we see the glazed eyes and polite “I don’t give a shit” smiles, so we've decided against renting out a theater to screen our 3D ultrasound video.

If you’d told me a year ago that come next March I’d have traded my hipster pad for a bungalow on a quiet street and started a Dad Blog I wouldn’t have believed you for a second.  But alas, here I am, all responsible and shit.  But these things happen, and I wouldn’t change it for a second.