FATHERHOOD

Before I was a father, I had no idea what to expect.  Sure, parents would tell me all the time what was going to happen and how I was going to feel, but until you live it and experience it—you really have no idea.  It’s not like when you get a dog for the first time and all your friends with dogs tell you everything you need and what to expect—no sir, this is WAY different.  Now, eight months have passed and it’s amazing and I kind of wish we had done this parenting thing a long time ago. (Kind of like the feeling I had after getting married.)

So, although it’s almost useless to try to explain what it’s like to have a child and how it changes you, I’m going to give it a shot anyway.

Language

The words you use once your child is born are words you may have never used before.  It’s a whole different language parents use.  For instance, I probably never used the word “onesie” until Maxwell was born.  As a matter of fact, Microsoft Word doesn’t even recognize it as a word.  Now, I use this silly word all day long.  The good news is they’re all so darn fun to say--Baby Bjorn, Ergo, Bumbo, Boppy, Binkie, Boogie Wipes, Floppy Seat, or how about Diaper Champ?  Use a string of these when speaking to a non-parent and they’ll think you’ve lost your mind.

Poop and Pee

One of our relatives got us a Costco size box of baby wipes for a shower gift.  There’s 900 wipes in the box.  I remember thinking at the time that it was superfluous and it would take us forever to go through so many wipes.  Well, we just cracked open our third box of 900.  And diapers?  Don’t get me started with the diapers!  Let me put it this way; when Max was around twelve weeks, we probably went through eight to twelve diapers a day.  One time, I changed his diaper four times in about ten minutes. 

Mobility

After a few weeks, you’ll be so ready to get out of the damn house you’d just about chew your own leg off.  But guess what?  It is required by law that you have to bring your child with you.  Fortunately, there is a host of ways to transport your child from point A to point B including, but certainly not limited to the aforementioned list of silly words.  Every parent’s an expert on which is best and they can spend hours debating about the best device to carry your baby.  The people who make the Moby are geniuses by the way.  Not that it’s such a brilliant baby carrier but that they took a twelve foot piece of stretchy cotton, folded it in half the long way and stamped a $50 price tag on it and have sold thousands of them. 

“Excuse me; is that a Graco Snugride 35?”

I never used to notice babies that much really.  They all looked the same to me and sure they were cute, but I didn’t really see what all the fuss was about.  And watching them get spoon fed was almost enough to make me want to puke.   Now I can’t get enough of them.  At work at the bar, when families come in I find myself fixated on their kids.  I try to figure out how old they are and compare Max developmentally to them sometimes.  “What? Your kid isn’t using a high chair yet?  What is he, like seven months?”  I even check out their equipment.   I never so much glanced at a stroller before, now I pay attention to every one I see.  “Wow, you went with the Bugaboo Frog Huh? I like its three-in-one system.  Yeah, I’m more of a Snugride guy myself.  This one here has lots of cargo room and its carrier is side impact tested, but it does take up a lot of trunk space…”

Emotions?

My friends would never use the word “emotional” to describe me.  I once told Beth that I  bottle up my emotions but it’s okay because there’s a small hole in the bottom of the bottle which slowly let’s stuff drip out.  She’s the complete opposite and cries all the time.  Well, I think this whole parenting thing has turned me into a softie.  

A couple of weeks back I was watching a Sox game and the guy batting swung at a pitch, missed, and in doing so, lost his bat which careened into the spectators on the first base line and hit a kid in the head.  It all happened so fast that the camera guy didn’t have time to follow the trajectory of the bat and only captured the scene just after the boy was struck.  I know because I watched it over and over again.  I was completely transfixed--the fans waving over for help from the ushers, the dad leaning over and picking up his son, and the boy, obviously stunned, holding his head in both hands.   Nick Punto, the batter, was clearly shaken up and walked over to the boy’s section, trying to get a glimpse and hoping he was okay. 

Eight months ago if I witnessed the same incident I would of course be concerned but I’d probably figure that the situation would be taken care of and I’d refocus my attention on the game.  But this time, I couldn’t stop thinking about that poor kid and his dad.   I kept picturing the scene over and over in my head and then I started picturing myself in that situation with Maxwell.  I honestly don’t know what I would do if anything like that happened to my boy. 

For the rest of that day, all I could do was worry about this kid whom I never met—I never even saw his face.  I kept checking the Red Sox website for updates but it wasn’t until about 7:00pm that I found out the boy was released from the hospital.  The doctor who treated him said that he was going to be fine.  I was more than relieved and I found myself tearing up as I read the news.  Later, I asked Beth what was wrong with me; she said I’m just a daddy now.

So friends, if you’re planning on having kids, don’t forget the wipes and diapers, but you might also consider stocking up on the Kleenex.

Pickles and Ice Cream (Part 1)

Before we got married my wife and I lived together for four years. So when we discussed marriage, Beth kind of had a, “What-the–hell-are-you-waiting-for?” attitude which I’m sure you can imagine was super fun for me. Nothing like someone subtly pressuring you into one of the most important decisions of your life, but I submitted and popped the question. In hindsight, of course she was right, and I wish I had done it sooner.

Until recently, when we discussed having children, this time we were both indecisive. We love kids and babysit Beth’s sister’s two girls frequently, but we were always happy to give them back and go home to the sanctity and peace of our child-free house. But the truth is, my wife and I aren’t getting any younger and her biological clock was ticking faster than a jackrabbit so we decided to “pull-the-goalie” and see what happened.

Once my wife gets something in her head however, there’s no turning back. Simply pulling the goalie wasn’t going to cut it and she soon became an expert on fertility and all things concerning women’s reproductive health. Well it turns out that to get good and pregnant is truly a miracle and it’s a wonder that people get pregnant at all. It’s not just about having sex and sperm meeting egg and “boom” you’re pregnant. No sir. The timing has to be just about perfect for this amazingly complicated thing to happen. It’s all about ovulation and cervical fluid consistency and temperature and… well…timing. Charting your temperature is crucial to know when you’re ovulating at maximum capacity so each morning at about 4:30 my wife would take her temperature with this little thermometer. She would stick it under her tongue and it would beep at a slow, consistent pace for a while until the temperature registered and then it would beep really fast for a few seconds letting her know that it was done. It kind of sounded like a tiny, annoying alarm clock. Because I’m a light sleeper, I would wake up to this persistent noise every morning for about four months straight. But, it was for a good cause, so I didn’t complain.

Well, as my wife likes to say, “We nailed it”, and our miracle happened--but it didn’t come easy. I could tell something was up when, after a long day of work, she didn’t feel like a glass of wine. The next day was the same—no wine. Now, to most people, not feeling like a glass of wine for a couple of days is no big deal but I was ready to hit the panic button. “Who is this person?” I thought. Beth’s cycle is like clockwork and after being “late” she took a pregnancy test and the results were inconclusive. If you’ve never seen one of these tests it’s a small plastic stick that has this circle thingy which shows a visible vertical line that you pee on. In a few minutes, and if you’re pregnant, there will appear a horizontal line cutting directly through the middle of the existing vertical line making the plus (+) symbol. Easy right? Well what they don’t tell you in the directions is that there’s already a very faint horizontal line showing before you pee on it and, in our case, after the peeing, the horizontal line registered but barely much darker than what was showing initially. The next day she tried again with the same result. I even considered peeing on one so at least we’d have a control example.

Not ones to be discouraged, we went to the hospital and had her take a pregnancy test there. Beth was sure the results would be positive so we were surprised when the nurse called and told us that she was not pregnant. We were disheartened but not convinced, so Beth went and bought a few more tests. One shows a color if you’re pregnant and the other has a vertical line and another one right next to it will appear if you’re pregnant. She would bring the stick out of the bathroom and show it to me or take a picture of it and text it to me while I was at work and each time and I was never convinced. The stupid line just seemed too faint. In total, Beth took seven at home tests plus two hospital visits before we figured out the truth. She was DEFINITELY pregnant.

Duck Farts and Cheesy Fries

Alcohol is a strange and wonderful thing isn’t it? It makes people do the craziest stuff and as a bartender, I have a front row seat to witness people affected by adult beverages. Here’s a little sample for your reading pleasure (or horror).

What ever happened to manners?

A simple “please” and “thank you” goes a long way when you’re trying to get the bartender's attention let me tell you. In fact, when I don’t get these common courtesies the perpetrator will find that the ordinarily exemplary service I provide will dwindle dramatically. So, if you whistle or knock on the bar or snap your fingers (yes, people still do this) or shout in an attempt to get my attention, I might pretend that you’re not even there. Shit, I might even have to explain the rules to you. Here they are:

• If you need me, be patient. I know that if you don’t get another rum-and-coke your head might explode but guess what, you’re not the only one here.
• If you don’t know my name, just ask! Or try one of the following like this, “Excuse me, when you get a minute, do you think I could get another one of these please?” Or, “Sir, my I please have another one?” It’s really not hard.
• Never, ever, ever, refer to me as “Tiger” or “Champ” or “Guy” or some other name you would use on a six year old. I know that my appearance belies my age but I’m forty for chrissake.

I can hear you!

You know the “private” conversation that you’re having with your best friend at the bar? Did you happen to notice that my head is about a foot and a half from your personal space and I’ve been reorganizing the same stack of cocktail napkins for the last fifteen minutes? Yup, I have heard EVERYTHING! Gee, it sure is interesting that you haven’t had an orgasm for two years or that the guy you met on the internet just wanted to have sex with you and he lied about wanting to “find someone” or that you think that the woman at the table behind you looks like a slut or that your last boyfriend had a big one but couldn’t last, or that your jeans cost only $250 but your coat was, like, $750. Or you can’t grow a proper “landing strip”. Yes, I eavesdrop but I can’t help myself. It’s like watching reality TV live and I just can’t resist. What it comes down to is that people are so wrapped up in themselves that they don’t even notice I’m there until they need a drink.

Know when to say when!

When you’re drunk you’re drunk and it’s almost never pretty whether you are male or female. I know it’s not fair, but women for the most part are particularly obnoxious when they are sauced. If you don’t believe me or even disagree, that’s fine, but once you have been a sober witness to literally thousands of drunk people like I have, you might change your mind. It gets particularly tough to watch with older women—it’s just embarrassing. Last summer we had an incident where it was last call on a weekend and my co-worker and I refused to serve a couple of ladies who probably had too much to drink before they even got to us. So we politely cut them off.

Can I just pause here and say how goddamn embarrassing it is to have to tell somebody that they've had enough. For some reason it's harder when they're women and older than me. “I’m sorry ma’am but I think we’ve done all we can do for you tonight” is the nicest way to put it. Sometimes they don’t understand and just stand there swaying back and forth and staring blankly which is always sad. And then, several awkward moments later, the inevitable question, “Why?” Why? Seriously? Well for starters, your fly is unzipped, and your breath smells like someone puked in a litter box and you can barely stand and I don’t think that you are normally cross-eyed…besides that I don’t have a single reason.

Anyway, these ladies decided to stumble outside and came back a few short minutes later thinking that they were in a different bar and attempted to order a drink. Again the answer was no and they left in a huff and tried to get served elsewhere. Well, despite their best efforts, they apparently couldn’t get served anywhere so they came back and parked themselves outside at our patio seating. Mind you, this all took place within twenty minutes while we where closing down and getting everyone out of the bar. I almost forgot about them honestly until I saw that they had a cab ready and waiting but the ringleader refused to get in explaining to her friend that she wasn’t done “partying”. I couldn’t believe it. Getting a cab at any hour in this town is a minor miracle let alone at last call. Finally, in a last ditch effort to redeem herself and keep “partying”, our hero gathered herself together, stood up, steadied herself for a second and headed back in to the bar. As soon as I saw her coming, I exited the bar and let the other bartender deal with her because I could almost not bear to watch. I kid you not this is was what she said: “Could I get a Duck Fart and some cheesy fries?” It was as if she was in a drunken time warp and got zipped back to a place where she was much younger and in a bar where this was a common order. She didn’t even say please…

My Hip Hurts

My hip hurts. Not all the time but lately when I get up in the morning, the left one is sore and it takes a while to work it out. When I sleep on my left side it also hurts and I have to flip over. I run a little which probably isn’t good for it because it’s always worse after. I’m 39 but most people think I’m younger. While bartending the other night, some jerk that didn’t look much older than me actually called me “Tiger”. When I was in my early thirties, people would guess my age to be mid twenties. I would often brag about that. Recently someone actually guessed my exact age and I got a little offended. “Try again,” I said.

My Labrador Frank and I are about the same age. In dog years he’s five-ish which makes him around 35 in human years. Not long ago, when we went to the dog park I would open the gate and he’d bolt through at a full sprint, daring any and all comers to chase him. When a dog races into a dog park it’s an invitation to play and almost all dogs stop whatever they are doing and join the chase. The other dog owners would marvel at Frank’s speed. Sometimes they would even whoop and holler when he’d tear into the park. He’d really get the party started. These days he’s slowed down a bit. He had an ACL injury that took him off his game a little. His surgically repaired knee isn’t as good as the real thing and I can tell he knows that he’s not the fastest kid on the block anymore. He still likes to play chase a little but the younger dogs catch up to him quickly and he quits after just a couple of short laps.

I know how he feels. A friend of mine who, by the way, is fourteen years my junior, invited me to play on his indoor soccer team. I thought, why not? I’m in pretty good shape. I’m not talking the kind of shape where I could run a marathon but if a homicidal maniac escaped from the loony bin and was chasing me, I think I could out run him--especially if he was wielding some sort of heavy weapon like a chain saw or a big axe. Besides, a lot of those psychopaths have some sort of limp or other debilitation that would slow them down a little. Anyway, I’d been a good player in high school so I figured it would be a great way to burn some calories, reduce stress, and get a little competition back in my life. I was right on all accounts but I’m not sure I’ll do it again. For starters, I was so sore after the first game, it literally took me a week to recover. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to play the following week because I was having a hard time walking for several days. It’s really a bitch on the ol’ knees too. The field is essentially old Astro Turf covering hard concrete so you can imagine the toll it takes on your joints. I’ve been lucky enough to never have had knee issues, which is rare. I have friends who have had both knees done which has reduced their options when it comes to sports and heavy duty exercise. After two eight week seasons of indoor I had difficulty standing from a squatting position which is no big deal if you sit behind a desk all day but when you’re a bartender, well, let’s just say it’s no picnic.

Plus, when you get a bunch of old has beens running around in a big box and there is a ball involved, there’s always some jerk that takes it too seriously. You know the guy I’m talking about—he’s a little over weight but still wears the jersey he wore when he wasn’t, so it resembles a sausage casing. He’s got Ace knee braces on both knees and an attitude. He makes up for his physical short comings by yelling at the other members of his team during the game and he high fives a lot. I want to win as much as the next guy, but I’m not pretending that it’s the World Cup finals here pal.

Back in my glory days I could play an entire soccer game without a substitution then ride my bike home barely winded. Now I find myself relating to the guy in the Lipitor commercials. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of these complaining types who has to go to the doc every time his back hurts and it’s all doom and gloom. I’ll be forty in a couple of months which means that I have my whole life to live over again plus a few years hopefully. Aging doesn’t have to be a bad thing--I’m just not sprinting out of the gate like I used to.

Everything Old...

I have this old typewriter that my friends gave me. It's a Corona and I think it's around 70 years old. I like to bang out letters on it to friends or family occasionally. I get a kick out of it. I like the feel of the key stroke and the cheerful "ding" sound it makes when you near the end of a line. Advancing to the next line requires pulling the return lever to the right which I find much more gratifying than hitting the "return" button on today's computer key boards. Spell check is out of course, so careful typing is a must (I need to get some of that correction tape).

The comedian Louis C. K. jokes about how everything is amazing but nobody is happy. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8r1CZTLk-Gk) He uses the example of air travel. He talks about people complaining about lines and delays yet they're experiencing the miracle of flight sitting in a chair in the sky! It used to take years to go from New York to California now it takes five hours. His point isn't lost on me. We're so spoiled it's a little ridiculous. Especially kids. Almost every kid at the many schools where I've subbed has either a cell phone or an ipod or both. If they don't get the newest model or, God forbid, it gets taken away, they throw a fit. My dad bathed in a galvanized tub until he was 10 and these kids bitch and moan because they can't get a cell phone. Unbelievable.

Keeping a link to our past and how things used to be makes us appreciate all the incredible things we take for granted. Like banging away on that old Corona of mine. It just feels right.