Tag Archives: Daddy issues

Year Five

Fatherhood, , ,

agmeskatingAt some point during our shared birthday week last year, I realized I wasn’t going to write my annual post about where Abigail and I were in our lives. Let’s just say it was a tough week. 

This year has started with some uncertainty, but I’ve found myself fueled by activity and optimism.

And as I re-read the last post I wrote about our birthdays, I was struck by how much hasn’t changed for Abigail and I. She still loves Daniel Tiger, Doc McStuffins, Elmo and tag. I’m still trying to become a healthier, more productive me. So there’s some comfort in the familiar there. We have, however, left sleepovers on the stairs in the past. Amen.

Abigail’s new interests include Peppa Pig, music (specifically Puffy Ami Yumi), playing superheroes vs. bad guys and riding her bike. I’ve swapped Up for Fitbit and come to the realization that my vague attempts at running twice a week needed to be actual workouts four times a week if they’re going to make a difference. I’m reading more. Finding time to write is still a challenge.

Speaking of the familiar, Abigail’s also picked up more than a few phrases favored by Erin and me.

“Actually, the thing is…”
“You know, guys…”
“Can I tell you something?”

Part of me worries about this. Are we making sure she’s given enough space to figure out who she is without too much undue influence from us? On the other hand, when she caught a glimpse of the Oscars opening montage this week and yelled “Dad, that’s Thor!” I was more than a little pleased.

Moreso than in previous years, it’s easier to see how Abigail is our kid through both nature and nurture. She gets frustrated with things she’s not good at and likes staying busy. At various points this year, she’s taken acting, ballet, yoga, swimming, gymnastics and soccer. The latter activity was pretty much a disaster with me spending more time on the field as assistant coach (a.k.a. child wrangler) than she did.

It strikes me that I’m as influenced by having her as a kid as she is in having me as a dad. There’s no way I’d have volunteered to be an assistant coach of anything if not for her. She’s a big part of my motivation for getting on a treadmill. And on and on.

This year Abigail vacillated between becoming a big kid and staying a little kid. She pushed hard for a “big kid bed” only to find that growing up isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. She’s been telling us she wants her “little bed” back (because the big kid bed is “too tall”) even though I’ve told her many times that’s not possible because we used the pieces of the little bed to assemble the big bed. Due, in part, to this, bedtime’s been a bit of a struggle lately. On the night of her birthday, she was setting up chairs for a “roller skating show” and we made her stop and get ready for bed which led to a twenty-minute epic meltdown. It is the height of emotional conflict as a parent to be angry and exhausted by a child’s tantrum but still holding in a laugh while she screams “BUT THE SHOW MUST GO ON!!!!”

On a related note, her imagination is through the roof and through it she’s exploring more of her world. She loves building with Legos just as much as she loves acting out elaborate stories with her dolls – sometimes both at the same time. She’s not as cowed by new experiences as she used to be – “I know I can do it!” is something she tells herself to get psyched up. She has two very close friends at school this year who she talks about all the time so she’s figuring out who she is in relationships with humans other than the ones telling her to get dressed or line up for computers class.

As for me, this seems like the year that “life’s too short” becomes my mantra. Too much is uncertain and nothing’s ever perfect. Do the thing now instead of putting it off. Nothing to lose except for missed opportunities. Don’t settle.

Some of that’s a by-product of being on the other side of 40. But most of it is seeing myself through Abigail’s eyes. It’s easy for her to look up to me at 5. Doing the work to make sure she’s still doing it at 25 takes a bit more effort.

Year Three

Fatherhood, , ,

Abigail and I find ourselves at interesting turning points during this year’s shared birthday week. She finds herself turning from a toddler into a little kid. I find myself trying to become…well, an adult for lack of a better word.

At three, Abigail is full of agenda and opinions, just like her parents. (“I need to…” and “I have to…” are frequently deployed counter-arguments to explain why her actions run counter to our instructions.) Last year she evolved her speech to form sentences so this is now the year of the paragraph: mini-discussions on how she’s feeling, how you’re feeling and what’s happening in the lives of her favorite stuffed animals and TV shows. Speaking of, where last year was Abigail’s Daniel Tiger phase, this year it’s all about Doc McStuffins. Thanks to a gift of a doctor bag just like Doc’s there is not a day that goes by without me, Erin, her grandparents, her aunt or anyone else in her vicinity getting a check-up. (“Breathe in, please! Now breathe out. Sounds good!”)

At thirty-nine – dear God – check-ups have become more a part of my daily life. Not just the fictional variety but the medical, mental and chronological versions, too. I’m worried about things like high blood pressure and getting enough sleep. And I’m trying to make time for things that make me a more informed, well-rounded and thoughtful person so Abigail sees she has a dad who reads and listens to interesting things and doesn’t spend all his time checking his phone.

To that end, I’m wearing an Up bracelet now and obsessively documenting what I eat (who knew there was so much sodium in everything?) and how much time I spend sleeping and exercising. I’m putting things on my Google Calendar like “reading” and “running” so I’m reminded to do more of that and less listicle consumption. Digital tools are once again making my life worth living, and hopefully longer.

Of course, Abigail does not have any of these concerns. Her life is filled with books and discovery and new words and dispensing freelance medical advice. While not the omnivore she used to be, she’s settled into some favorite foods – cheese sandwiches, blueberries, black beans and couscous. When she’s not read to by me or Erin, she’s trying to sound out words in her books or learning vowel sounds with her reading apps. She got a new ukulele for her birthday from her saint of a nanny. She still loves dancing and music and runs around at every opportunity (“Chase me!“) when we’re not making caves out of pillows.

Her favorite thing to do right now is have “sleepovers” on the stairs. Blankets are retrieved, stuffed animals are acquired and everyone gets “cozy.” Everyone except the adults she’s wrangled into this situation as no grown human being is able to contort his or herself into a sleeping position on a set of bungalow stairs.

This was also the year Abigail started to figure out the world’s subtle differences. When she was very young, Erin and I thought ourselves geniuses because we purchased several of the small Pooh Bear security blankets Abigail sleeps with and carries around with her. If anything happened to one of them, another would be quickly pressed into service. Somewhere along the line, Abigail developed a preference for one over the others – he has a tag that’s worn through in a particular way. This one became known as Real Pooh. There is also Special Pooh which is the very first one she owned and looks a little different than the others. And then there’s Bathtub Pooh who is any Pooh who is not Real Pooh or Special Pooh and is OK for her to play with during bathtime so it’s not soaking wet during bedtime. So now we have the stuffed animal equivalent of the Ben Folds Five: a main guy you can’t do without and a bunch of other guys who fill out the ensemble.

Last year Abigail and I went to the toy store to get her a birthday present. This year we went to the comic book store after a pizza lunch at Pizano’s with Erin. I’ve been slowly introducing Superman into Abigail’s life and she’s been conscious of superheroes for a while. My boss bought her a kids’ book version of Superman’s origin story and we’ve been reading it at bedtime. She can identify most of the members of the Justice League. But when we couldn’t find a comic book with Elmo in it like the first one I got her, she lost interest in the rest of the store. She had an agenda and this wasn’t on it.

I’m glad we’re raising a daughter who has her own sense of what works for her and what doesn’t. Her dad’s still trying to figure it out.

Year Two

Fatherhood, , ,

Today is Abigail’s 2nd birthday. In re-reading the post I wrote last year about the intersection of my birthday and hers, I’m struck by what a difference a year makes.

I’m sure next year I’ll re-read this and think about how we spent that morning playing with her ukulele, listening to James Brown during breakfast and entering Day 3 of No More Bottle. A day full of things worth remembering.

It can’t possibly be a year ago that she was just getting off the bottle considering she now consumes everything from Cheerios to curry to granola bars but there it is. The uke is busted and sits behind a chair though she’s now obsessed with bongo drums. Still likes James Brown but is more into dance-pop lately (Robyn is a big favorite). She’s also got this weirdly awesome dance: moving back and forth while rhythmically bending her arms and hands. Vogue meets the Funky Chicken.

Plenty more changed in a year. We long ago lost count of Abigail’s words as mimicry gave way to sentences and context and intent. “Get UP!” she will say. Or “Take a walk” as she grabs your hand. “OK!” was a stand-in for “yes” until this week when it became “I did!” “Nay” became “Nooooo!” in a month. She now knows all her letters and can tell you her name (which has evolved from “Abby” to “Abigail” finally).

And Lord, our child is a daredevil. She wants to climb on everything. Yesterday she ran full-on through our upstairs (“I’m fast!”) and plowed straight into an Elmo-shaped plush seat which obviously couldn’t support 27 pounds of kid hurtling at 10-12 MPH and sent her head-first into the glass door of our entertainment center with a thunk. (No breakage. Thank you, Ikea. You’re tougher than you look.) I swore and scooped her up while she complained then shook it off and demanded to be set down so she could run around some more.

This year we were a little schedule-challenged – because Abigail’s parents just can’t not be busy – so we had a party for her two weeks before her actual birthday. Erin was in New Orleans for the half-marathon last week and our change in plans for the trip may have inadvertently led to a new tradition for me and AG: a father-daughter birthday trip to pick out her present. We’ll see if that holds up next year.

As for this weekend, I’m headed out of town for my traditional March guys’ weekend with friends. This year, our schedules just happened to align so my birthday weekend was the one that worked best. I’ll be home early in the afternoon on my actual birthday so I can spend it with Erin and Abigail but it’s kind of great that AG ends up spending a weekend around her birthday with one parent and the following with another. Each of us gets to be a little selfish with her.

But this morning, we played with hand stamps and dinosaurs. And tonight we had a Daniel Tiger cake together. She knew it was her birthday.

If you’ve read this far, I apologize. This post has no real agenda and nothing particular to say about where we are at two years into this whole child-rearing thing. More than anything I just wanted to make a few notes for Future Scott of 2014 who sits down to write a post then about co-celebrating his birthday and thinks “Oh man, that’s when she was in her Daniel Tiger phase.”

Tonight Erin asked me if there was anything I wanted to do on Sunday for my birthday. As I said last year, I felt like I already had my celebration.

Celebrating a birthday

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Today is my birthday.

When I woke up this morning, I walked downstairs and saw balloons stretching up to the ceiling and streamers hanging from the chandeliers and door jambs. The colored, helium-filled balloons said Happy birthday in white letters and fake confetti. At the end of the streamers were pink cardboard flowers and white cardboard circles with scalloped pink edges which read, in pink lettering…

Happy 1st Birthday

None of the decorations were for me. In fact, the streamers had been up for days and some of the balloons now drooped a bit from their once ceiling-level heights. The balloons and streamers were for Abigail, whose birthday had been four days prior.

Doesn’t matter. Her birthday has made me enjoy celebrating my own again.

***

Last year it was already clear to me that my birthday would now and forever be overshadowed by my daughter’s.

Abigail wasn’t even a week old yet so I know I hadn’t gone back to work but other than that I can’t remember much about my birthday last year. Whether that’s a result of the ongoing betrayal one’s body and mind commits with increasing frequency as the years go on or some stress-induced by-product of the first week of our daughter’s birth – maybe there wasn’t anything worth remembering other than how much parenting we did – I don’t know. I think it was the day before we came home from the hospital. If Erin were awake right now, I’d ask her and she might remember as she’s always been better about birthday-related matters than I am. But she’s asleep and so I turn to the electronic tools that I use as crutches in countless moments now.

Google Calendar says on the night of my birthday last year we were working on “paperwork [for] lactation consultant.” That, I remember: The struggles Erin went through trying to breastfeed and all the stops we pulled out to try and make it the primary means of feeding our child before realizing a good while later we weren’t going to be able to no matter how hard we tried. Rude Parenting Awakening #7 by that point.

Gmail and Facebook don’t reveal much else aside from a pregnancy-related to-do list I emailed myself on my birthday that read:

To Get:
Ibuprofen
Lunch
Guinness
[REDACTED ITEM THAT RELATES TO WHAT HAPPENS TO A LADY AFTER GIVING BIRTH THAT ERIN PROBABLY DOESN’T WANT ME TO REVEAL TO THE WORLD]

But a big parenting high-five to 2011 Erin and 2011 Scott for March 4th because the Calendar also says that day we A) Had a 9am pediatrician’s appointment B) met with a lactation consultant at 11am and C) went to a midwives’ appointment at 2pm. How insane is that? There’s no way we’d attempt that kind of schedule now, for crying out loud.  Although our subconscious rationale at the time was probably “Let’s surround ourselves with as many people as possible who know that the fuck they’re doing.” Come to think of it, I think we might have gone right from the hospital to the pediatrician which means I probably spent that day in the hospital.

So whatever else was going on that day – aside from finishing up this cathartic post – I did not trust myself to remember a four-item list that was crucial to the happiness of my still-recovering-from-daylong-labor wife. I certainly wasn’t celebrating my birthday. My mind was on other things. (On the plus side, I had beer.)

***

It’s a little later in the morning now. Erin’s now up and off to Derby Lite and Abigail’s down for her nap. We spent the first part of the morning as we always do on Saturdays, giving Abigail her breakfast and enjoying some extended playtime that our jobs don’t allow for during the week. The house is quiet aside from the occasional rustles from the baby monitor as AG kicks and moves in her sleep.

I generally don’t like making a big deal about my birthday. I think Ron Swanson has it right:

Well-wishes from friends, a nice dinner out with Erin and time to read and relax is my idea of a perfect day and that’s how today’s shaping up.

But now that Abigail’s birthday is days before mine I have a whole new reason to celebrate. At 37 – jeez – I get more joy out of buying presents for Abigail than I do getting them myself. We had a party last week for her and I don’t know about you but I enjoy making a fuss over someone else on their birthday way more than I enjoy having a fuss made over me. Especially when they look like this.

I’ve never been big on reflecting on the past but I’ve spent the morning revisiting Abigail’s birth, looking at pictures of how tiny she was and thinking about how far she’s come in just a year. I’m sure next year I’ll re-read this and think about how we spent that morning playing with her ukulele, listening to James Brown during breakfast and entering Day 3 of No More Bottle. A day full of things worth remembering.

Best birthdays ever.

Father's Day

Fatherhood

I’ve been lucky enough to spend my entire life with my father and two grandfathers not to mention several other dad-based relatives. Father’s Day celebrations are not new to me. But participating in one as a father is.

This morning Erin gave me a great father’s day gift, plus three cards – one from her and two from Abigail – and a onesie for AG that says “My Daddy Rocks” (with a little guitar).

It’s all a bit surreal as there was a time in my life when it looked as if I would never be on the “father” side of Father’s Day celebrations. In the beginning of the end of my first marriage, I told my first wife “I don’t think I want kids” even though that had been a driving force behind why we got married in the first place. “Neither do I,” she said. We were both lying. We both still wanted kids. Just not with each other. Everything that was wrong about our marriage was there in that moment. We were divorced within a year.

Up until Abigail was born, I’d worked harder on my relationship with Erin than anything else I’ve ever tried. There were points when – no matter how much I loved her – I wasn’t sure we would end up together. I had a lot of shit to work through in therapy and had to learn how to trust my instincts and emotions again. Getting this far meant trying to achieve a deceptively complicated goal: get each day right. When we started dating, I wasn’t trying to achieve marriage. When we got married, I wasn’t trying to achieve home ownership or fatherhood or a certain life together. I just tried to get every day right. I’ve missed the mark as often as I’ve hit it. No, strike that. I’ve probably missed the mark more often than I’ve hit it. But I get up every day and try again. And so does she.

Without going into the details, we had difficulty trying to have a kid. Not near as much as some, but more than others. We tried off-and-on for a year. In that time, we both made peace with the possibility that our family might not grow larger than the two of us and the dog. And then boom.

The other day I was looking down at Abigail’s head and thought “You were worth every difficult moment.” Here was proof that together Erin and I hit the mark often enough. And I get to feel that every single day.

The new normal

Fatherhood

Last week my wife was sitting in the glider, feeding our daughter.

“How are you doing?” I asked.
“We’re getting there,” she said.

That about describes where we’re at right now. I don’t know that I have much context to add to Erin’s beautifully-rendered post about Abigail’s first month other than to say we seem to unlock new baby achievements every week:

Congratulations! You have achieved Napping After Bottle.

You have found The Mobile That Keeps Her Distracted Long Enough For You To Have A Cup of Coffee.

I’m sorry, parents, but your full night’s sleep is in another castle!

The other day, when I expressed frustration at not being able to describe a new normal, my friend Matt left the following comment:

“I hate to tell you this, but there isn’t really a normal. Once you figure one out, they’re just a little bit older and have already changed again. The real trick is getting better at adjusting to that unpredictability.”

He’s right, of course, and that’s probably what was bothering me. Erin and I know enough to know that once you think you’ve got one aspect of child-rearing figured out, it changes. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to plant my flag in the sand and say “We figured this out.” While I might know, a month in, how to handle work and baby and oh yeah! my relationship with my wife I might be ass-over-tea-kettle in month two. But at least I know that so it won’t be a surprise when it happens.

—

I realized yesterday that I’m that guy now.

I’m that guy who, without prompting, will show you a picture of his kid. And with prompting will show you 20.

I’m that guy who tweets about bits of formula getting on his iPad. As if I’m the first person to experience it.

I’m that guy who goes into work late or leaves at a decent hour because it means 20 extra minutes with his kid.

I’m that guy who makes Dad Jokes now. (Actually, I was always sort of that guy. It’s just nice to have an excuse now to indulge my inner Phil Dunphy.)

I’m that guy now. And probably forever.

Welcome (back) to the working week

Fatherhood,

I’ve been back at work for two weeks now after two weeks off for the birth, hospital stay and first few days of Abigail’s life at home. Here’s how I put it in an email to a friend who has three kids, two of whom are newborn twins:

Being back at work is weird. I’m glad to be doing something other than facilitating the feeding, changing, and sleeping of our child and glad to not be worrying about my wife in the process (actively, anyway, it’s always passively in the back of my mind) but feel guilty for feeling that way. On the other hand, work has taken on more importance. Being good at my job now equals being a good provider which means being a good Dad. 

To which he replied “You’ve hit on one of the big cosmic conflicts of new fatherhood. Didn’t even take you two weeks.”

I’m leaving that second sentence as I typed it because I was being honest then and I’m endeavoring to be honest here. Were I writing that sentence first for publication to a wider audience I’d have said:

Being back at work is weird. It’s a nice chance of pace to be doing something other than facilitating the feeding, changing, and sleeping of our child and a relief to spend a few hours not preoccupied with the stress my wife’s dealing with right now (though it’s always in the back of my mind). Doing anything for two weeks nonstop is a drain and it’ll be great to go home refreshed and ready to have at it again. Still, I feel guilty for feeling that way.

When I went home that first Monday night I did feel refreshed and ready to dive back into the fray. I changed clothes, scooped Abigail out of Erin’s arms and spent the next few hours feeding, burping, changing and soothing her. And it felt great. In fact, each night I can’t wait to get home and tend to her.

And truth be told, Erin doesn’t need me worrying about her. But for all the reasons I’ve discussed before, I know parenting is harder on her than it is me. And now on top of that she’s managing child care alone until 6:30 rolls around.

As much as some people have the temperament and/or will to be good parents – in our better moments, I think Erin and I are those people – the first few weeks found us occasionally questioning whether we are or not. I know everyone goes through this. Doesn’t change the fact that it was nice to get back to the office and spend some time on things I’m demonstrably good at doing.

Every time I start a new job I get frustrated because I’m not as knowledgeable about the environment as I’d like to be and accomplishing something takes longer due to the learning curve. Parenthood has been no different. Each week it seems as if we’re trying some new (to us) child-rearing theory to get Abigail to sleep longer, feed better or be happier. We’re still trying to shake off the notion there’s some pre-determined way to raise our kid and instead just listen and observe the way the kid’s behaving and act accordingly. We know this is the way we’re supposed to do it but it still annoys us that Amazon doesn’t sell The Guide To Abigail Grace Smith’s First Year.

My big worry was I’d arrive back at work and not give a shit about my job anymore. Who cares about the Internet?!? There’s a new human being in my house who needs me! Instead, it’s the opposite. The better I am at my job, the better I take care of those who depend on me. While Abigail’s not even old enough to recognize my face yet, it’s important to me that she has a father who works hard. At the very least I want her to think I work as hard at my morning job as I do my evening job.

—

I’ve been working on this post for the past couple weeks – I started it the day I went back to work. Each time I read through it I find I’m unable to thread it all together. There’s a couple of good bits but nothng overall to say. Maybe it’s because I’m striving to describe a “new normal” when I haven’t figured out what that is yet.

A little light musing

Fatherhood,


My posts about Erin’s pregnancy and Abigail’s birth have been awfully introspective – and perhaps a little tear-jerky – so to keep this blog from being a ponderous chore to read, here are some amusing things that have happened in the Age of Abigail:

* I’d like to thank the creative and production staffs of “Parks & Recreation” for saving our sanity. The few moments Erin and I have to ourselves are usually spent decompressing via episodes of this show. We may decide to raise Abigail according to Ron Swanson’s Pyramid of Greatness at some future date.

* A friend of mine – a new father himself – sent me…er, Abigail a CD of 80s songs as lullabies. “Total Eclipse of the Heart” is surprisingly affecting. Oh and Abigail likes it, too.

* The trash can in the baby’s room – the one containing all the dirty diapers and sanitary wipes – is so sophisticated that Erin and I somehow removed the bag in reverse. That’s right: Two college-educated people were almost outwitted by a garbage receptacle.

* My daughter’s “Let me interrupt you for a second so I can take a crap in my diaper” face is hysterical. It looks like she’s going into a trance or casting a spell. It’s almost as awesome as the noises she makes when she’s waking up or stretching, which bear a remarkable resemblance to the noises made by the “Compys” in Jurassic Park.

* Abigail’s favorite way for me to soothe her is being held while I walk up and down the stairs to our 2nd floor. Our house is an old bungalow so the stairs are attic-style which means they’re very steep. I can usually fake her out but achieve the same effect by walking around our dining room table while doing half-lunges.

At this rate, I should have buns of steel by Tuesday.

On human bonding

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When we learned Erin would need a C-section to give birth to our daughter, I experienced several emotions, many tied to our original plans for natural childbirth: fear, disappointment, sadness but also a large measure of relief. Erin had been in active labor for approximately 20 hours prior not to mention the few days of contractions before that. As we were told I would accompany Abigail into the nursery while Erin was stitched up and moved into recovery, I experienced another emotion:

Selfish elation.

The way I saw it, Erin spent the last nine months in a tight bond with Abigail – though admittedly I’d been there too as we talked to her, read her stories and played music for her in utero. And since we’d be breastfeeding after she was born Erin had more built-in bonding time coming in a way I’d be hard-pressed to match. So this was my chance to play catch-up on some of that.

None of this is rational thought. But from what I understand of it this early in the process, raising kids usually means you pass the exit for Rationality more often than not as you take the off-ramp to Emotional Reaction before turning around and heading back to Rationality, wondering how you always miss that exit time and again.

In tangential defense of my baby-hoggery, I spent Erin’s entire pregnancy trying to ensure she and Abigail are both happy and comfortable (I know: “You’re supposed to, jerk.” Still.) both in general and with each other. In fact, while we were still in the operating room – with Erin still in mid-surgery – I was already taking cell phone pictures of Abigail to show Erin (“That’s our little girl! You did it!”) even before the nurses brought her over so she could look in Abigail’s eyes herself. The last thing in the world I wanted was to get in the way of their bonding. I know about postpartum blues.

But in the hospital nursery? Knowing it would be just Abigail and I before Erin and the rest of the world got involved? I was practically rubbing my hands together with glee.

I’m not proud of the self-centeredness I felt and knew those minutes would be little more than crying, staring, peeing and thrashing around. (Abigail would probably be doing that, too.) Her little eyes wouldn’t register my face and while her ears might think my voice might sound a little like the one reading her Winnie-The-Pooh a few months back, it’s not as if she’d be lying there in the nursery giving me baby high-fives now that we’d finally met.

Still, I wanted those moments and took full advantage. I sang to her, told her how Erin and I met, described where we lived, mentioned she already had a dog at home and explained she had many adventures awaiting her in the world. I reached my index finger out to her and she grabbed it. It was the most relaxed time I’ve had with my daughter since her birth and it was awesome. Mostly because I was the one receiving all the benefits. Meanwhile, she was probably thinking “Christ, it’s cold out here. And can we do something about these lights?”

Like I said, selfish.

The days since then have been wonderful, but hard. Bonding with her hasn’t been as easy either. Don’t get me wrong: there are many, many joyful moments even when it’s all unmoving silence. But keeping Abigail safe, happy and comfortable is challenging. Taking care of our daughter is like a puzzle for which we have all the pieces but no picture on the box as a guide. Do we feed her now? Or change her? Or soothe her? Or all three? And just breastfeed or breast and bottle? And I’m holding her but damnit she’s still crying so…ah ha!…if I put my left hand on her butt and right hand on her head and keep walking around the room at exactly this pace she’ll be quiet…so long as I keep moving and holding her like this. I’m like a shark parent.

And then there’s Erin who once again has lapped me in the strength and determination department what with recovering from major abdominal surgery, not getting any sleep and providing nutrition to our child among her other minor tasks. The bond she has with Abigail that I knew would develop so quickly – she was able to successfully breastfeed her before she was even out of recovery – is a double-edged sword. Yes, it means I can spend an hour trying and failing to soothe our daughter only to have Erin swoop in, hold her close for 30 seconds and watch as Abigail quiets down immediately and sighs. It also means Erin has many physical and emotional reminders of her responsibility to our daughter than I just don’t have. How she isn’t frequently overwhelmed by it all, I don’t know.

I’ve never been particularly patient and the things I like doing are often the things over which I exercise a high degree of skill. Right now, Abigail’s sleeping, gaining weight, filling her diaper and still alive. All good measures of skill. But my soothing percentage has been below average and that’s annoying. (Not to mention sleep-depriving.)

The relaxed moments I spent with Abigail in the hospital have been tough to recreate but we’re getting closer. In the try-anything-once effort that is the hallmark of new parents, today I strapped on Erin’s purple Sleepy Wrap, which looks like this and has been a surefire way to calm Abigail. I had my shirt off because skin-to-skin is supposed to be effective, too. Once I had the thing on I was glad I hadn’t ordered one for myself. I looked like I was either stretching out someone’s super-fun blouse or marching in a pirates-only gay pride parade. Of course a few minutes after Abigail snuggled into the wrap she was fast asleep.

There’s no doubt in my mind she and I will soon be thick as thieves.

In brightest day, in blackest night

Fatherhood, ,

[A quick note here: The following is a truncated account of our labor and delivery. It’s very much from my point of view. I’m sure Erin will give you her perspective at some point but just know I’m skipping some parts to get at a specific narrative. [UPDATE: Erin’s posted something here.] Also “and then Erin had another contraction” would have gotten old by about the 457th time.]

Nothing about our daughter’s birth went according to plan. The original plan, that is. But plans are about choices made based on available facts. So whatever plans you make for your life ought to have room enough for change should new facts present themselves. Since we started trying to have a kid, new facts presented themselves often:

Fact: We’re having trouble conceiving children
Choice: Go get tested; try harder

Fact: Conception difficulties solved due to trying more frequently
Choice: Start rehabbing the upstairs so we have a nursery

Fact: We prefer a natural childbirth experience through hypnobirthing
Choice: Read, read, read; go to classes; hire a doula

Fact: Erin’s now-former OB-GYN didn’t care much for hypnobirthing
Choice: Find a lovely group of midwives

[By the way, if you need a doula, let me recommend Tricia Fitzgerald, our hypnobirthing doula. She is incredible and as you’ll soon read pretty much saved me from losing my mind during delivery. Hiring a doula – and Tricia in particular – was the smartest thing we did during our pregnancy and as a first time parent it made the whole experience much less stressful. Our midwives group, West Suburban Midwives, also comes recommended by me, especially Cynthia Mason who worked with us. As a former OU student, I chalk up Cynthia’s awesomeness to her Ohio upbringing.]

All of this is just to say our birth plans changed a couple times before our due date arrived. As it is, most due dates are guarantees of a change of plans. Ours was. We were five days “late” though Erin had off and on contractions that whole time. Eventually, we got to active labor around 9pm the night before we were ended up delivering. I figured the five-minute-between mark meant go-time but the midwives and the doula know from what and what involves a dilated cervix of 4 centimeters which our five-minutes-apart contractions are no sign of at all. Instead of spiriting ourselves to the hospital we spent some time birthing at home.

As with the rest of our pregnancy, Erin takes the lion’s share of the efforts: sitting on a large rubber ball to encourage baby movement, soaking in a warm tub to relieve birthing pain, squatting in various ways to let gravity do its thing. Meanwhile, I do many supportive husband things like offer encouraging birth prompts, massage her back and fetch towels. I’m eager to leave for the hospital – we’ve had the car packed for the better part of a month – but our doula counsels us that time spent laboring at home is far better than in the hospital triage unit. I’m quiet through most of this time. I’d been running birth prompts with Erin all weekend so I’m happy to let our doula take that role for a bit. Frankly, I think Erin’s tired of the sound of my voice and could use a break from associating it with abdominal pain. Plus, my usual coping mechanism – cracking jokes – got on Erin’s nerves pretty quick. So I shut up and go for the strong, silent partner routine.

Finally, we’re consistently 2-3 minutes apart. By now it’s 4:30am and we’ve been in active labor since 9pm the night before, nevermind the four days of off and on contractions prior to this and an incident two weeks prior that had us thinking our new plan would involve a medically-necessary inducement. Long story short: We’re finally ready.

Here’s where things started to unravel. Into the car we go with Erin on her hands and knees in the back, leaning over the baby’s car seat for support. With all my thoughts and concerns on Erin, I jump in and start a very cautious 40mph down 95th street with our doula following close behind only to remember through a sleep-deprived, adrenaline-fueled haze that I have not only forgotten to set our burglar alarm but I’ve also forgotten to lock the front door or even bother to close it at all. Yes, we were a quarter of the way to the hospital before I realized someone – anyone – could waltz right into our house.

Thinking about it a few days later, I know this was the moment when I let fear creep into my head. For months prior I’d been training myself mentally for this event, adopting Hal Jordan as the Green Lantern for my “spirit animal.” My life was about to change completely and I knew keeping my wife and unborn child safe would be too much to bear unless I could overcome fear. Jordan was called the greatest Green Lantern because of his ability to do the same. So in addition to reading books on pregnancy and a baby’s first year I’d been ritually reading Green Lantern comics for weeks and even carrying a small plastic Lantern ring as a talisman of sorts. I was up to the challenge. I’d be able to acknowledge the fear to overcome it, just like Hal.

Then I left that door open…how am I supposed to care for my wife and daughter if I can’t even close a fucking door? I can’t do this. I can’t keep my wife and child safe. I can make all the well-laid plans in the world but I can’t keep them safe…I’m going to throw up…

A frantic series of calls to Erin’s sister and mine follows before my sister says she can run over and put the alarm on. And, you know, close the front door. Problem solved inside of half an hour and the house is secure again but the fear keeps tingling in the back of my brain. Knowing how silly it seems even as I’m doing it, I quietly recite the Green Lantern oath over and over, mantra-like, to keep from barfing all over the dashboard as we arrive at the hospital and…I make a wrong turn and miss the entrance. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Get it together, Scott. I turn around and park at the entrance. Our doula – who I’m now more grateful for than ever – escorts Erin into triage while I park and grab our bags. I can’t make jokes. I don’t know how to deal with all of our plans changing…

Triage presents new challenges. We labored at home, according to our plan, but based on Erin’s condition – she’s making clear “I’m about to give birth” noises and is 8-9 centimeters dilated – the nurse and our doula are saying she might not make it into the birth center. We might be giving birth right here in the triage center.

Damnit! This isn’t right, I knew we should have left earlier. We shouldn’t have labored at home for so long. This isn’t the plan. Erin needs to be comfortable, this isn’t right. The baby needs to be safe in the birthing center.

I lose it. I start crying. Not so much because of the fear – but boy is it there! – but because I look at Erin and see how amazing and strong she is. The contrast between the woman in front of me and my inner turmoil is striking.
She’s been in active labor for half a day and having contractions for days before that but she isn’t complaining, she’s focused on the goal and I realize I have married the most amazing woman in the world.

Gathering my mental faculties together for her sake, I learn we have enough time to get into the birth center and we get settled. The way everyone’s been talking about this imminent birth I assume we’re minutes away from seeing my daughter’s face but things seem to be progressing slowly. We get Erin into the bathtub to relieve some of the pressure and the midwife arrives. She checks Erin and says she’s…8-9 centimeters dialated.

And so plans change again…

We spend all of Monday morning in the birthing center trying everything we can to move the birth along. Turns out the baby’s head is pointed down but at an odd angle – there’s a term for it but I forget it now – and can’t get past Erin’s cervix. We try different positions, we try the bath again, we try reducing her cervix, nothing. Erin takes it like a champ and keeps apologizing to everyone for everything because she is from the Midwest and that is what we do. Her physical strength astounds me. I didn’t get to see Erin run the half-marathon last year but here’s the proof in front of me that she was up to the challenge. Meanwhile, the pain on her face is enough to make the fear creep back in my gut. I start crying again which makes Erin feel bad.

“I’m sorry you’re so upset, baby,” she says.

Oh nice, Scott. Give your actively-laboring wife something else to be concerned with. You’re supposed to be the tough one in this relationship. You’re the one who overcame fear, remember?

Then I feel the Lantern ring in the front pocket of my jeans. I put it on my finger. In my head I start thinking “I’m Hal Jordan. I am capable of overcoming great fear…” I know this probably means I’ve gone off the deep end but I don’t care. For my wife and child’s sake, I need to recognize this fear to overcome it. I’m going to shut that fucking door now.

“I’m Hal Jordan. I am capable of overcoming great fear…”

I look at my wife and see a woman who, despite being in the worst pain of her life for the past 12 hours, can take the time to console me. I remember who I am. My eyes dry. My head clears.

Then the plan changes again. Our doula, who prefaces what she is about to say with the words “I’m the last one to suggest this kind of intervention but…” says we’ve done everything we can to labor naturally and it’s time to think about some medical assistance in the form of pitocin to move things along. Erin looks up at me and I know what she’s thinking. This isn’t how we planned for things to go. What’s this going to mean? I take Erin’s hand in mine and tell her she’s done everything she possibly could. “You’ve done everything right. You were perfect.” We remind each other that this birth wasn’t about avoiding medical intervention but was about us making the best possible choices based on the facts at hand. And the facts said it was time for some help.

At this point in the story, the pitocin should have done its job, Erin should have given birth and all should have been well. But it didn’t. The pitocin intensified Erin’s contractions but still didn’t get us any further along than 8-9 centimeters. A couple hours later our midwife suggests Erin’s body is probably too tired to give birth right now and we need to give it a break. And an epidural. Erin and I look at each other again. Not according to the plan…but we make an informed decision and say yes. As the anesthesiologist arrives Erin says to me “You might not want to watch this.”

Me: What? Just because a guy cries all morning that makes him some kind of wuss?
Erin: Well you just seem a little sensitive this morning.
Me: I’m over that now.

The epidural allows Erin to take a nap. She and the baby are still healthy so there’s no reason to rush. The doctor ups the pitocin and we wait. But nothing happens. So finally we talk and decide a C-section is the only possible option. In terms of hours spent, Erin’s labored three times over by now. She and the baby did all they could. All the same, a C-section just wasn’t in the plan. It’s the first time in days I see Erin look scared. But after all she’s been through she knows she’s up for it.

Things move fast after that. Within an hour Erin’s in the delivery room and I’m sitting beside her in an outfit that looks like I’ll be leaving immediately after for the international space station. In fifteen minutes, I see the doctor holding a quiet, purplish body and my mind flashes to the APGAR test. Quiet and purple aren’t the ideals. I wonder if…no…everything’s going to be fine. We’re safe. Seconds later, I hear a baby crying and hear someone say “She’s pinkening up.” I turn to Erin and say “That’s our girl.”

Her name is Abigail Grace. Born February 28th at 523pm. Not according to plan, but right on time.

***

It’s two days later as I’m writing this and Erin’s been asleep with Abigail dozing on her chest. We went through our first night of near-constant feedings and diaper changes. I learned what it feels like to exchange sleeping through the night for a disconnected series of naps. I’ve watched Erin and Abigail breastfeed from their first few minutes together like they’ve been doing it their whole lives. And I was reminded again of all the reasons why I love Erin and am so grateful she’s my wife. I know there will be more challenges and difficulties to come but right now everything’s perfect.

Our daughter is amazing. Watching her figure out her little world is the best. I’m not wild about hospitals and I’ve been sleeping in a chair for two days but this little bunker of ours is full of love and wonderment and it rules.

As for my freakout, I’m almost glad it happened now. We had plenty of support around and it helped me make peace with something on my mind for weeks. I had to experience a taste of the fear, a bit of the poison so as to fashion an effective vaccine. Fear is just part of the plan.

Post-script: Our daughter is now four days old. One of those days involved Erin and I losing any confidence in ourselves due to bad-but-well-meaning advice and the fear of being bad parents, which I’m sure I’ll write about at some point. Luckily, we seem to have moved past that and gotten back to trusting our instincts. Everyone we’ve talked to says that mindset is better than a thousand books or tips from old vets. [UPDATE: Erin’s written about some of the difficulties of the last couple of days here.]