Giant Baby!!!

A few months after Ronnie was born, when she was learning how to stand up, I started playing a game with her I call “Giant Baby!!”

I would lie on my back and hold her standing up on my stomach and have her stomp around like Godzilla, laying waste to an imaginary city. She would lift up her feet and giggle as I made the noises of people running and screaming as their town was razed to the ground.

As an added bonus, Giant Baby had toxic drool that would melt thought anything, even daddy’s t-shirt.

Thankfully, there was only one thing in the world that could stop Giant Baby, and that was a barrage of daddy’s kisses and tickles. Just as the town was on the verge of utter annihilation, daddy would rise up and begin the assault. Giant Baby would scream out in a fit of laughter and be vanquished.

And mommy would be in the background smiling and rolling her eyes that she ever married such a dork.

Work got tough a few months ago, and lately I’ve been staying longer hours, working more on the weekends, just overall devoting more of my time and energy towards my job. I’m thankful for the job I have. It’s allowed me to create a life for my family I otherwise would not have been able to afford.

However, I’ve reached a point where I have a huge decision to make. And I realized it the other day. I was lying on the floor, and my daughter, who can now walk on her own, came running up to me. I picked her up, and realized we hadn’t had a good old game of Giant Baby in a while. So I stood her on my stomach, and saw that now…well, she really is a giant baby.

And I lamented the time I had already lost. That in a brief period of time she had already grown so much, and that while I was there for that time, I was more of an observer than a father.

I might just be a bit sensitive, or being hard on myself, but I don’t want to lose anymore time. In five years, I’m not going to look back and say to myself, “Wow, I just wish I had spent that extra ten hours a week in the office.”

I am making the decision to spend more time at home, and that the time I spend at home is better spent on my family. I am making the decision to be more active and to make my prayer and spiritual life better. Work is work, I can’t let that be my life. It’s not fair to my God, it’s not fair to my wife, it’s not fair to me…

And it’s not fair to my giant baby, who will keep getting more and more giant until one day, she won’t be able to stand on my stomach.

I don’t know if this is depressing, or uplifting.

But it’s cathartic. I sure feel a lot better, and I’m damn sure not missing anymore time with my family.

A Childlike Love

Mark 10:15 reads, “Amen, I say to you, whoever does not accept the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it.”

I used to have the wrong understanding of this passage. It wasn’t until I had a daughter of my own that I truly began to realize what Christ meant when he spoke these words. I used to think it was that a child just accepts God’s love, His plan, with little or no questioning. That a child, trusting and full of wonder, will accept the Truth that God loves us so much that He became a man and died for our salvation.

And I guess maybe that’s not wrong, but it’s a very simplified, and itself childlike understanding of the true meaning of the passage.

I was sitting downstairs at my house with my daughter, who was just rolling around on the floor like the maniac she is. My wife was sitting on the couch behind us, working on her laptop. It was a very hot day, so Veronika was just in a diaper. We watched as she learned to pull herself up into a standing position on our coffee table. She was very pleased with herself, and started to giggle and bounce up and down.

And in that moment, something clicked and my mind was brought to that passage. In that joy and mirth I saw in my daughter, I realized Christ’s message of a childlike acceptance of God.

See, in that moment I saw a happiness that I can only imagine is what Eternity must be like. Standing almost naked and dancing, my daughter knows no shame. Smiling and giggling when she meets new people, my daughter knows no prejudice or bigotry. She knows no hate, or anger, or sloth, or avarice, or pride. All the sins that we embrace as we grow older, that weigh our souls down and turn us further away from God, my daughter knows nothing of, but more importantly, has no use for.

The petty grudges and annoyances we as adults refuse to let go, children do. When we do something wrong at work, how often are we unwilling or cautious to repeat the same activity, for fear of messing up or failing again? When someone wrongs us, or cuts us off in traffic, we plot and scheme, wishing and hoping to get even. My daughter is learning to stand, and will soon be walking. She falls and when she does she screams out, scared by the fall and the pain of hitting her head. But she doesn’t let that stop her. She gets right back up and does it again. If I accidentally drop her, or scratch her, she doesn’t resent me, she is grabbing for me and giving me little baby kisses the next minute. While I am still punishing and cursing myself for being so clumsy, she has already forgiven me.

A child can get into Heaven because they are more like God than adults will ever be. They are a more perfect creation, a more pure example of how God wants us to be. A human, with no petty grievances holding them back from achieving the awesome potential and unconditional love that He wants for us all.

In His infinite wisdom, Christ wanted us to see that a child accepts the Kingdom of God, because the Kingdom is nothing but happiness. It is constant achievement. It is without fear, or hurt, or anger. It knows no class, no sex, no color, no creed. Christ is asking us why children so ready and willing to accept something so logical, something that will better each individual who decides that happiness is better than hate, but we as adults are not? Something that will break down the walls that divide us and bring us closer to perfection…

Questioning is useful, but only if we seek our questions to be answered. Children ask questions because they want an answer. As we grow up, and buy into this idea of intellectualism, as our minds “expand” and our hearts harden, we often question just to ask why, we question to debate, and not to seek knowledge. In The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis writes, “Listen! Once you were a child. Once you knew what inquiry was for. There was a time when you asked questions because you wanted answers, and were glad when you had found them. Become that child again: even now.”

We are not meant to blindly follow. We are not meant to give unquestioning obedience to God; a love of God without choice or thought, or passion, is not love at all. But Christ wants us, in our childlike acceptance of God, to ask our questions with the goal of finding the truth, and once we are confronted with the Truth, to have the childlike humility to accept it. God does not want blind love, but once our eyes are open, He wants it unfailingly.

But if we accept God like a child, how is it possible to give Him anything less?

Empathy

A funny thing happened today that really helped put me in check.

I’ve always considered myself to be a kind person. I do my best to treat others with dignity and respect. All humans, being made in the Image and Likeness of God, I believe are due that respect and dignity because of the divinity in that blessing, that our Creator so loved us that of all His creatures, we are the most like Him.

That being said, I am human. I am flawed, I falter, and more often than not I fail. Mostly not with my words, though I have said some very cruel things, but in my mind, I can be not just cruel, but down right vicious.

I remind myself to empathize with others. I don’t know the lives of those around me, I don’t know what it is like to live a day in their shoes, to see the world through their eyes and experience their successes and downfalls. I try to empathize, but so often I judge others around me, despite knowing in the back of my mind that I don’t live their lives, that I will only live my own.

Today I was walking into the gas station quick mart to buy a soda. As I crossed the threshold, another guy was walking out. He was horribly skinny, with patchy hair, and deep pockmarks on his face and arms, some freshly scabbed over, some that were old and scarred and will stay with him forever. As we passed, I immediate thought, “Geez, lay off the meth you damned junkie” and other such thoughts that put the man down in my mind.

I grabbed my soda, and walked up to the counter. As the attendant took my money, he called out to another worker on the other side of the store, “Fuck man, did you see that guy? He needs to lay off the meth and get a fucking job or something. It looks like he has scabies and shit.” The other attendant came over to the counter and immediately joined in. In front if me, a complete stranger, these two ruthlessly tore this guy apart. The things I had thought in my mind, were being spoken before me.

And as I walked out of the store, I was filled with a deep shame. A voice in the back of my mind said, “Come on, man, you’re better than that.” I walked to my car, passing the man who started pumping his gas. He had an old, beat up car with the bumper being held onto the body by bungee cords.

Now, I live in Nevada, and we have a serious meth problem. More than likely, was the guy a regular meth user? Probably; he fit the physical description.

But so what? That doesn’t justify my judgement of the man. He did nothing to me. He didn’t harm me or my family, or do anything to ruin my day or my life. I don’t know his life, I don’t know what he’s been through, or what he may be going through right now. He might still be a regular drug user. Hell he could have had scabies.

Or he could have been a man who just recently turned his life around. A man who found the strength inside to kick a nasty habit and get his life together. I will probably never know his story, and I still saw fit to lay my verdict upon him.

But I know that what I thought of the man at first, and what those two guys in the store said, accomplished nothing. None of us were made better people at the expense of that man, none of us are more fulfilled or happier because of what was thought and said. That judgement, the bitterness and the hurtful attitudes did nothing to make this world a more livable place for us or my daughter.

So why did I do it? I honestly can’t say why, but it was an experience that put me in check. It reminded me that I have to constantly work at being kind, not just in deed, but in thought. That life is so precious, but also so spontaneous and unpredictable, that just as I sit here now, next to my wife in bed, with a roof over my head and a full stomach, that it could all be gone just as fast, and that I could just as easily be on the receiving end of those judgements and hateful comments.

It was a reminder that as a father, I have a duty, an obligation to raise my daughter to be a better, kinder person than I am. I look at my daughter, who is sleeping soundly right now, and can’t bear the thought of her acting in a manner such that I did today. I want her to act like the angel she looks like when she sleeps. To accomplish that, I need be an example in action, in heart, and in mind to those around me.

So that maybe one day, we won’t feel the need to put others down, that we will all see the divinity within each person. That instead of judging, we will celebrate each other, and take joy in not just our lives, but in the lives of those around us.

Nostalgia

Allow me to be a complete geek for a minute…

Like most 20-something males, I love playing video games.

Until the N64, my parents didnt let my brother or I have our own gaming system. We begged our parents to get one for us, and finally my dad relented and agreed to buy one. In truth, my father wanted it so he could play Goldeneye 007 himself, but he made a big thing about it, bribing my brother with it so he would go on a roller coaster with him at Knott’s Berry Farm. Looking back on it, my brother wanted to go on the ride anyway, but in the end we finally got our system.

I am always a few years behind on gaming. I know what is going on currently, the major titles up for release, the new gaming news, but my personal experience is delayed. Partly for financial reasons; I have a wife and daughter, and before that school/rent/food/books, so I can’t just be spending $300-$400 on a new system, or $60 for a new game whenever I feel. But mostly, it’s time that I am in wanting; school, job, family.

For my 13th birthday, my parents got me a PS2, and my best friend got me my first game for it, Metal Gear Solid 2. It was my first experience with the Metal Gear franchise, and the series became my all time favorite; the progenitor of the stealth/action genre, with a very off-beat, quirky, and incredibly Japanese sense of humor. The games themselves are highly cinematic, with incredibly well-rounded and deep characters.

The plots…well the plots are different. Basically, they revolve around memes, genetics, nano machines, warefare, human cloning, bi-pedal nuclear warheads, inter-generational political/economic conspiracies to control the population…yea, it gets a little crazy, but trust me, when you get into the games, it all makes sense.

After playing MGS2, I went out and used my birthday money to buy the third game in the series, Metal Gear Solid. It is one of the most commercially successful and critically acclaimed games of all time, and rightfully so. When you first begin the game, you make your way from an underground submarine dock, and sneak towards an elevator, which takes you up to a helicopter landing pad, where the real gameplay starts.

For Christmas this past year, my wife bought me a PS3, and with it Metal Gear Solid 4, which was released in 2009. I had played it before when it first came out, but since I never had a copy of my own, I was never able to progress far enough into the game.

MGS4 is separated into 5 chapters, and in the fourth, you begin out in a snowstorm. You sneak through frozen mountain passes, the screen obscured by an artificial blizzard. But eventually, the further you progress, a song begins to play. I immediately recognized it as the main theme to MGS, and suddenly I found myself on the same helicopter landing pad I first walked on ten years ago in MGS.

And something odd happened; I literally had the breath taken away from me. There was a sudden, and completely unexpected, feeling of nostalgia, as memories came flooding back.

I felt the same excitement, as a 23 year old man, as I first did when I was 13 playing the series for the first time. I realized that this part of my new game, was taking place in the same location as one of my favorite games from years ago. It was as though the first game was waiting for me to come back, and give it one more go in an updated setting.

But reflecting on it, it wasn’t just the game, and how it came full circle to the close of a story. It was the memories of how the game impacted my life. I remembered other kids at my school who loved the games as well, and how we formed friendships off of that similar interest. It made me look back on those friendships, how much they meant to me, how those kids got me through some troubled times, and then turned around to give me some of the best times of my childhood.

It was this feeling, a reminder, of how something so small, in this case a video game, can have a deep impact, a rippling effect through other areas of one’s life. It was a feeling I wish I could forget, that I could delete the memory of playing MGS4 from my memory, just so I could relive it when I played the game again, to recapture that feeling. It was a beautiful experience…

Albeit, a completely nerdy one.

Special

When I was younger, and much more of a brat, I never knew why my parents were so strict about my grades, and so upset and disappointed when I didn’t achieve. When I would get a C, or worse, I would be lectured, or punished if called for.

I didn’t understand. I didn’t get many D’s or F’s, or even C’s. I did fairly well in grade and high school, though I excelled in college, but that’s because I was finally studying a topic I absolutely loved, so it wasn’t difficult to get me to read, write or study.

I distinctly remember my 8th grade year. It was the second half of the year, and I was not motivated to do any school work since high school was just around the corner. I slacked off and ended up receiving three or four C’s on my report card. As I sat on the bus home, talking with my friends, I remember saying how I didn’t understand why my parents would be so upset when they saw my grades.

I mean, a C is average, lots of kids get C’s.

I’ve never really thought about that conversation since I had it those years ago. As I said, I did fairly well through high school, so I didn’t have many C’s to worry about. But over the weekend, my wife and I were driving up to Lake Tahoe, and I had some time to think and reflect.

And it suddenly dawned upon me why my parents would be so upset when I didn’t perform well in school, and my attitude towards my low grades. While it may have already occurred to many of you reading this, like I said, I never paid it much thought until now.

I finally understand that, as a parent, you don’t want your child to be “average.” And you definitely don’t want them to be complacent and accepting of their own performance as “average.” And with this realization, I had some other thoughts on the subject.

My daughter is special. To me and my wife. She is special to us based solely on the merit that she is our daughter. I know already how extraordinary, unique, and un-average she is. But the rest of the world doesn’t; they don’t know how special she is. As a result, to the rest of society, at her age my daughter is just average.

That thought doesn’t upset me, though, because that is how it is supposed to be. Children are special to their parents for no other reason except that they are their parent’s child. But my daughter has to prove to the rest of society how special she is. They won’t take it just upon the merit of her being my daughter; she has to show everyone else how un-average she is.

And with that came a frightening thought; in a world that keeps growing increasingly politically correct, where everyone gets an A for trying, where a child cannot be wrong in class when they give a wrong answer, when everyone gets a trophy for participating…

How can my little girl show how special she is, when no one can be special anymore? When everyone is only as good as the weakest, all that is left is weakness. If everyone gets an A, there is no pride in achievement, and if there is no shame in failure, there is no incentive to improve.

Elementary schools in my area got rid of the “S, S+, S-” grading scale, because they felt it singled out students who under-preformed, and encouraged those who achieved at the expense of those who did not. And students are no longer wrong when they give a wrong answer, they simply “need more instruction.” I understand teachers and adults trying to prevent children from being singled out, but where is the line? When do the good intentions cross the line and cease whatever good could be derived, and hinder a child’s development?

I fear I may be crossing the territory into a ramble, so I’ll try to wrap this up. My daughter is special, and I want not just society to see how special she is, I want her to feel it too. I want her to feel the pride that comes with success; receiving an A after a hard night of studying, or winning in her sport after all her work and practice. I want her to feel the shame and disappointment when she does not perform up to her potential.

I want her to be self-motivating, because she values herself, her ability, and her intellect. I want her to feel as special as I know she is. I want her, everyday as she grows, to take pride in herself, knowing that each day, she did everything the best she could.

Our Hospital Stay, part 2

So we were finally admitted to the hospital.

Which, thank God happened, because half of our family had already shown up, waiting eagerly for the birth of our baby. Our family never does things small or somewhat. We do things in a big way, because our family is big, and we have big personalities.

Now while we were admitted, it still wasn’t so easy. After we left the hospital the previous night, we went back around noon the next day. I was able to be somewhat more articulate when checking us in the second time. While my wife was waiting up in the hospital room being monitored, I was given a brief respite and my father-in-law took me to the cafeteria for a much needed meal. Being so anxious and nervous, I hadn’t eaten very much the previous 24 hours. I was halfway through my sandwich when I received a text from my mother-in-law:

Well she is only at 3.5. Nurse is calling doctor but they are thinking of sending her home again.

He heart dropped. I wanted to leave the table and run up to my wife, but my father-in-law made me stay to finish my lunch. It was the smart thing; I wouldn’t have lasted without the second half of my sandwich.

But once the food was down I ran like a madman through the hospital. When I got to the room, the nurse told us the on-call doctor wanted to keep us for an extra hour for evaluation. We took an hour’s walk around the maternity ward, and then my wife a super hot shower. When she was done, the doctor came back in, and we were admitted.

I wasn’t told this, but there is a lot of down time waiting for the baby to come. We had a few tests, some blood work, a fentanol shot, the epidural, and turns pitocin drip, but other than that, there was a lot of reading, hand holding, and watching TV.

We actually made it through the entire World’s Strongest Man competition on ESPN, and Dumb and Dumber.

All the while, we received texts from our family asking for updates, like we would somehow forget to tell them the baby had been born. It was actually funny; my mom and mother-in-law were out in the waiting room, watching the 49ers/Ravens game to determine who would go to the Superbowl. They are both 49ers fans, and at one point were cheering so loud that one of the nurses had to go out and tell them to be quiet or else they’d wake all the babies!

But yea, a lot of downtime. My wife slept, and eventually the sun went down and I felt tired enough that I could go to sleep, and confident enough that if I did nothing would go wrong. I curled up in a very uncomfortable recliner, pulled my jacket over me and drifted off to sleep…

I was woken suddenly by the nurses kicking the door open. I jumped up out of the chair, sick to my stomach because I thought the baby was coming. “Oh God, oh God, this is it.” But when the nurse rushed in with an oxygen mask, I realized the baby wasn’t on the way just yet. I noticed the machines my wife was hooked up to were beeping incessantly. My knees began to shake and my nausea grew worse. My wife was in trouble, and I didn’t know how to help her. Talk about feeling completely powerless…

I rushed over to the bed, but the nurses pushed me back. After a minute of flipping my wife from one side to the other, her face buried in the oxygen mask, the machines stopped beeping. They layed my wife back down, smiled at me, and THEN LEFT THE DAMN ROOM!

I stood there for a minute looking at my wife, wondering what the hell just happened! I walked down the hall to the nurse’s station, and said, “Hi, I’m the father in room 410. What the hell just happened??”

Apparently, because of the pitocin, my wife displayed from 6cm to 8cm so suddenly, the baby dropped. The heart rate monitor stopped picking up the baby’s heart rate, and started reading my wife’s. So on their monitoring screen, the nurses saw the heart rate go from 150 BPM, and drop to 80 BPM.

Jesus, what a relief, but next time, please let the father know about that before you just walk out of the room!

As I said in the last post, I learned a lot about how hospitals work during my stay. Something I didn’t know what just how little we actually saw of the doctor. In the wee hours of the morning, the nurse came in to check on us, and told us it was time to start preparing for the delivery. The nurse coached my wife through the pushing, and after each push I kept telling myself, “Yea, so the doctor should be arriving any minute?”

After an hour of pushing, they brought in all the tools, and prepped the area. The doctor came in, and literally 2 minutes later…

I was holding my wife’s leg, and petting her head. I was telling her how well she was doing, how proud I was of her. Because I was, and I still am. She displayed a level of strength I didn’t know was possible, a level I could never imagine being able to accomplish myself. As I was doing my best to console her, I just felt a sudden urge to look down. Right at that moment, I watched my baby being born.

It actually happened really fast. She kinda shot out like a cork, and the doctor had to jump back a little to catch her.

I now say her, but in one of my previous posts I referred to my then-unborn baby as “he.” My wife and I waited to find out the sex until she was born. My wife said it is one of the few times in life you can truly be surprised.

No kidding. All the doctors and nurses told us to expect a boy, based on the heart rate, the position of the baby, how my wife was carrying, and all sorts of other metrics to conclude the sex of the baby without using an ultrasound. But when my beautiful baby came out, even the doctor said, “Woah…I guess it’s not a boy…”

There were two thoughts that ran through my head. The first was a joyous relief, “Thank God she was born healthy and that my wife had a good delivery.”

And then the second, “It’s a girl…I am so screwed…”

It didn’t even take my little girl 1 minute to have me completely wrapped around her little finger…

Our Hospital Stay, part 1

These next couple of posts are mainly to exercise some catharsis, to share some reflections on my family’s stay at the hospital leading up to the birth of my daughter.

To say that I was surprised when my wife woke me up late on January 11th to say that she was going into labor wouldn’t quite be correct. I wasn’t surprised, I mean I knew that eventually the baby would have to come out. So not surprised…

But panicked. I think that’s the best word to describe it.

Also because I think “sheer terror” comes off a little too melodramatic.

When I drove my wife to the hospital, it was snowing and the freeway and roads had iced over. And the whole way I just thought, “Dear God, please give me the ability to weather this storm and drive carefully, because if we spin out and I have to deliver this baby in the car, I might just throw up everywhere and pass out.”

When we finally arrived at the hospital I took my wife’s hand and led her to the emergency entrance. I think the one thing that will stay with me most, apart from actually watching my child born, is just how unprepared I felt, and how obvious it was to everyone we interacted with.

I’ve always prided myself of being somewhat eloquent and articulate, but when I walked up to the desk to check us in, all I could choke out when the nurse raised her head was, “Uhhh…dude, I think my wife’s about to give birth…”

At least I can take solace that what I said was probably one of the more level-headed, and considerably less vulgar, ways to tell the nurse my wife was going into active labor.

The hospital we went to was incredibly nice. The staff was absolutely wonderful, and I am so grateful that they did their best to make my wife feel as comfortable as she could be made to feel.

I’ve only been inside a hospital a handful of times. I went in once for myself, and a few times for my brother, so I didn’t really know how hospitals worked, let alone how a labor and delivery stay goes. They asked a lot of questions. My favorite ones were, “Do you live in an abusive household?” To which my wife responded with, “Well, even if I did do you think I would tell you when the man abusing me is right here in the room with us?” and “Have you had any feelings of hurting yourself and anyone else during your pregnancy?” My wife said, “Are you kidding? Have you ever been pregnantv?? I feel like hurting someone everyday!”

This whole pregnancy and delivery was an entirely new learning experience for me. For instance, I always thought that once you checked in you were there until the baby was born. I had no idea all the questions and the monitoring they did to track my wife’s progress.

Or that they would kick us out when she didn’t progress enough.

Well, maybe that’s a little strong, but that’s how it felt. When after an hour my wife didn’t dialate past 3 cm, they told us to go home and come back. My wife cried. Shit, I cried. How could you not? The feeling of helplessness, like you’ve been abandoned. I’m supposed to be the strong one, now how do I console my wife when I not only feel vulnerable, but she can see it?

Driving us home, I couldn’t help but feel like I let my wife down. Was there anything I could have done or said differently to make the nurse keep us there? Did I act like a good husband to my wife letting them discharge us? In the back of my mind, I knew that what happened was something out of our control, but these thoughts nagged an ate away at me still.

Before we left, we were told to try to get some sleep. I asked the nurse, “Are you fucking kidding me?” Not to be rude, but I mean…how could you sleep knowing your baby was going to be born at any moment now?? When we got home, we didn’t sleep. We both layed there, pretending to sleep, praying that the morning would come, and with it another chance to be admitted to the hospital.

We went back the next day when my wife’s labor pains became too intense for her to stand. I swear, after watching everything she went through, I know now that if the fate of our species depended on the men to take the pain and bear the children, we would have died off long ago.

They began to monitor my wife again. After an hour, still no change. The nurse prepared the discharge papers, again, but thank God Almighty for the on call doctor. He told us to walk around the maternity ward, and take a hot shower.

After an hour, the doctor checked and told the nurse to admit us as patients.

Been a while…

It has been a while since I have updated this page…

You know that thing? That nagging little itch on your back that you can’t quite reach? That deep breath you really want to take, but can’t? That stretch you lean back in your chair to take, but someone comes over and pokes your stomach? What’s that thing called again?

Oh right, that thing is called life.

And Lord has life hit me these past months. Christmas and New Years came and went with laughter, mirth, and all the wonders the holidays bring. I feel relaxed, refreshed, and reinvigorated to take on the new year.

Then my wife wakes me up at 10:30 on January 11th and whispers, “It’s time…

“…the baby is coming…”

And before I know it I’m running out the door with suitcases and bags and a wife going into labor. I’m driving on the freeway in a snowstorm with the roads icing over, my wife breathing and panting, and all I want to do is go back to sleep and pretend like this was all a dream. I am now high strung, drained, and wanting to climb into a hole and hide because I am afraid. Life just hit, ground eff-ing zero, and I wasn’t ready.

Hell, I’d never held a baby before! And suddenly I’m expected to raise one to be a healthy, functioning member of society?? How does that work? How do I do that? I know how to interact and converse with others, but how do I teach it? How do I raise a logical, level headed human in an illogical, emotional world? How do I teach a child morals and values? What happens when they start to date? How do you change a diaper? How do you feed an infant? Will I make enough to provide an adequate lifestyle for my family? Dear God, now I have another mouth to feed! Who will watch my baby when I go to work? How do I ensure my child doesn’t grow up to become a Nazi bastard??

The anxiety and fear, the anxiety and unawareness of being a father, the anxiety and “Jesus, will I still be a good husband for my wife”…

And then I hold my daughter for the first time. Before anyone else, right after the doctor cleans her up and wipes her down. The nurse hands me a blanket and then a small, wiggle of pink skin. But then I see her eyes, and her nose, her ears and her little head of black hair. I count her fingers and her toes and I kiss her forehead for the first of many times. I take my wife’s hand, and I suddenly realize…

I’m not ready. I don’t know how you can be ready for something like your child being born.

But I’m not anxious. I’m not afraid. And I will still be a good husband. Because I love my wife, and I love my baby.

And I love my life.

Scary Stories

“And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.”

The above quote is the final line to one of my absolute favorite short stories, “The Masque of the Red Death,” by Edgar Allen Poe. Actually, I love everything written by Poe, but this story in particular stands out from the rest.

It has everything a good horror story needs. A despicable antagonist, in this case a prince, completely unmoved and indifferent to the sufferings of his people. A haunting and terrible plague, devastating the land and leaving a trail of terror in its wake. A celebration for unlikable nobility, held at the expense of those suffering, and in the end, poetic justice, dripping with blood and gore.

The way Poe writes, he can build with an intensity enough to drive one mad with suspense, without giving away the story.

The horror genre has been a love of mine since my youth. My dad would keep my brother and I up late on Friday and Saturday nights to watch re-runs of old horror classics on television. Some of my fondest memories are from sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, eating popcorn, while Theatre of Blood, Motel Hell, and the entire series of Night Gallery on VHS played before me.

And during the week, my dad would put us to sleep, with bedtime stories in the key of Stephen King, Alvin Schwartz, or old folk tales and urban legends.

Being an avid reader in and out of school, while my peers in elementary school read the Boxcar Children or Captain Underpants, I was diving into Mary Shelley and writing book reports on Bram Stoker.

My wife is 35 weeks pregnant. We have no clue what we are doing, but the one thing we have prepared for our child is his own shelf on our book case, filled with children’s books. Among them are some scary story compilations, the same ones I read when I was little. And when he gets older, the higher shelves are still home to the same vampires, monsters, ghosts, and ghoulies that I entertained myself with when I was little.

Our movie collection too is filled with horror classics, Peter Cushing, Vincent Price, and Christopher Lee. It is one of my dearest wishes to share my love of horror with my child, given to me by my father who shared his love with me.

I began this post with the quote from the Red Death, because the other night, right before bed, while my wife lay down, I pulled my book of Poe’s stories to me, and in a low voice, I read to my baby the first of these bedtime stories I so treasured as a child.

And though he couldn’t hear the words or comprehend their meaning, I found it good practice. I will read this story, and many others to him again. But before he is born, I want to make sure I have the perfect scary story voice.

Just like my father had when he read to me.

Christmas Tree

I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving. Though I am young, I have so much to be thankful for.

This is my first Christmas as a married man. Over the weekend, my wife and I went to pick out our Christmas tree. She never had a real tree for the Holidays, just fake ones. I told her she never had a childhood, and took her to a tree lot. We decided to decorate everything in red and gold, and this is the result:

And again with the lights off:

Christmas is one of my favorite holidays, second only to Easter. This year, I get to celebrate it like I never have before. My wife and I did not live together, nor even spend one night together before we were married. This year, I get to wake up on Christmas morning next to my best friend. And I am truly excited.