baptism...

In baptism one returns to the state of creation ... when all humanity was unified.

-L. Michael White

slacker...

Work's been a bitch since the last post, and the home life doesn't really allow for creative thinking/productivity. That being said, I haven't had much time to post anything new and with a run-off election on the horizon and the wife heading back to work, the blogging juices may stop flowing until I get a better idea of how to juggle all my balls (HA, I said balls).

dear dude...

Dear dude in the movie theater bathroom last Friday night,

As a fellow dude and bathroom patron I am inclined to believe that you are aware that men worldwide have been blessed beyond measure with certain gifts. These gifts include, but are not limited to things such as a.) not having to give birth, b.) not having a menstrual cycle, and c.) having the ability to pee in an upright position. That being said, I am further inclined to remind you that such gifts should not be taken for granted. So, the next time you need to relieve yourself, make the effort to do as the rest of us and PISS IN THE DAMN TOILET--NOT ON THE FLOOR. After all, there just might be a gentleman in the stall next to you who is wearing his NEW FLIP-FLOPS and who doesn't appreciate having to wipe down his PISS-SPLATTERED SHINS.

There's no excuse for your blatant ineptitude, and had the setting been more appropriate the pissed-off (and on) gentleman in the stall next to you would have kicked your ass. Keep that in mind the next time you get the urge to go. Thanks, and have a great day.

Sincerely,

Dude in the stall next to you

as a matter of fact, I do still live here...

I’m approaching one of those weird milestones in life.

I just received an invitation to my 10 year class reunion. It’s not a surprise or anything; I’ve even had a hand in helping plan it. It’s just that I’ve been forced to spend time thinking about what I’ve contributed to the world this past decade and how my life compares to those of my peers. A classmate dropped by the other day and the conversation eventually veered toward how we felt about the reunion. “I really don’t feel like seeing the Atlanta people,” she said, “I can’t stand having to explain why I’m still living in Swainsboro.” I can relate and wonder as a result of our conversation if our urbanite peers think less of those of us still living back home.

I admit that I’ve lived a fairly one-sided rural existence. On occasion I develop pangs of inferiority because I can’t help feeling that having never resided in a big city equates to having missed out on something. I have to remind myself that I chose to come back home. I chose to work here. I chose to raise a family here. I refuse to believe that giving back to a community that’s given so much to me is a poor decision.

I actually had an opportunity to work in Atlanta out of college. The wife and I could have just as easily set up shop somewhere in the suburbs, but we didn’t. Maybe I was too scared. Maybe I felt like we couldn’t make it in the big city, and that coming home after a year or two would have meant admitting defeat. I admit, living in Adrian requires little street smarts and even less gangsta’ prowess. The only thing I know about hangin’ tough came from New Kids On The Block back in the day (and I doubt they had much street cred back in ‘88). After all, “getting on the floor and doing the new kids dance” would do me little good in a knife fight.

This is the point where I evaluate my rural existence and really consider what I’m missing by not setting up residence in the ATL:

• Driving aimlessly downtown confused to the point of delirium because some rambling wreck from Georgia Tech has mapped out the city’s streets with the logic and ingenuity of a one eyed four year old.
• Toothless meth addicts wandering the streets in broad daylight. At least the meth-heads here are nocturnal and pretty much confine themselves to the trailer park.
• The Dirty South I can live with, the dirty air I cannot.
• The 20 mile commute that takes two hours. C’mon people, really? There’s not a job in the world that is so important that it should require a 6 HOUR daily commute. That is of the devil.
• The paranoia from living in a city that frequently makes the “Worlds Most Dangerous Places” list. No thank you.
• One word: Freaknic.

I know it’s not all bad. There are advantages to living in the city, but I prefer a more rural setting. There’s not a lot to do, but there’s plenty of good ol’ “small-towniness” to keep it all interesting. And what’s funny about the whole idea is that it doesn’t really matter WHAT the damn city people think. I didn’t care 10 years ago; I certainly don’t care now. I’m happy, and for that reason alone there’s no need to justify my decidedly rural existence to anyone.

The reunion should be LOADS of fun (sarcasm intended). I can’t imagine that any of us have really changed since we graduated, so I really don’t see the point. That being said, if any uppity Atlanta transient takes even a second to look down his nose at the rest of us, we’ll redneck up (just like the good ol’ days) and hog-tie him on the dance floor (granted, I don’t know how to hog-tie, but I have friends that do). Of course, seeing as the reunion is set to take place IN A BARN, I doubt there’ll be much trouble. After all, how uppity can you really get IN A BARN? Did I mention the reunion is going to be IN A BARN? Welcome home, y’all--Class of ’98 in da’ house (or BARN, or whatever)…

first father's day...

I had the privilege this weekend of celebrating my first Father's Day. Though Sunday was spent like any other, there was something special about being recognized for joining the ranks of some of the greatest men I know. This Father's Day was different than those in years past and it has less to do with the fact that I'm now a father myself and more to do with the fact that, as a result, I've gained a new sense of what it means to be a father.

I was fortunate to have grown up with a father at home and two grandfathers close at hand. Granddaddy died two years ago, but Papa's still piddling in his world of tractors and tomatoes. He's the salt of the earth—homespun wisdom and pure goodness. Grandaddy was a rock. As solid, loyal and loving as any man I’ve know. When the wife and I married, I was welcomed into a remarkable family and I include my father-in-law among these great men. I say this despite the fact that, in his youngest daughter's eyes, I'll never quite measure up to the first man she ever loved, but this is often the case with fathers and their daughters, so I don't mind.

Being the fledgling father I am I couldn't say that I stand on equal footing with my own father and the others I've mentioned, but learning from the best should surely count for something. So, looking back at my first Father’s Day, more than anything else, I’m just happy to be here, happy to have joined the club, and happy to be a part of such a grand experiment...

five years and counting...

summer fever...

I was suppose to go to work today, but I've come down with a bad case of summer fever. There's no over-the-counter remedy, and taking to bed only makes it worse. It pains me to wake up early, put on long pants, and sit at my desk to bask in the glow of dull halogen bulbs. It's torture knowing that just outside the door is a warm breeze, bright sun, and a big old world just begging us to come out and play. I love this time year--I always have. Summer in the South is what nostalgia is made of--it's the common denominator in my fondest memories, and the time of year when anything is possible, even in the course of a single day. Today was one of those days, and I've decided that it is the official start of my summer. Here's to lazy afternoons fishing and wearing dock siders to work. Here's to shorts and sunglasses. Here's to humid nights and cold beer. Here's to sweat and sand knats. Here's to dreams that only seem possible when you're barefoot in the grass. Cheers and best wishes for simple pleasures and cures for the summer fever...

and the beat don't stop for nothin'...

In order to appreciate this entry, let me remind you that in my last post I made the following comment: "when the time comes...we'll be far less prepared than we are now." That pearl of wisdom was penned nine days prior to the doctor's visit that landed us in the hospital two days before the birth of our son and couldn't have been more true if it had left the lips of God himself.

Here's how I expected our trip to the hospital to go:

Wife: "Honey, I think my water just broke."
Me: "What?"
Wife: "My water broke--we need to go, now!"
Me: "Are you sure--do you really think it's time?"
Wife: "Would I be faking it, jackass?"
Me: "You don't have to be rude, but I'll let it slide since you're in labor--you grab the diaper bag. I'll get the overnight bag. Do we have everything?"
Wife: "Yes. Let's go."

We would then race to the hospital, wait nervously for a few hours, pop open a champagne bottle, and toast Jasper's arrival. Then we'd go home and live happily ever after.

But, as it so often goes, the scene in my head was miles from actuality. Here's how it all went down (in bullet-point fashion):

• We arrive at the doctor's office for our weekly visit to formulate our "game plan." We fully expected to leave with orders to report to the hospital that following Thursday since that's the day he has set aside for scheduled deliveries. That is not what happened.
  
• Dr. C sends us to the hospital that afternoon. The wife is elated. I experience a small meltdown from the general lack of preparedness that was our lives at that moment.
• We arrive at the hospital with no overnight bag, no diaper bag, no paperwork, and no clue what we're doing.
• We're admitted and sent to Labor & Delivery where we wait in triage for a millennium.
  
• Just before midnight, we're moved to an actual delivery room where the wife gets hooked up to a pump that administers her, as Dr. C calls it, "labor juice."
• The wife's sister has joined us at this point and has been declared a saint for driving an hour out of her way to pick up everything we left at home, loading our dishwasher, and smuggling in Diet Coke and crackers.
• We survive the night, but barely. Our room was cold enough to replenish the melting ice caps--I was tempted to hack up the rocking chair and start a fire. We thawed out at daybreak, and Dr. C decides to break the wife's water.
  
• The hours pass without progress and the wife is paralyzed by the labor. This is where I accept the idea that God truly is all-knowing for if men were expected to give birth, his chosen race would cease to exist.
  
• After a long afternoon, it is decided that the wife is a good candidate for an early epidural. The anesthesiologist arrives, administers the drugs, and the world is a happy place.
• The night progresses and all is well until the wife begins to experience what's know as a "hot spot" from the epidural. She suffers hours of what I imagine is the worst pain she's ever encountered. Her mother helps nurse the pain, her sister is threatening a lawsuit, and I'm pacing the room praying to God the anesthesiologist doesn't show up so as not to be thrown in jail for attempted murder--I would have bludgeoned the man with a bedpan had I the opportunity. By the time he did show up, the pain had ceased and the world was again a happy place.
• Morning arrives, and the exhausted lot of us prepare for what Dr. C called "pushin' time." He arrived geared up for battle, but the delivery only lasted about 35 minutes--a blink compared to the labor. A friend of mine summed up the birth of her daughter "in one word: Fluids." My experience as a bystander was much the same. Seriously--no one should forfeit that much hydration in one sitting. It's just not right.
  
• Our son was delivered at 10:40 that morning. Soon after, I cut the umbilical cord, which again was not how I imagined it. It was tougher than I thought--more akin to cutting a tire. They checked his vitals, cleaned him up, and handed him over as if saying, "Here's the rest of your life, good luck with that!"

And that was it. We were soon moved to a post-delivery room where we settled in as a family for the first time. A mother, a father, and their child. As each day passes, the three-day event begins to lose it's sharpness. It becomes more rounded and singular. Even now I have trouble recalling how I felt and how we responded to the significance of what was happening. I do recall a few of the more acute feelings. I remember realizing that, prior to this moment, I only thought I loved my wife. I remember thinking that she was giving birth to a sasquatch when I saw the hair on the child's head. I remember being thankful that her mother was there when she needed her. I remember thinking that the damn nurse who wasn't as cute as she thought she was needed to find a new profession, and I remember thinking that it wasn't possible for me to be a part of the perfection I held in my arms. Then, when it was all said and done, I remember being terrified of what would happen next.

The wife, of course, has her story. I didn't work nearly as hard as she did, so my experience is lacking at best. Nonetheless, this is how I'll remember it. We've been home 1 week and 6 days, and in that time we've all managed to survive--in fact, we're doing pretty damn well. Jasper hasn't tried to run away, but that might be due to his lack of knee caps and motor skills. We're not eager to give him up or anything, so the future is lookin' bright.

To top it all off, the wife and I will celebrate 5 years of marriage this week. We figure baby J is gift enough, so we're not planning anything over the top. We got the Statement of Benefits from our insurance company last week, and trust me, he's the most expensive gift either of us will ever receive--we're talking new Mercedes, people. Nope--we'll forgo a leisure trip somewhere tropical, and settle for something a bit truer to our style. Old Crow Medicine Show is playing in Augusta, and it just so happens that I have tickets with our names all over 'em. I imagine we'll have a few beers, and since we weren't able to toast champagne at the hospital, we'll toast Miller High Life and sing along to "We're All in This Together." And if they play "Caroline," I'll squeeze the wife's hand and give her a wink when they sing my favorite part: "These are different days, and the pace of the world has us thinking there’s no time to turn the other way. Take my hand and we’ll walk on down the line. Though we may be a thousand miles apart, a brother and a sister have a single heart and the beat don’t stop for nothin’..."

nesting...

The term "nesting" has been thrown about often since it became obvious that the wife is expecting. "You'll know it's time when she starts nesting," people tell me. I know what they mean, but I can't fight back the vision of me coming home one day to find the wife perched atop the couch surrounded by sticks and straw. "I've nested," she'll say."Then it must be time," I'll reply. Another phrase I've learned is "raking straw." My secretary asked one afternoon if the wife had started "raking straw" yet. "I don't know," I replied, "she's never been much for yard work." I thought it was witty. "I'm serious," she said. "When she starts raking straw, that baby will be here in a blink."

I'm not qualified to say whether we've "nested" or not, but I'm pretty sure we've done everything necessary for Jasper to settle comfortably into his new digs. He'll have diapers, food, clothes, and a roof over his head. And speaking of roof over his head, let me mention at this point that the child will inhabit the BEST room in the house. Seriously--we're talking 250 square feet of prime real estate complete with fireplace, built-ins, wainscoting, and the largest bathroom in the house. This comes free of charge, of course, and is in addition to in-room dining, housekeeping, and free internet access, which makes me wonder why any of us ever decided to grow up and strike out our own. But back to the point, we've been in full prep mode these past two weeks, and we're ready for go-time. The wife has packed a bag, stocked the diaper bag, and latched in the car seat. She's washed onesies, bottles, and pacifiers, and has even typed a list of detailed instructions for her sister outlining the pre and post labor duties and responsibilities. I even took two days from work to clean, and I mean CLEAN, the house. I also cut the grass, string-trimmed, finished the spring planting, and all the other duties that befall the husband. We've done it all. The nest is built, and the straw is raked--we're as ready as we'll ever be.

My fear, though, is that Jasper truly is a product of his parents. I have no doubt that he's decided to enter the world on HIS terms and his terms alone. It's likely that he's decided that later is better, and when the time comes, the grass will, once again, need cutting, the house will need cleaning, and undoubtedly, we'll be far less prepared than we are now. The straw will need raking and the nest will be in disarray. We won't be prepared, but we won't be any less ready, and we watched Juno last week, so we know there's a big difference between the two...

best laid plans...

I’m a planner. I can’t help it—it’s just who I am. It’s like being born with wide feet or a weak chin. It annoys the wife, and I can certainly understand why. Our weekly trip to the grocery store requires a budget hearing and the drafting of two lists, one with expected daily meals and another detailing the items necessary to prepare expected daily meals (broken down into categories, of course, for maximum efficiency). All of this just to purchase $60 worth of groceries. So, needless to say, TERROR (laced with elation) was the inherent feeling that welled within me the day the wife deftly proclaimed, “I’m pregnant…I think.” She was holding a pregnancy test that apparently wasn’t worth the twenty freakin’ dollars it cost. It’s not that the reading wasn’t conclusive; it just wasn’t conclusive enough (for me at least).

Later that afternoon, she took a second test that all but spelled it out. Our fate was sealed with two pink lines; we were going to be parents. Not planned parents, mind you, but parents nonetheless. So thus began the whirlwind that has been our life these past 8 months. We’ve done what I expect all soon-to-be parents do—inform the grandparents, have sonograms, prepare the nursery, find daycare, start a blog (for the hip soon-to-be-parents), and pray to the parenting gods to bestow upon us the wisdom to raise a happy, healthy, and productive young citizen who will one day master the Universe. Actually, I’d settle for him merely surviving long enough to a.) scalp us cheap tickets to UGA home games, b.) let us crash at his apartment afterwards, and c.) provide us with a few years of cheap labor around the house. After all, the tax deduction is just icing on the cake when you consider the extended benefits a child provides. Fortunately, the gods have looked down on us with favor—so far at least. Our doctor visits have shown that little Jasper is right as rain (as his mother says). He has the right number of limbs, and seems to be progressing the way unborn babies should. “Perfect” was the word used by the doctor at our last visit, and that’s all we’ve hoped for these past 8 months. After all, you can’t “plan” for your child to be healthy. And when you can’t plan, you hope.

As Jasper grows up, I’ll let him make his own plans in life. I don’t have a set path for him to follow. I’ll let him blaze his own trail, and find his own answers to his own questions. It’s the best thing a father can do for his son. We didn’t plan to be parents, but we’ll try to do right by him. He’ll be fed, clothed, sheltered, and educated. He’ll have grandparents to spoil him, aunts and uncles to guide him, and a small patch of the great South that he can call home. It’s all a boy could hope for. But most importantly, and above all these things, he’ll be loved—that much he can certainly plan on.