Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end

Two months to the day I began unemployment, I received a call. It was over.
The next chapter takes place in Frankfort at Kentucky State University.
A portion of my campus interview couldn't have gone better if it were scripted. While taking a campus tour, I spotted a former St. Catharine student. We embraced and shared a quick moment. It was magical. Truly.
I'm joining a very talented communications team. I can't wait to learn from my new teammates. They're extremely intelligent and very welcoming.
The support I've received in the last two months has been incredible. It's been a lesson in how to raise others up, for sure. So many people have said or done or thought so many things that it would take an incredibly large spreadsheet to track it.
Someone who has seen me at my worst - and perhaps best - during this time has been my wife. Just when I think I can stop writing the list of reasons why she's incredible, she produces 17 new bullet points. It's utterly amazing. Thank you, Coury, for enduring with me (all while maintaining a perfect GPA and producing work that caused your education law professor to proclaim that you'd make a good lawyer). I am in awe of you.
To my St. Catharine College family, I miss you. There is so much more that could be said, but I miss you is the most succinct.
I'm thankful for the opportunity. Time to go to work.

We didn’t know what we didn’t know

Seven years ago today, we didn’t know what we didn’t know.

We didn’t know we’d actually have three children, especially after doing the math one night on your deck and realizing – oh God – we’d have to have them two years apart or less.

We didn’t know we’d get a little girl with curly hair or two little boys that look just like me.

We didn’t know that the girl would be all you – hair, personality, sense of humor.

We didn’t know about the lost sleep, the sacrifices, or the complexities of leaving the house.

We didn’t know we’d find the beautiful place we found to call home.

We didn’t know about the fire, or the renovation, or the despair.

We didn’t know that the happiness we felt was nothing compared to what we feel now.

Today, we know all those things.

Thank you all the happiness over the last seven years.

Thank you for waiting for me as I figured out where I wanted to live and what I wanted to do.

Thank you for being an optimist, for being happy, for making me laugh.

Thank you for setting such an example for our whole family – for going back to school, for being an incredible person, for having so much patience.

Thank you for seeing the best in me and talking me off the ledge when I see the worst.

Thank you for always showing your hand, never hiding your love.

Thank you for those three little people that keep following us around, demanding food and attention.

I love you. Happy anniversary. 

Living #SCCPride

As you might have heard in the last week or so, my employer filed suit against the U.S. Department of Education. For more on that, click here.
Simply put, St. Catharine College is fighting for financial aid for its students. It's a complicated and nuanced issue that is affecting the students at the college. I could dive in and try to explain, but that's not why I'm here (click here for a good explanation from President Gnadinger). I'm here to tell you why St. Catharine College has become like home to me.
This story begins a little over three years ago. I decided to leave a field I absolutely love (journalism) for public relations at St. Catharine College. The decision was difficult. I considered my co-workers as family and it's never easy leaving family. However, my family at home was burgeoning. My wife and I had a young daughter and a baby boy on the way. Time away from these three was harder and harder to accept. With hesitation, we decided that I'd leave the newspaper and begin work at St. Catharine College.
It didn't take long to love St. Catharine. I knew several people that worked here and my in-laws met here. It was very clear from day one that everyone employed at St. Catharine had the best interest of the students in mind. We are a small college, which gives us the opportunity to go out of our way to help students.
About nine months after I began work at St. Catharine, our home was ravaged by fire. I still very clearly remember my hands shaking as I tried to lock my office door after I received the call about the fire (for the full account, click here). That evening, while my family and I stood outside our home and wondered what was next, someone from St. Catharine came by with clothes. Our clothes, except what we were wearing, were ruined by the smoke. Then, not long after I returned to work, a gift was presented to my family from the employees of St. Catharine. Around the same time, the Dominican Sisters of Peace (who sponsor the college) presented a gift, as well. I was still very much the new guy on campus. The support was overwhelming and it has shaped my philosophy on helping people.
Over time, I started to make close friends on campus. People I would have lunch with, solve problems with and share stories from our lives with. Work was hard, but fun. I knew, and we all knew, that we had a friend on campus when we needed it.
In November, one of our co-workers needed a friend. Her daughter was born with a rare heart defect. The situation she and her family endured is any parent's worst nightmare (for a full account, click here). As this horrific scenario was unfolding, I learned all that I needed to know about the people at St. Catharine College. As my co-worker said so well, the people of St. Catharine (and everyone that prayed for the family) stormed heaven for this baby girl. It's hard to articulate the feeling on campus during that time and after our fire, but I've felt it and I know the love, generosity and compassion of these people now. If I had to endure a tragedy, I would want these people in my corner every time.
This place and these people are intertwined with my life. They care about each other and, most importantly, about the students of St. Catharine College. Please join us in support as we fight for the financial aid of our students. Listed below are many ways you can help. Please share our story and encourage others to help, as well.

• To join us for #SCCPride Day, a community event    
• To sign a petition in support of St. Catharine College
• To give a gift, no matter how small, to the #SCCpride GoFundMe campaign (started by a student to raise money for student scholarships)
• To follow us on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram and to share your own positive story about St. Catharine College using the hashtags #SCCpride and #PreachTheTruth

My wife, Aretha Franklin

Sometimes husbands or boyfriends might forget to consider the feelings of his wife or girlfriend. Or maybe it’s just me. But it’s something I do.

For instance, a painful one is the time I almost broke up with her over the phone while I was in a bar in Florida and she was in Kentucky, celebrating the passing of a board exam that would further her career. Why couldn’t I just talk to her without distraction, she asked. Why was the bar so important tonight?

The bar wasn’t that important, looking back. Obviously it wasn’t that important. But I wasn’t in the moment with her. I was 16 hours away and had forgotten about the weekend afternoons and evenings when I mindlessly played Playstation games while she wrestled with the months-long process of earning this new certification that would bring her personal satisfaction and higher earnings over her career. It would elevate her to an elite level as a teacher. It would certify that she was nationally qualified to teach.

I was in a bar in Florida because that was the dream I concocted when I was 18 and entering college. Five years later, I was in that bar in Florida. Living my dream. The dream, though, belonged to an 18-year-old. The guy with the amazing girlfriend who lived 16 hours away was ignoring the present to live in a dream created in the past.

We almost broke up while I was in Florida. I tried. My wife, though, persisted. Is this really what you want, she asked. Really?

It wasn’t.

Today is my wife’s last day of teaching. She’s moving up in her career and leaving the classroom behind. It’s an emotional time for her, but I haven’t really been in tune. This is my attempt at tuning in.

Just this morning I read a story about a husband who worked at a newspaper and insisted that his wife, a poet, stay home and write all day.

“I’m going to work and she’s going to write all day — when you are marrying a genius, that’s the deal,” he said, watching her on the swing. “It’s like marrying Aretha Franklin. She’s going to get to sing. If you hear Aretha Franklin sing — ”

“ — you understand what’s going on musically. Whoever was the first person to hear Aretha sing, understood. I just happened to be the first.”

My dream was to move around. The itinerant journalist. Place to place. Coast to coast. Florida. California. Maybe the Carolinas.

Then I moved to Florida and realized I couldn’t ask her to uproot. I couldn’t picture her there. I couldn’t ask her to leave a place she loved as I stumbled through career choices, not positive that this is what I was born to do when it was obvious that she knew what she was born to do.

Like the husband who married the genius, I recognized that it was important for her to teach and to teach in a place where she could be most effective. That place was where she already lived. I’ve said many times that I couldn’t ask her to uproot for Florida. I just couldn’t.

She would have, though. It’s amazing. She would have.

I was right. She has thrived. I’m not surprised, but I’m very proud. When I grow up, I want to make a difference like she does.

This week two remarkable things – things that some people never receive in a lifetime – happened to my wife.

A stranger stopped her in the optometrist’s office and doted on her. My niece talks about you all the time, she said. The lady then looked at me and said, You’re so lucky to have married her.

Well, yeah. I would have never tried to ruin that relationship.

That kind of interaction happens pretty frequently, really.

Then, yesterday she brought home a letter from a student. The student wrote “I love you” on three occasions in this letter. Can you imagine? Someone loves my wife for doing a great job. I’m pretty sure no one has ever said they loved me because of my work. I wouldn’t expect them to, but goodness. Wouldn’t it be nice?

To summarize, my wife is an Aretha Franklin. She is making the right move at the right time. She’ll be even better at what she does next. But this has to be tough for her. It does. She’s leaving behind a rock star career in the classroom for the unknown. It’s probably not as clear to her that she’ll continue to make her mark and be successful. People will still love her for doing her job well. That’s all unknown to her right now, but not to me. She’s about to cast a wider net and affect more students. While those students may not know to say I love you directly to her, they will.

I love you, Coury. I know this is hard. It will be until it’s not. But Emerson, Eliot and E. James are here for whatever you need. We have lots of love to share.

Wife appreciation day

Sunday, I think, was supposed to be the national day to appreciate your wife. Well, I found out late and haven't gotten around to it until now.
If you have a wife, you know that they should be appreciated every day. It's only right. But on special occasions, the appreciation should be cranked up a little, at least. Here's my feeble attempt at appreciating my wife.

Coco,

Thank you for many things. In no particular order:

• For being on a domestic mission since the fire. I think the washer, dryer and dishwasher have been running nearly constantly since Aug. 9. I could probably count on one hand how many times I have turned one of those machines on.
• For being the good cop to my bad cop routine. Not that you're soft, but our kids definitely need their mommy to keep things a little more fun and loose. Otherwise they would be sentenced to Daddy's Hardcore Training Camp for Kiddos. Only slightly kidding.
• For caring enough about your work to get stressed and feel responsibility. You know I've always admired the career you've built for yourself.
• For being my partner during the chaotic time pre- and post-fire. Having babies is chaotic enough. Dealing with the aftermath of a fire is enough. Combining the two is insane. I couldn't conquer insane without you.
• For knowing what a young Fitzgerald looks like and caring enough about literature that you talk to me about it every chance you get and swoon when your students are getting it.
• For listening when this post-fire business gets to be, well, shitty. And for venting right back.
• For just being a solid mom and person who doesn't do things you shouldn't do.

That's all I've got for right now. I'm five minutes late coming home and you're cooking spaghetti. I don't want to miss that.

Love you.

Personal contents inventory

We had at least 1,747 items in our house. That doesn’t include clothes, even. Doesn’t that seem like a really large number?

Today we received an inventory of items that the insurance would pay to replace. If you want to try a fun game, review a print out of every item in your house that now resides in a land fill or exists as a pile of ashes. Fun times!

I was beginning to think I had this situation emotionally whipped. I’ve seen the house as it has entered the demolition phase and I’ve adapted. I’m used to seeing a dumpster full of wall fragments in our yard. Today though, after going over this list, I’m a little out of sorts.

First of all, how much of that stuff can we live without? Half of it? A quarter? I’m in the mood to simplify but I acknowledge that we have to furnish a house for four people.

Secondly, we want to be good stewards with the money we receive to replace these items, as well as the money we’ve received from many, many generous people. Scrutinizing a list of 1,750 items while trying to be a good steward is a dizzying task. I’m happy that I don’t have to replace all of these items today.

Third, what didn’t make the list? I look through it and think of something here and there, but it’s incredibly difficult. I do know that the liquor bottles (especially a bottle of Blanton’s that was given to me as a wedding present) were not listed, as they were residing on a high shelf in a room that was hard to access after the fire.

Fourth, are things that we need to replace adequately priced on our inventory list? I’ve found a few things already that aren’t in line with the actual cost or are an incorrect item. I lost an iPad in the blaze, but my replacement is listed as an iPad mini. Nope. It was an iPad. That’s what I want to replace it (I’m not criticizing anyone here, as I’m sure it’s easy to make a mistake or two on a list with over 1,700 items. I’m also sure it’s easily fixed with a call or text to my adjuster).

My head is swimming today. Look at all this stuff. How can I be a good steward? What can we live without?

I know one thing: I could use a drink of the Blanton’s that was left off the list. You better believe I’ll be emailing that change over. 

The lighting, the switches and a wardrobe

"It's just stuff. It's just a house," I keep saying.
But it breaks your heart.
I know it could be worse. We have our health. We have each other. We've bonded as a family through this more than we would have without it. But still.
Demolition is set for tomorrow. It's exciting and sad. We're one day closer to a new house, but we have to say goodbye to our old house.
Nearly everyone that has walked through the aftermath can't believe everything has to go.
"Why can't this be saved?"
"It's a shame that has to go."
I've had the same thoughts. I could save a piece of the coffered ceiling, or some of the baseboard, or some piece of wood and just make something out of it later. That's where I stop.
If I save a piece of wood, how long will it sit in the garage until I throw it out? Attached to that piece of wood will come guilty feelings for not taking the time to make something out of it. Then, after it becomes clear that I'll never make anything out of it, it will produce guilty feelings for throwing it out.
The wood, the mirrors, the toys that seem fine (but are probably covered in things I wouldn't want my children putting in their mouths) are going. I'm ready to start over.
And, while I mention the urge to simplify, I find myself obsessing over how we'll change the house, the decorations, the furniture.
It's something I struggle with. I have an app on my phone that puts a vast library of images of homes and furnishings at my fingertips. I think I've finally come to terms with minimizing changes to the house. We'll keep it as close to the original as possible, with some minor changes to add convenience or storage.
Demolition starts tomorrow. Another step in life post-fire will begin. Eventually, we'll struggle to remember the way the house looked and felt, which is something to mourn about. We will, however, make memories in our new house.
It's just a house. It's just stuff. But it breaks your heart.

 

Our fire from Coury's perspective

From my Friday...

On Friday morning, Emerson cried out for "Daddy" at 5:15. This was after a series of sleepless nights and Jesse's middle of the night proclamation of "I'm exhausted!" 

As I took my shower that morning -- a shower in a bathroom designed perfectly for children, one in which I imagined our two children from the day we bought the house -- I thought to myself, "Tonight, we'll make popcorn, cuddle on the couch, and watch Emerson's new Curious George movie." We needed to relax together as a family. 

While I ate my breakfast, Moe -- the cat I've loved for 12 years, my only roommate for five of those -- meowed his reminder to feed him. I cursed myself for neglecting him since Eliot's birth, filled his water bowl, rubbed behind his ear, and smiled at his responsive purr. 

Finally, I set off for work: kissing my family goodbye, wishing everyone a good day, and walking through my living room and bedroom -- the rooms Jesse and I spent hours scraping and painting ourselves just three years ago -- and off I went. 

------

Teachers entered the building completely drenched. The janitor posted "Wet floor" signs all over the halls. But still, I slipped. While talking to a co worker, I slipped and fell straight on my rear and elbow. No one laughed, which told me it must've looked as bad as it felt. When I told the secretary, she filled out the paperwork with concern in her eyes. I had to keep reassuring her and the nurse that I was okay. 

-----

At lunch, I learned the newest word for "good" was "fire." We laughed at teen slang. Hope you feel "fire." That's so "fire." Have a "fire" weekend, someone said. 

Two minutes later, my principal and secretary came from behind me, touched my shoulder and said, "Coury. We just got a call that your house is on fire."

----

We pull up. There's smoke pouring from my ceiling. I see my daddy and collapse. 

Mom pulls up. I collapse again. 

I sit on the sidewalk, searching desperately for my partner, my best friend, the only other person who knows this feeling exactly. Finally, I see him, and I run. 

---

The rest is a blur. A nightmarish blur of faces and words and tears and smoke. Moe wrapped in a blanket on the porch. Firefighters gasping for breath on my yard. Smoke hurling out of Emerson's window. A blur, and yet, one full of vivid pictures I can still see and smell and taste and hear. 

---

But we are blessed. One week before, I could've been home alone with the kids. We are alive. 

And my God the support. From family to friends to coworkers to community members we don't even know, the support, both mentally and financially, makes me dumbfounded. You guys are amazing. Truly. Please keep praying for us as we continue on this journey. 

"What's your house number?"

At 11:37 a.m. on Friday, August 9, my house was filled with smoke. More than likely, a melted gas line was already causing a blow-torch effect that burned through our basement floor, charred our first floor hallway and caused our cat, Moe, to perish from smoke inhalation. 

At 11:37 a.m., my friend, the newspaper publisher, called me to ask my house number. 

"475."

"Your house is on fire."

***

Our son had been sleeping poorly through the night for the last several weeks. I rocked him back down at 10:30, 11, 2:30 and 4:15. At 5:15, my daughter called out. 

"Daddy?"

I woke up and trudged up the steps (the steps that the gas line would later render unsafe).

"My finger hurts."

After a kiss and my best act of persuasion since conning my wife into marriage, I went back downstairs. 

At 6:15, I woke up in my house as I know it for the last time. 

The morning was smooth: no tantrums, no tears. Mostly.

My daughter wore her rain boots. When I carried her through pouring rain to my mother-in-law's house, she cried. She wanted to run through the rain unassisted. So I turned around, walked back to the car, put her down and let her go. Tantrum averted. 

Soaked in my shirt and tie, I waited a few minutes inside the house to let the rain die down.

The drive to work was slow, my wipers going full blast. 

Still soaked from earlier, I ran through the parking lot in pouring rain to get to my office. I joked with a co-worker about my inability to read the weather forecast.

***

"Your house is on fire."

Rush out the door. Try to lock a door with shaky hands. Run to the car. 

The phone calls started coming.

I talked to my mother, my mother-in-law, my wife, my friend, my cousin. 

What could I have left on? A coffee pot? The stove? No. Coury unplugged the coffee pot. No one used the stove that morning.

Maybe it's minor, contained to a room. The cat will be fine. He'll be hiding under the bed, safe, in another room. The house will be fine.

I called the neighbor.

"How bad is it?"

"It's bad. There's smoke rolling out of your windows. The street is blocked off."

I parked at the old Dairy Freeze and ran to my house. My wife met me behind a fire truck. 

It was bad.

***

It's 4 a.m. on August 11. Coury is asleep beside me in a hotel room (thank you, Red Cross). Eliot is on the bed next to us. Emerson is having a sleepover at Ma Dee's house. 

We're displaced, but safe. Our house will, at the very least, be gutted, rewired, new plumbing, new heating and air. 

It will be at least a month before the first hammer is swung, I'm told. It will be at least six months before we move back in.

Obviously it could be worse. The scenarios are too many and too painful to even write down. We are safe.

***

We live in an amazing place full of generous people. I am floored by the offers to help, the donations, the food, the show of concern. Our phones haven't stopped since 11:37 a.m. on August 9. I could never say thank you enough. I promise we will pay it forward.

What does it mean to be a dad?

That's a good question. I'm glad I asked myself.

Tonight, while folding three loads of laundry at the dining room table, I started thinking about dad-like things I had done this weekend. I was going to make it a Facebook status, but there were too many things.

It meant replacing the batteries in a hide-and-seek rabbit, changing a mushy diaper, buying fruit and milk and toys at the grocery.

It meant not buying all the toys, holding a baby girl with a boo-boo in my arms while she lay her head on my shoulder, it meant singing "Jump" by Patty Shukla on repeat while my daughter jumped on her bed, my bed and the guest bed.

It also meant singing the Barney theme song and "Amazing Grace" on demand for a demanding daughter, it meant sharing every meal with my toddler because it's just more fun to eat off Daddy's plate and it meant playing peek-a-boo while folding aforementioned laundry.

It meant falling asleep after baby's bed time because you're tired and you better believe the clock is ticking once she's down.

It meant waking from a dead sleep to a cry of 'Mommy!' at 5:30 a.m. It meant staying in bed until 6:44 a.m. while my family lay beside me. It meant cooking bacon and chocolate chip pancakes for two very appreciative girls.

It meant sneaking off for an hour of work and wishing I was with those girls. It meant coaxing and prompting a 19-month-old to say her own name (a mouthful for people decades older than her) and marveling at what sounded like said 19-month-old counting to nine (look, I know I heard six, seven, eight).

It meant trying to explain that no, we don't jump on the cat because it hurts the cat. It meant saying, for the 457th time, please crawl on the couch, don't run. It meant staying away from the computer until nap and bed times because otherwise it meant fighting a toddler who doesn't understand that computers aren't just for Patty Shukla videos.

It meant listening to my (pregnant) wife cry in the other room because she was so sad from the recent school shooting. It meant looking at the pictures of the children that died and seeing that they aren't much older than my daughter. It meant discussing what my wife, a teacher, would do if a school shooting occurred. It meant telling her, please, if something were to happen, protect yourself and my unborn baby.

It meant finally taking a minute to write to my daughter.

Name change

You know how sometimes you have a baby, name it at the last minute, then decide a few months later you want to change the name?

No? Well, I feel sheepish.

As you may have noticed, Coffee Fueled Ambition has now become Sappy Dad.

Reasons for the change are as follows:

1. This blog is no longer coffee-fueled, nor ambitious. Coffee doesn't even touch my sleep debt anymore, even though I installed the IV weeks ago. Ambition is for losers, you well-rested, overachieving losers.

2. Several folks have told me how I "really express myself" on this blog, so I decided to tap into the sappy. You'll be getting more sap than a maple tree spigot now. Plus Sarcastic Dad and Snarky Dad were already taken.

3. Since this blog is about being Dad-ish, I wanted the title to be more Dad-ish. You know, logic and whatnot.

There you go. Reasons for changing your baby's, er, blog's name.

Now, I wonder how much of a hassle it would be to change Emerson to Esmeralda without anyone noticing?

The good and the bad

Like I wrote in the last post, things do change. After five weeks of living it, here are my observations.

• You are more, and less, patient than you ever thought you could be. For example, you can change a diaper in a sleepy stupor while a baby squirms and screams at you. Or, you lose your cool and ask, expecting a reply, why the baby doesn’t realize you have to get up and work in the morning.

• You think about money, a lot. At least I do. Since Emerson was born, I’ve started taking my lunch to work. In my mind, I’m saving at least $100 a month that I can spend on her or her future. After a meal at our favorite sushi restaurant last night, Coury and I both remarked on how much money we just spent on one meal. Skipping that meal could go towards the college fund (that we are not going to tell our daughter about, so she’ll work hard to get some scholarships!).

• You realize how little sleep you need to function. Yep, I figured I would be tired. After a while though, it just seems normal to be this tired. I think one day I’ll look back and realize how tired I really am. The best part is that you just keep going, like a functioning zombie.

• Everything else falls away. My yard could be three feet tall, but it wouldn’t matter if my daughter needed me. The yard has gotten unruly a few times lately, and the house isn’t something you would see in a magazine, but my priority is being cared for.

• No matter where you are, you’d rather be hanging out with baby. I could be winning the Super Bowl and I’d rather be at home with baby. It’s amazing that people maintain their lives after having a child. Who wouldn’t want to be at home with such a cutie pie? The reality of providing for your family is a strong motivation, as well.

That’s all I’ve got right now. I’ve had several topics in mind in the last five weeks that have been forgotten, but I’m sure they’ll come to me.

The One-Handed Typist

It only took five weeks.

I'm holding a sleepy, yet squirmy, little bundle while trying for a new blog post.

We are all doing wonderfully.

As everyone said, everything changes. In ways you would expect, and not.

Poop isn't a big deal. Projectile vomit is old hat. Two hour stretches of sleep are embraced.

Blogs (and snapping photos), however, take a backseat to being a dad.

I'll put out more pictures and posts soon. Right now I've got my hands full with a special little girl.

May days

It may be a money pit, but we love it.


Today I did a very grown-up thing. I got a quote to up my homeowners’ insurance policy (Boring, I know. Hang in there for a minute).

The one we have is fine; it would cover the amount we paid for our house. The only problem is, they don’t make houses like they used to. It cost close to three times the amount we paid for our house to rebuild it.

Anyhow, the act of insurance shopping made me think about the very quick year we’ve spent in our house.

Over breakfast, where all the monumental conversations happen (grrrr…pass cereal…bleh…milk…coffee…must have…geh), I mentioned to Coury that it had almost been one year since our big purchase.

Being the sage she is (even with the pregnant brain!), she noted that our last three May’s have been big as life phases go.

Turns out, the ole pregnant brain sage is right.

Two May’s ago, we made a legal and spiritual commitment to be together (Trust me, the law has to be involved for me to commit. I moved over 10 times in two years once).

Last May, we bought the house we plan to spend the next 30 or more years dumping money into. In fact, we’ve already dumped a bunch of money into it.

This May (or possibly late April, we'll pretend it's May regardless), we’ll have our first child.

The guy that changes long-term goals on a daily basis made three monumental life decisions in three consecutive May’s. Peter Pan did, indeed, grow up.

Two of those life milestones caused me to lose sleep. Marrying Coury was not one of them.

The night before we signed the paperwork for the loan on our current house (we had a second house we were trying to sell at the time), I lay in bed and sweated.

How could we afford two houses at once? More importantly, how could we afford to let this house pass by?

I woke up worried several times that night. I was still uptight the next morning at signing time.

Somehow, though, we made it work.

This morning, I woke up 20 minutes before my alarm went off. Instead of slipping back to sleep, I realized that continuous rest was about to become ancient history.

It’s frightening, really. The silence of our big house is about to be interrupted, pierced by another human.

I daydream a lot about what the baby will look like, or how it will act, or how I will feel with no sleep.

Sometimes, I’ll daydream far into the future. Will Emerson be OK mentally and physically? Will I be resented for the things that I think are best for Emerson (Math is where it’s at, Dad. English majors are so 2008)? Does watching TV actually make me dumber (sorry, unrelated)?

Then I remember that my wife has awesome genes, and I hope that all of the amazing qualities that I see in her translate over to our first-born.

Like I said in a previous post, I have no idea what to expect.

The things I daydream about, terrifying or otherwise, indicate that next May we’ll still be very happy, celebrating Emerson’s first birthday.

Yep, we do it big May. One milestone at a time.

Nitpick

When my wife is at fault, or even if I perceive that she is, I am quick to let her know.

Why didn’t she pick her underwear off the chandelier (oh wait, that was me)? Why are all these dishes still in the sink after 13 days (duh, you again)? Who sprinkled all these ponytail holders about the house? (That last one is all hers.)

I tend to put blame on her even when I shouldn’t.

In our old house, we shared a bathroom. If it started getting messy, it was her fault.
For a while, we shared a bathroom in our new house. The same rules applied.

When I got tired of walking through hair spray clouds, I moved myself to the upstairs bathroom.

This, I thought, would be the key to keeping a clean restroom. No more wife to dirty up the place.

A few months have passed since.

Hers is straight, neat, and nothing in sight that would make a garbage man cringe.
Mine, however, looks like the inside of a diaper.

Clothes are piled up and overflowing out of the hamper. Toothpaste film coats the sink bowl like flour. The tile floor resembles the inside of a dirt floor shanty.

One day, while on a field trip to the wife’s bathroom, I realized who was actually the neater spouse. (Note: it was not me.)

While I’m a nitpicker, Coury keeps her mouth shut and I’m none the wiser.

I’m pretty sure I could mop our carpet with straight bleach for months and she wouldn’t say a word. She would just smile, shake her pretty head, and walk over the bleached out, sopping wet, mildewy carpet.

Sometimes, though, she slips. Take today for instance.

Since early in my wife’s pregnancy, I’ve asked her if she’s OK about 3.5 million times a day. Every moan, grunt or waddle is noticed and inquired about. Every ailment is followed up minutes later with another, ‘Is everything OK?’

With the possibility of labor looming, I’ve gone into super alert mode. Inquiries have gone up 300 percent in the last two weeks.

To my wife’s credit, she’s never acknowledged that it bugged her.

Today, I joked that once she had the baby, I would no longer ask her 500 times a minute if she were OK. The constant alert would be dropped and transferred to the new house guest.

She laughed a little too hard, in a way that let me know it had been grating on her. She elaborated a little, expressing a few thoughts that probably aren’t appropriate here.

So I promised to stop.

Water broke? Nary a word or acknowledgement. Feels like the baby is punching your cervix? Sorry, I’ve used up all my ‘are you OK’s?’ The baby sat on your bladder and caused you to pee your pants as we sat in church? I’m pretending not to notice.

Wait, I gotta go. I think I heard my wife mumble under her breath.

Ode.

She turned down Jesus to raise a family. That's confidence, folks.


One Christmas, I took the cheapskate route and gave my wife (then girlfriend) my version of the story of us. The following is the last installment of that body of work.


I hope I’m good at raising kids one day, you said out of nowhere.

Who knows what spawned the thought? Maybe memories from a few hours earlier when you were playing with your three-year-old niece.

There is no doubt you’ll be a good mother. Absolutely. No. Doubt.

I’ve never met a child who didn’t grin unbearably after a little attention from you. Not a single one.

You teach your niece with ease. You laugh with her, fit in with her, relate to her with grace. Absolute grace.

Though you have career ambitions and energy to give to other people’s children, you say you were born to be a mother. Not in a way that suggests you have no other talents, in a way that suggests it will be your ultimate talent. Your masterpiece.

I’m looking forward to watching you and helping you raise children if we are so lucky. It’s always been one of the deal makers for me: I can picture you as a mother to my children, as by my side when I’m 90-years-old. You’ll make a great buddy at the senior center, no doubt.

And as your grandmother brought you great sadness when she died, you will do the same for your grandchildren, nieces and nephews. You are one of those people. You’re a favorite to many, including me.

Just like I suspect your Mama Jo did, I think you want it to be like that. You know how to be the favorite for those you really favor. You know the quick way in and you endure. If you like someone, they’re gonna be all right.

You love hard. You give hard. You feel hard.

You are soaked in life and especially love. You may possibly be love’s number one fan, its biggest advocate in the face of cynicism.

Besides all those great things, you make people better.

They laugh. They loosen up. They love.

It’s simple but it wasn’t like that before I met you. Sometimes it takes someone showing you how to be shamelessly silly.

So my kids, should they ever come to be, are lucky. They don’t even know it yet, but they’re so far ahead of other kids that it’s unfair.

They will have a mother who is a one-of-a-kind friend, stern but fair, smart but doesn’t put on heirs (ever), the best teacher I’ve ever met, a strong role model with a clear idea of what’s right and wrong, and one of the funniest, most fun to be around people you will ever meet.

She speaks her mind yet doesn’t offend. She communicates yet gives space.

If she loves you, she will stick up for you. She constantly defends her 20-pound, balding house cat from my creative insults. Her love ignores aesthetics. She holds him tight, calls for him when he’s not near, and endures all his fatness and shedding.

To answer your out-of-the-blue question about parenting, absolutely yes. If you aren’t a good mother, there are no good mothers.

Stealing from the church

Breast milk?!? What part of 'soy chai latte' don't you understand?


One of the most commonly asked questions I get lately is this: Are you ready for the baby?

This question is always followed by big smiles.

I think I’ve deflated a few of those smiles by answering, “I have no idea.”

It’s small talk, I get it.

In the most literal sense of that question, I don’t know if I’m ready for the baby or not. I’ve never welcomed a baby into my home before. It may be a lousy houseguest (hey, who said you could poop on the couch?).

I’m excited about the baby. I’m also kind of stressed.

I’ve never had to operate under severe sleep deprivation (this could get ugly). I’ve never been in charge of making sure a baby, a brand new human, is OK at all hours of the day and night.

I’d like to be a good mathematician or scientist. However, I know that I am not. Good intentions probably won’t change that.

The same goes for parenting. I have great intentions. That doesn’t mean I won’t fall on my face trying.

I may be the world’s worst baby holder (I prefer Mozart whilst you pack me up and down the steps, sir). The baby may find my breath offensive (Jelly beans again? You disgust me). What if the baby prefers steamed milk and lox for breakfast? How will I know?

All these anxieties are smoothed over because I know my wife was born to do this. I know it because she said it’s true.

Here’s a funny tidbit about my wife, the would-be nun.

She’s had three separate members of the clergy approach her about becoming a nun.

She’s always flattered, but, obviously, she’s always turned down their religious advances.

The last person to approach her about this (a nun) submitted a handwritten letter requesting that my wife consider joining the clergy.

My wife handled it gracefully, telling the nun that she felt she was born to be a mother. Somewhere, far away, I rejoiced without knowing why.

So while I can answer the small talk question with an “I don’t know,” I have confidence in my wife.

I respect my wife. I’m happy to say that she out earns me two-to-one. I don’t feel like less than a man by this (if I did, I would have to come to terms with living on hot dogs and Ramen noodles).

My wife deserves everything that comes her way. She’s a brilliant, caring teacher. She makes a difference in the world, and looks good while doing it.

So while I pine away, squirming in my seat over things I never considered to worry about before, I take solace in knowing that my wife has got this.

She may not admit as much, but I know her. She does have this.

I’ll be happy to play the supporting role, burping and changing and cooing into the dawn.

Intro.

Meet the happy couple.

See the hot one on the right? Yep, that's my wife.

Somehow I bamboozled her into marrying me. Some may wonder how. Well, I'll tell you.

I met her in a bar. Yep. A bar. Romantic? Hardly.

We met twice in a bar, actually. The first time I met her, I thought she was pretty hot (duh).

She was pretty friendly, too. If I didn't have my head stuck inside a beer bottle, I probably would have realized all that friendliness was actually her hitting on me. Ahem.

She emailed me a few times after that night in the bar. I was oblivious.

She was out of my league, older than me, obviously not interested.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

A year passed. I got over a relationship. I met some girls. Those girls were pretty cool, but something was missing. Wasn't sure what, though.

I came back to town. A little more clear-headed. A little more mature. A little more confident.

I walked into a bar, what would turn out to be my favorite bar, ever. She was there.

I smiled. She smiled. I took a seat at the bar, indifferent.

She came over, we talked. We talked for a looooong time.

The next day, an email. This time, I wasn't oblivious. This time I knew.

Plans were made. How about Friday? At the bar? Yes.

Want to know how I got the girl? It's easy. I lied.

Wait, I didn't lie. I just exaggerated, a little.

She mentioned she liked plays. I said I loved plays. She took me seriously and invited me to one. Gulp.

I went to the play. It wasn't bad (I didn't love it.)

After the play, we walked through a bookstore. We held hands, but then she let go. Bummer.

At the end of the date, she said, 'This was the perfect date.' My mouth? Agape.

That's how you get the girl, kids. You lie.