Life & Other Profanities

Sitting beside Kelly's head facing a large blue curtain was how I met both of my sons. It was in the exact same room, undergoing the same procedure, having just come from the same triage room in which we were first told of the circumstances of Rhys' impending birth. The hallway was the same hallway. The smells were the same. I was just as nervous and confused; just as scared. In the wake of Rhys' birth, no one was confused or alarmed by my general quietness and displays of sadness. That was not the case when I displayed those same feelings after Adryn's birth. There was a common refrain from others telling me how excited I should be or how wonderful all of this was, and the reel that keep playing in my head was the night we were told we had lost Rhys' twin just a few months after finding out our IVF procedure had been successful.

We were looking forward to that new year. We were finally pregnant, with two, the shock and joy of which was lost on neither of us. The entire day following we sat in a sort of stunned silence. We were excited but it had quickly dawned on us the amount of work and money two at the same time was going to cost. And after all of the needles and ultrasounds and doctor visits we had undergone to get there, even in spite of those things, we were happy. Which made sitting in the ultrasound room with the ultrasound tech taking pictures of what we had assumed would be two healthy growing babies all the more difficult and heart-wrenching.  It was painfully obvious something was wrong, painfully obvious that one baby was big with arms and legs flailing and the other wasn't. There wasn't any joy in that room. I saw the healthy one, I watched it move, I knew it was there but the only thing I felt was the empty stillness of the other one. And it's not like I didn't try to be happy. After I realized what was happening and allowed myself to say it in my head I tried to look at the other one and search for some relief or happiness or something in the situation that would make it feel better, but it never came. It still doesn't.

In the weeks that followed, replaying that moment in my mind, I spent a great deal of time dwelling on my feelings in that room, trying to justify and rationalize my inability to feel happy. As if this was something I could run probabilities on and explain with some mathematical equation. That exercise eventually wore itself out thanks, in part, to choosing to listen to my feelings rather than be ashamed by or rationalize them. At that moment, in that room, happiness couldn't be the important part of my experience. The important part was rooted in sadness watching one baby punch and kick and roll while the other one didn't. That place of sadness brought healing and growth.

The similarities and differences of Adryn and Rhys' births sit as starkly now in my memory as they did the day they happened. Until I heard him cry on the other side of that blue sheet in the operating room I couldn't fully believe that Adryn was going to arrive without problems. Something had to go wrong, that's how these things worked, but he came; loudly and bloated, he came. When Rhys was born the room was full of medical alarms and silence. Adryn managed to enter life in a relatively routine c-section, Rhys's was rushed. I followed Adryn into the recovery room to help clean him up a little for Kelly before she was closed up and moved over to join us and I followed Rhys down a different hallway into another room where even more doctors and nurses continued to work on him for hours. We brought Adryn home with us and we made a decision to take Rhys off of life support so we could hold him while he died. When I met Rhys, it was heavy and painful, just like the day we found out his twin hadn't survived. When I met Adryn it was joyous and still heavy and still painful. Most people aren't interested in hearing that, but there it is.

I don't have a problem with happiness in theory. I categorize it, generally, as a helpful and productive thing. There is, however, a part of me that is both exhausted and confused by the notion that happiness embodies the pinnacle of human experience, that we should always want and strive to exist in a state of happiness. There are myriad theories, ideologies, and theologies that pedal those wares and I've never been able to be anything more than skeptical in those types of conversations. This is not to say that I dislike happiness or happy people or am unable to celebrate my own joy and that of others, it's just always hit me as artificial. I don't like that life gets boiled down to a pursuit of happiness. Doesn't living mean we try to be present in all moments of life?

In my experience, all of this emotion stuff is indicative of a culture that is incredibly insecure about anything that isn't easy and outright hostile towards things that challenge, upset or even dare to change the status-quo of happy is good and sad is bad. Sad equals depression. Sad equals a deficiency in one's basic ability to be a human. Sad means you're not trying hard enough to see the good in life or not thankful enough for the blessings in one's life. Again, I think happiness is a helpful thing. But so is sadness and anger and even fear. I think we do ourselves a huge disservice when we seek to exist in a single state of emotional being. When happiness is the only way we allow ourselves to approach the world we miss a great deal of the actual stuff of life going on around us.

I believe, wholeheartedly that humans are spiritual beings and by that I mean we derive meaning from the events of life. We are driven by more than instinct. There is passion and heartache and love; there is sharing and learning; there is loss and gain; there is hate and death and pain and hurt; all of which is felt and remembered and passed on in the stories we tell and the lives we live. The holidays have come and gone. They were busy. They were full. They were colored by the memories and experiences of a happy healthy son who, seemingly over night, became very vocal and interested in the world around him. And they were colored by a son who died. Both of whom continue to color the experience of life and both of whom continue to teach me more about myself and the world around me. In the end, I've learned that it requires far more energy and effort to act happy than to live my feelings honestly. I'm sad that makes some people uncomfortable and I'm learning to be okay with that.

Repetitive Stress Injuries

The Story genetic structure is fraught with chromosomes that wrote a certain weakness of joints into my DNA. Ankles that doth protest mightily at the smallest sign of acceleration beyond anything approaching a brisk walk. Knees that enjoy randomly shooting pain into the surrounding areas because they're just generally assholes. Elbows that suffer morning aches from what I can only assume is prolonged and immobile sleep positions. I basically hit the elderly stage of joint fitness at the ripe old age of 20. Munch has compounded this problem with his incessant need to be carried. Of late, this has manifested in a series of new and varied aches and pains that I would like to chalk up to old age but which I know better.

One day in particular he was feeling especially insecure about anything not involving my arms fully and securely holding him in place against my chest. Things began happening. First, my elbow joint nerves started sending gentle but persistent messages to my brain that I am attempting a strenuous activity (read: any activity at all). Second, a very specific spot in the middle of my back began getting a tad peeved with me. About 15 minutes into holding and walking and gently bouncing, the nerves stepped up the intensity of their messages to the brain center and both elbow and back began exploring a symphony of pain that slowly crescendoed into other joints and tissues. This is about the time my shoulder wanted to be noticed by simulating the feeling of being on fire. Eventually this all crystallized in some sort of pain overload that left my right arm screaming in agony. My right arm is the only useful appendage I have. It is the only appendage with any kind of positive outlook on life. Without my right arm, my left arm and both legs would have given up on living years ago. So, of course, I'm totally fucked.

Now that my right arm was out of commission I had to turn to old lefty. My left arm has basically served as a prop on my torso primarily for aesthetic appeal. If my left arm were to fall off it would only affect me so long as it took my body to come to terms with its new center of gravity. It is less than useless. It cannot throw a ball. It cannot write in any legible fashion. It cannot handle utensils in a manner that would give anyone the impression that I've ever consumed food or liquids before. It cannot be relied upon to offer an adequate handshake. Things my left arm can do: Point in a general direction.

Some diligent and in-depth internet sleuthing has turned up some of the most common causes of RSI:

• The overuse of muscles in our hands, wrists, arms, shoulders, neck, and back are linked to RSI symptoms.
• The area is affected by repeated actions, which are usually preformed on a daily basis over long periods of time.
• The repetitive actions are done in a cold place.
• The individual has to use vibrating equipment.
• Forceful movements are involved.
• Workstations are poorly organized.
• Equipment is badly designed.
• The individual commonly adopts an awkward posture.
• There are not enough rest breaks.

"Work shouldn't hurt," how quaint.

Hahahahhaaahhahahahaha. I'm especially fond of "there are not enough rest breaks." This is not a list of common causes of RSI, this is a list of what you do when taking care of a young baby. The only other thing I can think about after reading this is how people with actual diagnosed RSI conditions actually manage to function in daily life. Additionally, all of the info out there on baby-caused injuries is geared towards mothers who have just given birth. Because only women take care of babies. Regardless, the suggestions are laughably complex or completely ridiculous because the reality is hold him how he wants (which tends to be to one side over the shoulder) or live with a squirming screaming sack of dead weight. No one seems to have any creative advice about what to do once said injuries have set in. Thusly, I'm subsisting on a steady diet of acetaminophen and ibuprofen.

The Most Exhausting Thing I've Ever Done

Wondering why I look so damn tired.

I live in squalor. I don't bathe a lot. Kelly has to tell me when I smell bad enough to shower. I miss meals. I forget whole hours. I wear the same clothes day in and day out until such time as they are puked on, pissed on, or shit on. I no longer glance in the mirror to check the state of my hair and whether or not a hat would be appropriate when leaving the house. And even if I wanted to care about these things, I would not have the energy to care about these things. It is way more helpful and economical at this point to spend my energy doing other things, like sizing up when would be a good time to try and take a shit. I also spend a fair amount of the day getting really excited about flatulence. I also laugh at flatulence, like a two-year-old would laugh at flatulence. Also burps. While burps are not as funny as farts, they are equally praiseworthy. I've basically defaulted to throwing a goddamn party anytime Munch farts, burps, or poops. I do not throw a party for pissing and puking, both of which are done frequently on me and neither of which are appreciated. He does, however, get bonus points for surprisingly loud adult-like farts.

Life, in many ways, has become an experiment in energy conservation and efficiency. However, and here's the thing, and why being a stay-at-home parent is so exhausting, nothing ever goes to plan. And so, all of the planning to conserve energy and be efficient is thrown out the window when Munch spends the first hour and a half of our time alone alternating between puking all over himself and me and producing impossibly large amounts of poop that end up on the outside of his diaper and all over his clothes.You cannot win these battles, these things aren't even battles. It's just you, trying to keep the sinking ship afloat and hoping that your partner arrives home a bit early so you can have 10 minutes of precious silence...on the toilet...or somewhere else in the house that is quiet.

But magical things are happening too. I would have never imagined that Adryn would have wired into his DNA the exact same sneeze as his mother. It's a sneeze, they just happen, there's no genetic coding for this stuff, right? But apparently there's something because they both have the same oddly stifled sounding sneeze. I've tried to tell Kelly for years that sneezing would be so much more satisfying if she just let it all out, convinced that she was stifling her sneezes on purpose. Apparently she wasn't lying when she said that's just how she sneezes because he sneezes the exact same way. They wake up the same way too: slow, methodical, sloth-like. Sudden movement is abhorred and bright lights are anathema.

Wonderfully crooked smile.

And he smiles crooked, like me. That something I've spent twenty-some years noticing and sometimes hating about myself is now reflected back at me in his gloriously unfettered reaction to a raspberry I'm blowing in front of his face makes that crooked smile a wonderfully beautiful thing. I hope he hears me one day when I tell him that.

There's this inexorable march of change taking place that I'm fortunate enough to be witnessing and can appreciate when not knee deep in the blur of a long day. Slowly but surely there's a personality emerging, one that seems intent on being deliberate with everything that he does. And as all of this happens there are still moments when I can't help but wonder what this would have been like with Rhys. What little bits of Kelly and me he would have carried. There is, at times, this odd tension between enjoying and loving and caring for Adryn and still having to fight for the memory of Rhys that people often overlook or dismiss. 12 hours of life is still life. And while Adryn can certainly pass a lot of life in the form of gas, feces, and urine in 12 hours, Rhys did some living too.

So there's this physical exhaustion, for sure. But I guess I didn't anticipate the added emotional exhaustion as we continue to get further from Rhys' birth and death and the intervening time begins to fill more and more with Adryn's wonderful little life. It's funny because, in our little household, Rhys is a daily fixture of our conversations and life together. He's never not there. He's a part of the fabric that makes us a family. And while the majority of my memories of him are painful and full of bitter sadness there's never a moment I've wanted to give them up or put them away only to be taken out once a year on his birthday. Because he has a birthday. He breathed. He held my finger. He lived. Just like Adryn; just like his brother.

The days can be long, but they're still days. And even though I've never felt more like someone was sucking the marrow out of my bones, it's something special. Because that crooked smile. Because those sneezes. Because I'm acutely aware that each day he gets closer to finally figuring out how to functionally put his fingers in his mouth and not his eyes. He's growing and I'm feeling a little less exhausted everyday.

Problem-Solving Skills

I'm indulging a little pre-baby reminisce because sometimes it's nice to remember my son while he was in utero and not constantly puking on me. Some months ago Kelly and I purchased a new garage door to replace an old wood door that was in the middle of falling apart. I could put my foot through it with minimal effort so off to Kelly's favorite place on Earth.

We pulled into the pick-up yard at Menard's in our bright red Prius, convinced we were going to be able to transport home a 16 1/2 foot garage door. The two dudes helping us, let's call them Jacques and Cousteau, looked at us like we were insane. We were, but damnit if we weren't going to make this work. Jacques immediately sent Cousteau off to track down invoices to confirm they were handing us the correct garage door. Clearly there was a pecking order. Roughly 15 minutes later Cousteau returns and Jacques grabs the invoice and begins directing him on the forklift. I pulled the Prius up to the door, turned off the car, and got out to see a pair of incredulous faces staring back at me. Jacques and Cousteau were not believers. It was going to feel really good when it worked.

I set to work transforming the cabin of the Prius into a giant flat bed truck. Kelly began inspecting the situation. You could literally see all of the equations and angles in the air around her head as she's sizing up space and playing Tetris with the three boxes she's working with. This is her moment, she will have many more. My menial task complete, we were ready. Jacques and Cousteau were nice enough to carry the boxes into the hatch of the car and I helped guide them in from the front passenger door. The first box (the parts and instruction box) fit like a glove. In my excitement I teasingly exclaimed to Jacques and Cousteau, "And you thought we wouldn't make it fit! Look at that. Plenty of room. This is going to be cake." They were not appropriately conciliatory in their demeanor or tone...there was a reason for that: the next boxes were the ones with the actual garage doors in them.

Yep. The actual door panels hung a solid 6 feet out the
back of the hatch. NBD.

As they lift the first box of panels into the car I can immediately spot the problem. This, I will add, is progress when it comes to mine own cultivation of better problem-solving skills . The next part, coming up with a solution is where the wheels tend to come off the wagon for me. When left to my own devices my solutions are either non-existent or terrible. Jacques and Cousteau slid the box up flat on the parts box. As they set it down and the weight of the panels settled they bent like melting glass and rested on the ground. My heart sank. I was not expecting this. I was flummoxed. I had never been more out of my league. Who takes a Prius into a lumber yard and expects to haul a garage door home?! I began to form my apology in my head, "Sorry about this guys, clearly this isn't going to work. We'll have to come back when we can borrow a friend's truck or something," when, from the back of the car came a voice. Confident, clear, matter-of-fact, "Just turn it up on it's edge." Oh right Kelly, like just turning it on it's edge is going to fix the 6 feet of door that's still hanging out the back, good one. Sometimes it's like you can't just admit defeat and...oh, huh, that seems to have done the trick. I'm used to this feeling. Kelly does this to me all of the time. Jacques and Cousteau, on the other hand, this is there job and they done got schooled.

The drive home was uneventful save a few stares from other motorists afraid whatever was in our car was going to come sliding out into the front of their vehicles. Problem number two was glossed over on the drive home by yours truly assuming that I would be able to just carry the panels into the garage on my own. No dice. Kelly being pregnant meant no help from her so I was left to my own imagination...I began taking inventory of things in the garage. The gears in my mind sort of clunked for a minute, kind of like the sound of an engine knock just after the transmission drops while driving down the road. The only thing, ONLY THING, I could come up with was unstrap everything and slam the accelerator through the floor board in hope that the garage door would slide out the back hatch. It was a really terrible idea so I decided not to share.

Kelly spots a Tonka truck amidst the wall of stuff she's currently stashing in the garage until such time as she has a deaf and hard of hearing preschool classroom again. This is her solution, a child's toy. I would have looked at the Tonka truck and thought, "Kelly would be so disappointed if I tried to use that." See?! This is what I'm talking about. I have no feel for this problem-solving stuff. I have two gears in this department: brute force (which, surprisingly, I lack in spades) or panic. There's a finesse to this stuff, a certain creativity that I've never quite grasped. The French call it je nais se quoi. That's a thing. Wait, maybe this is like predestination? Predisposition? Predetermined? Predilection? Fuck, I don't know what it's called. Let's just boilerplate this and say I suck at solving problems. It's probably genetic. Thanks mom and dad.

Mission accomplished you bad-ass little Tonka truck.

The Not Doing

A dear friend recently shared with me some not so great news and, as these things so often do, set my head and heart cogs a-turnin'. It's completely cliche and somewhat paternalistic to say that losing a child changes you. Everything changes us. That's life. It moves and shifts and in the middle of it all we're trying to figure out what to do with it. This blog has been my way of sharing pieces of my own path through all of this. The journey of trying to get pregnant. Losing Rhys. My transition out of Christianity and into Taoism. The birth of Adryn. And it's all been a bit of a rambling adventure, much like this post. While we were talking my friend said something that I felt in my bones, "I can't find meaning in this." I've heard that or something similar frequently over the last year working as a chaplain on an Oncology unit. Sometimes it's exhaustion, sometimes it's fear, sometimes it's a deeply honest assessment of reality.

There's a concept in Taoist philosophical practice called Wu Wei. It means non-action or actionless action. It's the place where action and being flow freely and yet remain balanced with the world. Spontaneous, compassionate, and simplistic, it is a state of naturalness that is the result of accepting the most honest depiction of ourselves and the world around us and not, as is so often the urge, as we might want them to be. I never really made much sense of it until I was sitting in the hospital recovery room with Kelly the night Rhys died. I wanted to rage and fight and push back against what had happened that day. I wanted to stand up and say no, this is not right, these things should never happen. But the only thing I seemed able to do was sit with that loss. I sat in my sadness, not really sleeping, aware of how long Kelly and I had waited to get to this point, and then losing everything we thought we'd finally found. We each cried throughout that night, sometimes alone, sometimes together; sometimes silently, sometimes loudly. And It was so completely counter-intuitive to my very western mind, such the antithesis of the protestant work ethic much of my cultural baggage is steeped in. And yet, that sitting with and being deeply connected to everything that had happened was essential.

Since Rhys, I've noticed that it's the not doing that really does. Putting to bed some of these notions of control or triumph have helped with that. There isn't much in the eddies of life that I have a great deal of say over save the way in which I interact with the world around me. Learning what it meant to deeply connect with my sadness and be honest about my fear has given me the opportunity to touch pieces of myself that have both empowered and cultivated in me a greater capacity to live. I think we rush to find meaning, or perhaps more accurately, rush to nail down a meaning. Meaning provides us with a sense of understanding and I've found that understanding (or thinking I understand) can be a seductive partner when I'm trying to control the world around me. My grief has provided the framework to be rather than subdue or change or rush to "feel better", something that I'm thankful for and something I continue to struggle with.

And meaning is such a fickle thing too. Rhys' birth and death meant something different to me than it meant to Kelly. It meant something different to friends and family members. Sure we share similarities of experience, but everyone's perspective is their own. We all come to the same scene with different collections of stuff that make us, us. There is a maddeningly beautiful reality in all of that. For me, Rhys is not an angel in heaven, he is not in heaven, he does not exist in a place where one day, when I die, I will recognize and be with him. For others, this is what he means, and while at times I find myself wanting to push back against that, I have no right or reason to. I don't own him, or his life, or the meaning people might derive from it. I don't get to control that. So, again, I'm learning to sit with these things, to accept and to share. To both allow the voices of others and (the more difficult thing for me) share my own voice in the process. This whole meaning-making thing is exactly that, a process. There's no blueprint for this stuff and sometimes I even fear that pegging down meaning is a sign that I've stopped seeking and stopped being. "I can't find meaning in this" is an okay place to be in my book.

There's a story attributed to Chuang Tzu I like about two goat-herders, Gu and Zang. Zang liked to spend his time gambling while Gu spent his time reading books and furthering his knowledge. One night, while Zang was completely absorbed in his gambling with friends a goat from his flock wandered away and he was lost. That same night, Gu was immersed in a particularly fascinating book and a goat from his flock wandered away and was lost as well. It serves, for me, as a gentle reminder that judging one's actions as good or bad, sinful or righteous, isn't the point. The point is remaining awake, paying attention, participating in the present, sitting with ourselves and the world around us. The point is being and I've found that there's a whole lot of not doing that helps me be.

Hold Me Closer Tiny Dictator

5 days after beginning my new job as baby manager and holy shit. My life is now controlled by a small tyrannical nearly 9-week-old dictator. I'm rooming with fucking Kim Jong Il. Yes I know he died...and was reincarnated IN THE GUISE OF MY SON. To be fair, it hasn't been all horrible, just mostly. The kid cannot be put down for any reason. If his ass or back touches anything other than my arms he immediately breaks down. At first it's funny because he begins with a sort of whimpering whine and his face morphs slowly into full-on meltdown. Then, the screaming begins and does not abate. I'll get small moments of composure when I walk outside and do a lap around the yard or turn on the water faucet for a minute. At this point, there isn't much I haven't tried. Occasionally, huge stress on the occasionally, he'll let me stand in one place and just pat his bottom. 8lbs of raw baby is incredibly exhausting to tote around all day.

Also, I've completely forgotten to eat most days. It doesn't even enter my mind until Kelly gets home and I'm all, "Man, I'm famished." I've forgotten to brush my teeth a few of these nights. Also, I don't think I've flossed this entire week. Do we still have floss in the house? Maybe that's why. It's entirely possible we ran out and I haven't picked any up at the store with all of the time I have being consumed by El Presidente Munch.

Fast forward to our 2 month appointment yesterday and what does he do? He looks straight at nurse I'm-getting-ready-to-stick-you-with-needles and smiles.  The first words out of my mouth were, "Unbelievable! What the hell is that?!" I then had to remember I was in public and public decorum must be upheld, or some such shit, and had to actively refrain from repeatedly exclaiming, "What the fuck?!" Of course, as the nurse reacts in high-pitch squeals, he SMILES AGAIN EVEN LARGER. A third smile later (because, apparently, he already knows how to rub salt in the wound of my heart) he's on the scale, lying on his back...not crying. Even though I've suffered through 4 days straight of screaming fits when I put him down for three seconds to, ya know, change the clothing he so casually vomited all over or eat a bite of food. Why do I need to eat a bite of food? SO I CAN CONTINUE TO SUSTAIN YOUR LIFE.

We basically geared up for 48 hours of hell after his vaccines. Irritable, inconsolable, probably running a fever and probably crying all day because of that. So, basically, like every other day this week minus a fever. When I pressed for a solid answer on what to expect in the next 24-48 hours the doc began to spew unicorns and rainbows from his mouth. Apparently, early term babies usually don't have very negative reactions to the first round of vaccines, and, are you ready for this? GET REALLY SLEEPY FOR 24 HOURS. As long as they're waking up to eat, it's totally fine. In my head I thought, fuck, if this kid sleeps 24 hours straight I'm cutting my losses and moving on. There is no way in hell I'm waking him up.

He took the shots like a champ and, I swear, almost immediately feel asleep in his car seat. The same car seat with which he shares a very intense love-hate relationship, heavy on the hate. We Carpe Diem'd the shit out of our good fortune and ran to a local pizza place to grab some dinner before heading home. Munch is completely passed out after his harrowing experience with the vaccines and after we sit down Kelly and I kind of look at each other for a minute. We audibly exhale at the same time. We're both acutely aware of the delicate balancing act that is required. No sudden movements, no loud sounds. Just sit quietly and calmly and bask in the glory of the moment. When the appetizers got to the table I began inhaling them at ludicrous speed, knowing full well this was not going to last. Kelly, thankfully, settled me back down. Alas, the best laid plans of moms and dads...

A family of three sat back down a few tables away from us. Where they came from I've no idea. They were not there when we walked in and somehow magically appeared at their table with their pizza being immediately served. I was a bit confused and then the toddler began making a lot of noise. Mom and dad were useless so I took matters into my own hands by staring the kid down with eyes that burned. I gave him the biggest stink eye I could possibly muster. So help me god if he ruins this moment for us. It was apparent that mom and dad were quickly loosing containment, or had no real intention of keeping containment in the first place because dad handed him the fucking pie server. THE METAL FUCKING PIE SERVER, with which he proceeded to bang repeatedly against the metal pole next to their table.  The moment was lost. Munch woke up with a start wailing his head off, I tried to swing the car seat to settle him while Kelly bolted down the rest of her pizza and then we traded so I could finish. We were gone within seconds.

The moral of the story is twofold. Firstfold, I'm in talks with the doctor to schedule a rotating, every other day, vaccination schedule for Munch because he was mercifully sleepy (angelic even) all day today, and secondfold, those parents at the pizza place are the worst fucking people in the world.

Preparing To "Enter the Workforce" As a "Non-productive" Member Of Society

Figure 1: Just look at it for a second. Let it sink in. 

Through the incredible magic of life, I will soon become the primary care-take of our very new 2013 baby boy. Minimal miles, breath-takingly fuel efficient, complete with tow package. It would be a bald-faced lie to say I have not been excited about being the stay-at-home dad for some time but now that we're coming up on it I'm sort of terrified. And also PISSED. Because apparently, maternity/paternity leave is something most governments in the world feel it would be a good idea in which to invest. Except, of course, for the good ole' U. S. of A. Because we pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. Except for the babies, because they can't pull anything yet except an incredibly well-timed piss on your hand. Oh, and I guess the moms, who gave birth to them. Strike that, moms should be up and at em' within days. A week at the outset for you c-sectioners. We seem to give shockingly few shits about the next generation of people unless we're talking about such societally degrading things as gay people, taking away my guns, and for the love of god can someone please do something with all of these poor people, they're really ruining the aesthetics around here. 

Anyhoo, I'm not real sure what all of this means for me yet in terms of actual day-to-day life. Most likely there will be lots of bottle feeding, poop, puke, piss, the usual. I imagine there will also be some pretty fantastic moments of something that will probably result in tears, wishing I had a camera near by, and hoping Kelly doesn't get mad when she comes home and I tell her what happened (either because it was horrible or awesome). Also, video games. I have it on good authority from a doctor that you can get a lot of video game time in during these first months of life.

America: Where "family values" is about making sure
those homo-sexuals can't marry one another.

I don't really have anything more profound to say than this. Will I make it through the day with a two-month-old. Alone. Who knows? Most likely, yes, but I don't want to tempt fate here. Also, I really can't get over this whole paid family leave thing. Canada, if you are listening, I know all of the words to your national anthem, so long as the only words to your anthem are "Oh Canada!" That's better than like 90% of the other citizens of this country. Plus, I'm basically a socialist, so I'll fit right in. I have no problem not working and having other people foot the bill for my medical care, education, and...well...everything really. I'm not picky. I'm willing to become more apologetic, love cold weather, and took two years of French in high school. Je ne sais pas. See?! I'm not sure how you manage to afford to offer such generous terms for paid family leave...or national healthcare...or education...guh, this is getting depressing. I really have to dig deep here into the annals of 11th grade U.S. History and review just what in the hell this whole "social contract" thing is about. But. BUT. We have a ridiculously large military because peace time is for pussies.

So, in a way, I feel like this whole stay-at-home dad thing is really my big giant fuck you to capitalism. That's at least what I'm telling myself. I'm no longer a part of your system (at least for the length of time it takes for me to experience my first hellacious day at home alone with munch and end the day in desperate need of a Buona Beef cheese fries...stat.). Also, there's the added bonus of being able to watch this kid of mine grow and change and finally be able to replace the pacifier he so carelessly spits out of his mouth back into his mouth when he didn't actually mean to do that.

Poindexter is ready, and perhaps a bit too excited.