Nostalgia

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Beauty is in the Eye of the Baby Holder

July 12, 2011 at 10:22 pm , by 

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The Bittersweet Move Back to Nashville: July 16th

July 11, 2011 at 10:38 pm , by 

Seven months.

Yes, you did read that right.  No, this isn’t a rerun from March.  This coming Saturday on July 16th as Jack turns eight months old, we return to Music City for keeps.

Imagine you’re me.  You were raised in the Eighties and were taught that money isn’t everything but that being happy is.  You were constantly told that if you really believe, you can achieve your dreams.  So at age 29, you decide to choose happiness over money and move your wife and 3 week old son back to your hometown to be close to family.  You willingly choose less money and less busyness with the purest intentions.

Enter four months of unemployment, then living from savings despite eventually getting a job.  Then after eight months since moving, you come to the realization that it is not a choice to move your family back to Nashville, but simply the only option.

It’s ironic how it took me four months to find a job and how my wife was sent countless rejection letters for all the places she applied, never landing a job that would keep us from dipping into savings every month; yet in a matter of just a few days and few emails, both my wife and I have jobs lined up in Nashville where we will begin Monday, July 18th.

Our former employers are taking us back.  It’s that simple.  Granted, this means we have to put Jack in daycare.  We will barely see him on weekdays because by the time I drive him home from daycare, he will only be awake for an hour before it’s his bedtime.

So, how do I feel about this?  Bittersweet.

We came here truly believing that we would be spending the rest of our lives here; thinking it would be the last time we would have to unpack our things. And when it seemed our expectations were being threatened, we only tried that much harder to make this work.  But our resistance was futile.

As I have mentioned before, a married man can never stop thinking about his need to provide for his family. So imagine what kind of psychological toil this constant wondering has taken on my own sanity.  For the fact we will be able to pay our bills without dipping into what’s left of our savings; well, that’s more relieving than I can say.  But yes, we will have to move away from my family and they won’t see Jack as much as they used to.

He and his cousin were going to be attending the same school and be in the same grade.  Not now, though.  It’s only a 2 and a half hour drive, but still, things will be somewhat different.

By this point, I am nearly emotionless when it comes having to repack our lives again.  Because again, it’s not a choice to be made; it’s the only option.

So I am accepting my fate.  I was not meant to live in my hometown with my family.  Instead, I was meant to live and work in Nashville, one of my favorite cities in the world.

I am choosing to move forward and be positive about it.  There have been a lot of things we’ve missed tremendously about Nashville: Our church, our friends, our quirky restaurants, proximity to Country music stars, and surprisingly more than you would think, shopping for groceries at Publix, where shopping is a pleasure.

As much as I enjoyed growing up in my hometown and the great memories I always have, it has ultimately proven to be the wrong fit for the 2011 version of me, which includes my wife and son.  And that’s not my hometown’s fault.  It’s just that Nashville is simply where we belong.

My wife and I met there.  My wife was baptized there.  We got married there.  Our son was born there.  Heck, even this blog was born there.

One of our mutually favorite movies is Away We Go, starring John Krasinski and Maya Rudolph.  As they prepare for the birth of their first child, they travel to several cities to figure out where their new home as a family is.  It’s obviously very relatable for my wife and me.

After sticking it out this long, we were obviously more than willing to make this thing work in my hometown.  But now it’s time to return to where our home, as a family, is.

Need another pop culture reference?  This reminds me of the best TV show ever made (and that ever will be made), Lost.  Those who crashed on the island were “chosen” by the island for a purpose.  Even when six of them eventually found a way to leave and go back to their homes, they ultimately had to return because the island still needed them there.

For us, Nashville is the island.  We just need to watch out for those darn polar bears.

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Positively Communicating to My Seven Month Old Son

July 4, 2011 at 7:54 pm , by 

Seven months.

One of my biggest pet peeves has always been this situation: I’m out in public and see a stranger compliment a young child or baby.  Then the parent responds to the stranger with, “Well you can take him home with you if you like.  He’s a handful.  Nah, he’s pretty good… most of the time.”

I’m not a cursing kind of guy, but just thinking about that scenario makes me want to.  (It also makes me want to break a Two and a Half Men DVD.  But mainly because I hate Two and a Half Men.)

The truth is, I know how to be effectively sarcastic.  After all, I write a weekly Bachelor/Bacheloretterecap every Monday night.  And it’s always very snarky.

But I have a big beef with being sarcastic towards babies and children.  I despise back-handed compliments.  A compliment barbed in an insult or complaint is not a compliment at all.  Constructive criticism is one thing, but sarcastic comments never motivate anyone to improve anything.  Instead, they break a person down.

I worship positive communication; in my marriage, with my friends and family, and even with my infant son who can’t even speak legitimately.

What he hears me say does matter, despite how young he is.  Because if nothing else, I am setting up a pattern of how I will communicate with him as he matures and is able to understand what I am saying.

My wife came up with a good system: We don’t speak to our son in a tone or with words that we would not use to speak to each other.  Because our son is both my wife and me.

Sure, at times our son can frustrate us; especially when we don’t know what he wants or when we can’t get him to sleep.  But it’s a matter of reminding ourselves that A) he didn’t ask to come into this world, B) he can’t communicate how he feels by using words, and C) he’s not trying to offend us.

It’s a matter of feeling sorry for him during these times he frustrates us most.  He needs an “ah, you poor baby” instead of “go to sleep already; you’re driving me crazy!”

Words matter.  They can destroy just as easily as they can heal.  And even for a cheap laugh with a stranger or a friend, I refuse to sell out.

My son is a reward and a joy. Not a joke or a burden.  As his father, I will not always be able to protect him from the cruel and destructive things people will certainly say to him in his lifetime.  But sure as Shazbot, I can be confident he doesn’t hear them from me.

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The Papa Bear in Me: Yes, I’m Overprotective

July 1, 2011 at 9:14 pm , by 

Seven months.

It’s a big, dangerous world out there and it’s my job to keep this little bambino safe.  But I must channel my fears into positive, rational energy.

There is plenty of truth in the stereotype that parents are over-protective with their first child. I know, because I’m living it right now. Subconsciously, I preview every potentially dangerous situation for Jack; no matter how improbable.

I am Jack’s protector- I can not let anything bad happen to him. Like Bruce Banner (the Incredible Hulk), I can instantly turn into the biggest beast of a monster in an effort to protect him. So while I am an average-looking, mild-mannered man, all it takes is Jack being in potential danger for me to transform into a potential killing machine.

But what is most relevant is that I prepare for Jack’s safety in every situation. So that I never have to rescue or save him. Being over-protective means preventing dangerous situations; not just worrying about them happening all the time.

For my 10th birthday on April 20th, 1991, my parents bought me exactly what I wanted the most: Bible Adventures, the Nintendo game. (Yes, it actually existed!) The game was modeled after my favorite video game ever, Super Mario Bros. 2, in that you could carry items above your head and throw them at enemies.

The most interesting (and disturbing!) thing in Bible Adventures was that if you played as Moses’ sister Miriam, you held baby Moses over your head and for some unexplainable reason, if you pressed the B button, you would throw the infant Moses onto the ground…

Miraculously, he would never be injured; whether you tossed him onto the hard concrete sidewalk, on top of a giant mutant spider, directly into a guard throwing spears, or into the river. But I was a 10 year-old boy, so I didn’t let the physical practicality or the Biblical incorrectness of the game bother me too much. But I did have a lot of fun repeatedly throwing baby Moses onto the sidewalk and watching him bounce, cry for a second, then instantly start smiling again. Needless to say, Bible Adventures did not receive the Nintendo Seal of Approval.

Since the day Jack was born, I have always been fearful that I will drop him; knowing that unlike the invincible Nintendo version of baby Moses, my son would not simply bounce and smile afterwards. So now that he is beginning to crawl, it means I carry him around less. Which means I worry less about dropping him, and more about him getting into all kinds of other troubles.

With good reason, I worry about him drowning, being run over by a car, getting electrocuted, choking, falling, getting attacked by a dog, or maybe even getting swooped up by a long-lost pterodactyl. It even scares me to type my fears aloud, even if the last one was a joke.

I am the Papa Bear. I will do whatever it takes to protect Mama Bear and Baby Bear. Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.

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Pass the Baby from the Left-Hand Side

June 29, 2011 at 9:46 pm , by 

Seven months.

The Dadabase

We all want our kids to be unique, right? But that’s easier said than done in an age where being unique is so darn trendy.

It was my mom who brought it to the attention of my wife and me: Jack typically reaches for things with his left hand; seldom his right.  In the process of deciding which pictures to use for my Dadabaseposts in the past couple of weeks, I realized it was true. In most pictures where Jack is holding a toy or reaching for one, it’s his left hand that’s in the action.

Left-handed people represent only 10% of the world’s population. No one I know of on my side of the family is left-handed.  However, my wife is 9 of 10 kids in her family; and she does have one brother and one sister who are left-handed.  So if left-handedness is indeed related to genetics, then at least it is there somewhere in the gene pool.

The Dadabase

So Jack is probably left-handed. And of course, I’m not the least bit surprised. I mean, he managed to utilize the rarest genes my wife and I had.  He’s a blond-haired, blue-eyed, fair complected, big-boned baby from a family of dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-complected skin where most men are slender and never grow taller than 5’ 11”.

I’m convinced that one of Jack’s many purposes in this life is to preserve the endangered traits of mankind.  Of course, this doesn’t just go for physical traits.

His name was deliberately chosen to preserve a seemingly dwindling tradition: giving your son a simple, easy to spell, familiar, strong, masculine, classic American name that a girl could not be named. I noticed that so many modern baby boy names are now sounding more like Irish last names. And that’s fine- it’s just not my preference. With all the unique names out there these days, I figured the way my son’s name could actually be the most unique was to give him one of the most universally recognizable names in American history.

And I guess that brings me to today’s dose of irony.  It seems that most of us parents find value in knowing our child is unique.  After all, my wife and I grew up in the 80’s and were told on a regular basis by our teachers and cartoon shows that we were special and there is no one else in the world quite like us.  Of course, it is indeed true that we are all special.

The Dadabase

But I think we like to reinforce that fact in raising our kids. I named my son Jack in an effort for him to be unique.  Meanwhile, a good number of other parents have named their son a form of “Brady” or “Collin” or “Quinn” or “Aiden” with the same inspiration. I guess it’s safe to say that none of these names (whether classic or trendy) truly accomplishes the goal, because ultimately a name is either really familiar or it’s so unique that it’s not really that unique, because being “unique” is currently trendy.  And being trendy is not being unique.

I’m not convinced that a name itself can actually make a kid that unique anymore.  Unless he’s named something gnarly like Mayor McCheese or Grimace- and then he’d be branded as the weird kind of unique.  And that’s not what any parent wants for their kid.

So instead, I’m looking elsewhere for my son’s own uniqueness. Because he’s got plenty of it.  And so does your kid.  No matter what his name is, whether he’s left or right-handed, or whether or not he is an identical twin.

When my son laughs at my every attempt to scare him by making my “evil hissing cobra face” at him. When he gets so thrilled and excited he starts coughing as a result of me pretending like I’m going to step on him as he lies belly up on the rug.  When Jack gets completely quiet as I take him on a walk at 6:00 AM to help my wife catch up on sleep lost during the night while I slept soundly. That’s unique enough for me.

Sure, “Jack” was the 6th most popular boy name last year; so my Jack is one of a million.  But… my Jack is also one in a million.

The Dadabase

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