Category Archives: Fatherhood

Raising Abigail

Father's Day

Fatherhood

I’ve been lucky enough to spend my entire life with my father and two grandfathers not to mention several other dad-based relatives. Father’s Day celebrations are not new to me. But participating in one as a father is.

This morning Erin gave me a great father’s day gift, plus three cards – one from her and two from Abigail – and a onesie for AG that says “My Daddy Rocks” (with a little guitar).

It’s all a bit surreal as there was a time in my life when it looked as if I would never be on the “father” side of Father’s Day celebrations. In the beginning of the end of my first marriage, I told my first wife “I don’t think I want kids” even though that had been a driving force behind why we got married in the first place. “Neither do I,” she said. We were both lying. We both still wanted kids. Just not with each other. Everything that was wrong about our marriage was there in that moment. We were divorced within a year.

Up until Abigail was born, I’d worked harder on my relationship with Erin than anything else I’ve ever tried. There were points when – no matter how much I loved her – I wasn’t sure we would end up together. I had a lot of shit to work through in therapy and had to learn how to trust my instincts and emotions again. Getting this far meant trying to achieve a deceptively complicated goal: get each day right. When we started dating, I wasn’t trying to achieve marriage. When we got married, I wasn’t trying to achieve home ownership or fatherhood or a certain life together. I just tried to get every day right. I’ve missed the mark as often as I’ve hit it. No, strike that. I’ve probably missed the mark more often than I’ve hit it. But I get up every day and try again. And so does she.

Without going into the details, we had difficulty trying to have a kid. Not near as much as some, but more than others. We tried off-and-on for a year. In that time, we both made peace with the possibility that our family might not grow larger than the two of us and the dog. And then boom.

The other day I was looking down at Abigail’s head and thought “You were worth every difficult moment.” Here was proof that together Erin and I hit the mark often enough. And I get to feel that every single day.

A flash mob of inspiration – Paper Machete – June 11, 2011

Fatherhood, , , ,

One of these days I’ll develop the discipline to write longer pieces here independent of a local reading series (for shorter, more frequent posts check out my Tumblr blog) but until then here’s the piece I read at Paper Machete this weekend. If you’re in Chicago and haven’t checked it out, next Saturday at 3pm is as good a reason as any: the show moves to larger digs at The Horseshoe in Lincoln Square and features Chicagoan/SNL cast member Paul Brittain and Schadenfreude’s Kate James.

This piece is about the recent string of downtown Chicago robberies that many are calling “flash mobs.” I get into why this is a misnomer and the lazy reporting that got them tagged this way. Plus, links to relevant material! Sadly, you will have to wait for the podcast to hear my “caveman” voice.

—

Well, this is quite the flash mob we have going here today.

That’s what a flash mob is, right? Groups of otherwise unconnected strangers, driven by text messages or social media communication who gather together for some event? I know I invited all my friends via Twitter, Facebook and text. And The Paper Machete has a website where they talked about today’s lineup. Plus, there was something on The AV Club.

Plus, it’s not like any of us already has some kind of loose affiliation or acquaintance? Right…? Gang…?

I’m obviously getting ahead of myself but I do want to talk about how all of a sudden a term meant to describe seemingly-spontaneous coordinated dancing or shitty fake improv suddenly became the hot new trend in violent muggings in the tony Gold Coast and Streeterville neighborhoods. And like most annoying trends it seems to have started in Brooklyn.

But let me back up and set the scene here: We’ve had a longtime Daddy figure for a mayor replaced by a younger guy who’s untested in the role, a city with a $650 million dollar deficit contributing to economic decline in the city’s neighborhoods and a police force with 800 fewer cops than there ought to be and a superintendent who’s barely been on the job for a month – and wasn’t officially approved for the job until earlier this week. Tack on reports of downtown youth violence robberies during the last few months and whispers of potential violence causing the Memorial Day weekend closing of North Avenue Beach and things. were. just. a. little. tense. leading up to last weekend.

According to the Wall Street Journal, 12 crimes involving large groups of young men – half were robberies and the other half were non-violent crimes – occurred last weekend in the Streeterville/Gold Coast area. Of the robberies, five of them were committed by the same group of people and ten of the people in that group were arrested. 19 other young men were arrested for the other six, non-violent crimes.

While these crimes and their victims are very real, the organization of the groups through social media has been overreported. Or perhaps reported is the wrong word. On Wednesday, a Chicago Police Department spokesman said there was no indication any of the assaults or robberies were coordinated using social media. So maybe the word we’re looking for here is “completelymadeup.”

So how did these attacks end up reported as “flash mobs”? This brings us back to Brooklyn. And 40 cent hot wings.

In October of 2009, a Buffalo Wild Wings restaurant in Brooklyn started running a Tuesday night special: hot wings – 40 cents each, which based on my extensive Google-based research of hot wings menus is about a 20-50 cent savings over the price of your average wing. What was later described in the New York Times as an unauthorized flyer discussing the special was posted to various social networking sites and caused an increasing number of teenagers to overwhelm the spot over the next three weeks, culminating in a Veteran’s Day Eve melee in the area around the mall that ended with two shootings and one stabbing. This was followed by other non-poultry-related incidents involving large groups of youth in Philadelphia and South Orange, N.J., in 2010 and, more recently, robberies in St. Paul, Minnesota and St Louis earlier this year though few of these mention any social media involvement. Let’s just say they…fit the description.

So back to Chicago. We’ve got a national context for two years of sporadic violent incidents involving youth, which are, in some cases, coordinated using text messaging and social media. It’s a meme, as the Internet would say. Then while doing research for this piece I remembered a report from CBS 2 back in March about businesses along the Magnificent Mile experiencing groups of teens coming into their stores grabbing as much as they can and running away. “Apparently, they’ve been Tweeting each other,” said the reporter. There it is: Twitter was to blame. Despite the lack of direct quotes from police, the victims or the alleged attackers mentioning any form of social media. And nevermind that plenty of people who use Twitter or Facebook manage to get through their days without knocking over a Filene’s Basement.

And that’s when it all came together for me. This has way more to do with the Gold Coast and what it represents and social media and what it represents. And it can all be explained by a little something called terror management theory.

[OK truth be told I’m only saying this because I heard about terror management theory for the first time on Wednesday while listening to the How Stuff Works podcast and it sounded really cool. Had my iPod shuffled differently during my morning commute I might be telling you the only way to truly understand these attacks is to listen to the Sound Opinions review of the new Fleet Foxes album. But hang with me and I swear this will make a kind of sense.]

Terror management theory essentially posits that all human behavior is motivated by the fear of mortality and that every societal construct we create is meant to distract us from a fear of death: political parties, saying “bless you” when someone sneezes, even Bravo’s The Real Housewives series which is ironic because every time I remember that show exists I want to fucking kill myself.

According to this theory, symbols that enforce our cultural views are fiercely protected and anything that threatens those views is dealt with in a highly punitive manner.

Now, think of the Gold Coast and Streeterville, where these attacks occurred. What’s over there? Tiffany’s, Water Tower Place, the American Girl store, parks, countless tourist attractions and various economic engines for the city. Basically, high affluence in a low-crime area. For a city that wants to convince itself it isn’t broke and suffering from an increase in gang activity, you don’t get much more symbolic.

So how does social media enter into the picture? On almost every level, social media is changing the way we communicate and learn about our world. Rather than reinforce the individual societal constructs we have in place in our families, neighborhoods or countries, social media is exposing us to yes, congressional penis, but also cultural worldviews that differ wildly from our own. If you don’t believe me, try this experiment: On the day after the next court ruling on gay marriage, gun rights or abortion, visit the Facebook page of any family member you purposely only see at Thanksgiving and Christmas. It’s the interpersonal equivalent of finding a potentially cancerous mole on a part of your body you can’t see without a mirror.

Flash mobs make the perfect scapegoat. They’re symbolic of technology many people don’t understand and are still struggling to legislate and use to create new economic models. And if it wasn’t flash mobs, it would have been something else. When I was a kid, blue star LSD tattooswere the neighborhood bogeyman. For my parents, I think it was communists. I’m sure even cavemen were like “Have you heard of this new form of fire that can start by rubbing two sticks together? Someone really needs to start monitoring the sale of sticks.”

The new normal

Fatherhood

Last week my wife was sitting in the glider, feeding our daughter.

“How are you doing?” I asked.
“We’re getting there,” she said.

That about describes where we’re at right now. I don’t know that I have much context to add to Erin’s beautifully-rendered post about Abigail’s first month other than to say we seem to unlock new baby achievements every week:

Congratulations! You have achieved Napping After Bottle.

You have found The Mobile That Keeps Her Distracted Long Enough For You To Have A Cup of Coffee.

I’m sorry, parents, but your full night’s sleep is in another castle!

The other day, when I expressed frustration at not being able to describe a new normal, my friend Matt left the following comment:

“I hate to tell you this, but there isn’t really a normal. Once you figure one out, they’re just a little bit older and have already changed again. The real trick is getting better at adjusting to that unpredictability.”

He’s right, of course, and that’s probably what was bothering me. Erin and I know enough to know that once you think you’ve got one aspect of child-rearing figured out, it changes. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to plant my flag in the sand and say “We figured this out.” While I might know, a month in, how to handle work and baby and oh yeah! my relationship with my wife I might be ass-over-tea-kettle in month two. But at least I know that so it won’t be a surprise when it happens.

—

I realized yesterday that I’m that guy now.

I’m that guy who, without prompting, will show you a picture of his kid. And with prompting will show you 20.

I’m that guy who tweets about bits of formula getting on his iPad. As if I’m the first person to experience it.

I’m that guy who goes into work late or leaves at a decent hour because it means 20 extra minutes with his kid.

I’m that guy who makes Dad Jokes now. (Actually, I was always sort of that guy. It’s just nice to have an excuse now to indulge my inner Phil Dunphy.)

I’m that guy now. And probably forever.

Welcome (back) to the working week

Fatherhood,

I’ve been back at work for two weeks now after two weeks off for the birth, hospital stay and first few days of Abigail’s life at home. Here’s how I put it in an email to a friend who has three kids, two of whom are newborn twins:

Being back at work is weird. I’m glad to be doing something other than facilitating the feeding, changing, and sleeping of our child and glad to not be worrying about my wife in the process (actively, anyway, it’s always passively in the back of my mind) but feel guilty for feeling that way. On the other hand, work has taken on more importance. Being good at my job now equals being a good provider which means being a good Dad. 

To which he replied “You’ve hit on one of the big cosmic conflicts of new fatherhood. Didn’t even take you two weeks.”

I’m leaving that second sentence as I typed it because I was being honest then and I’m endeavoring to be honest here. Were I writing that sentence first for publication to a wider audience I’d have said:

Being back at work is weird. It’s a nice chance of pace to be doing something other than facilitating the feeding, changing, and sleeping of our child and a relief to spend a few hours not preoccupied with the stress my wife’s dealing with right now (though it’s always in the back of my mind). Doing anything for two weeks nonstop is a drain and it’ll be great to go home refreshed and ready to have at it again. Still, I feel guilty for feeling that way.

When I went home that first Monday night I did feel refreshed and ready to dive back into the fray. I changed clothes, scooped Abigail out of Erin’s arms and spent the next few hours feeding, burping, changing and soothing her. And it felt great. In fact, each night I can’t wait to get home and tend to her.

And truth be told, Erin doesn’t need me worrying about her. But for all the reasons I’ve discussed before, I know parenting is harder on her than it is me. And now on top of that she’s managing child care alone until 6:30 rolls around.

As much as some people have the temperament and/or will to be good parents – in our better moments, I think Erin and I are those people – the first few weeks found us occasionally questioning whether we are or not. I know everyone goes through this. Doesn’t change the fact that it was nice to get back to the office and spend some time on things I’m demonstrably good at doing.

Every time I start a new job I get frustrated because I’m not as knowledgeable about the environment as I’d like to be and accomplishing something takes longer due to the learning curve. Parenthood has been no different. Each week it seems as if we’re trying some new (to us) child-rearing theory to get Abigail to sleep longer, feed better or be happier. We’re still trying to shake off the notion there’s some pre-determined way to raise our kid and instead just listen and observe the way the kid’s behaving and act accordingly. We know this is the way we’re supposed to do it but it still annoys us that Amazon doesn’t sell The Guide To Abigail Grace Smith’s First Year.

My big worry was I’d arrive back at work and not give a shit about my job anymore. Who cares about the Internet?!? There’s a new human being in my house who needs me! Instead, it’s the opposite. The better I am at my job, the better I take care of those who depend on me. While Abigail’s not even old enough to recognize my face yet, it’s important to me that she has a father who works hard. At the very least I want her to think I work as hard at my morning job as I do my evening job.

—

I’ve been working on this post for the past couple weeks – I started it the day I went back to work. Each time I read through it I find I’m unable to thread it all together. There’s a couple of good bits but nothng overall to say. Maybe it’s because I’m striving to describe a “new normal” when I haven’t figured out what that is yet.

A little light musing

Fatherhood,


My posts about Erin’s pregnancy and Abigail’s birth have been awfully introspective – and perhaps a little tear-jerky – so to keep this blog from being a ponderous chore to read, here are some amusing things that have happened in the Age of Abigail:

* I’d like to thank the creative and production staffs of “Parks & Recreation” for saving our sanity. The few moments Erin and I have to ourselves are usually spent decompressing via episodes of this show. We may decide to raise Abigail according to Ron Swanson’s Pyramid of Greatness at some future date.

* A friend of mine – a new father himself – sent me…er, Abigail a CD of 80s songs as lullabies. “Total Eclipse of the Heart” is surprisingly affecting. Oh and Abigail likes it, too.

* The trash can in the baby’s room – the one containing all the dirty diapers and sanitary wipes – is so sophisticated that Erin and I somehow removed the bag in reverse. That’s right: Two college-educated people were almost outwitted by a garbage receptacle.

* My daughter’s “Let me interrupt you for a second so I can take a crap in my diaper” face is hysterical. It looks like she’s going into a trance or casting a spell. It’s almost as awesome as the noises she makes when she’s waking up or stretching, which bear a remarkable resemblance to the noises made by the “Compys” in Jurassic Park.

* Abigail’s favorite way for me to soothe her is being held while I walk up and down the stairs to our 2nd floor. Our house is an old bungalow so the stairs are attic-style which means they’re very steep. I can usually fake her out but achieve the same effect by walking around our dining room table while doing half-lunges.

At this rate, I should have buns of steel by Tuesday.

On human bonding

Fatherhood, , ,


When we learned Erin would need a C-section to give birth to our daughter, I experienced several emotions, many tied to our original plans for natural childbirth: fear, disappointment, sadness but also a large measure of relief. Erin had been in active labor for approximately 20 hours prior not to mention the few days of contractions before that. As we were told I would accompany Abigail into the nursery while Erin was stitched up and moved into recovery, I experienced another emotion:

Selfish elation.

The way I saw it, Erin spent the last nine months in a tight bond with Abigail – though admittedly I’d been there too as we talked to her, read her stories and played music for her in utero. And since we’d be breastfeeding after she was born Erin had more built-in bonding time coming in a way I’d be hard-pressed to match. So this was my chance to play catch-up on some of that.

None of this is rational thought. But from what I understand of it this early in the process, raising kids usually means you pass the exit for Rationality more often than not as you take the off-ramp to Emotional Reaction before turning around and heading back to Rationality, wondering how you always miss that exit time and again.

In tangential defense of my baby-hoggery, I spent Erin’s entire pregnancy trying to ensure she and Abigail are both happy and comfortable (I know: “You’re supposed to, jerk.” Still.) both in general and with each other. In fact, while we were still in the operating room – with Erin still in mid-surgery – I was already taking cell phone pictures of Abigail to show Erin (“That’s our little girl! You did it!”) even before the nurses brought her over so she could look in Abigail’s eyes herself. The last thing in the world I wanted was to get in the way of their bonding. I know about postpartum blues.

But in the hospital nursery? Knowing it would be just Abigail and I before Erin and the rest of the world got involved? I was practically rubbing my hands together with glee.

I’m not proud of the self-centeredness I felt and knew those minutes would be little more than crying, staring, peeing and thrashing around. (Abigail would probably be doing that, too.) Her little eyes wouldn’t register my face and while her ears might think my voice might sound a little like the one reading her Winnie-The-Pooh a few months back, it’s not as if she’d be lying there in the nursery giving me baby high-fives now that we’d finally met.

Still, I wanted those moments and took full advantage. I sang to her, told her how Erin and I met, described where we lived, mentioned she already had a dog at home and explained she had many adventures awaiting her in the world. I reached my index finger out to her and she grabbed it. It was the most relaxed time I’ve had with my daughter since her birth and it was awesome. Mostly because I was the one receiving all the benefits. Meanwhile, she was probably thinking “Christ, it’s cold out here. And can we do something about these lights?”

Like I said, selfish.

The days since then have been wonderful, but hard. Bonding with her hasn’t been as easy either. Don’t get me wrong: there are many, many joyful moments even when it’s all unmoving silence. But keeping Abigail safe, happy and comfortable is challenging. Taking care of our daughter is like a puzzle for which we have all the pieces but no picture on the box as a guide. Do we feed her now? Or change her? Or soothe her? Or all three? And just breastfeed or breast and bottle? And I’m holding her but damnit she’s still crying so…ah ha!…if I put my left hand on her butt and right hand on her head and keep walking around the room at exactly this pace she’ll be quiet…so long as I keep moving and holding her like this. I’m like a shark parent.

And then there’s Erin who once again has lapped me in the strength and determination department what with recovering from major abdominal surgery, not getting any sleep and providing nutrition to our child among her other minor tasks. The bond she has with Abigail that I knew would develop so quickly – she was able to successfully breastfeed her before she was even out of recovery – is a double-edged sword. Yes, it means I can spend an hour trying and failing to soothe our daughter only to have Erin swoop in, hold her close for 30 seconds and watch as Abigail quiets down immediately and sighs. It also means Erin has many physical and emotional reminders of her responsibility to our daughter than I just don’t have. How she isn’t frequently overwhelmed by it all, I don’t know.

I’ve never been particularly patient and the things I like doing are often the things over which I exercise a high degree of skill. Right now, Abigail’s sleeping, gaining weight, filling her diaper and still alive. All good measures of skill. But my soothing percentage has been below average and that’s annoying. (Not to mention sleep-depriving.)

The relaxed moments I spent with Abigail in the hospital have been tough to recreate but we’re getting closer. In the try-anything-once effort that is the hallmark of new parents, today I strapped on Erin’s purple Sleepy Wrap, which looks like this and has been a surefire way to calm Abigail. I had my shirt off because skin-to-skin is supposed to be effective, too. Once I had the thing on I was glad I hadn’t ordered one for myself. I looked like I was either stretching out someone’s super-fun blouse or marching in a pirates-only gay pride parade. Of course a few minutes after Abigail snuggled into the wrap she was fast asleep.

There’s no doubt in my mind she and I will soon be thick as thieves.

In brightest day, in blackest night

Fatherhood, ,

[A quick note here: The following is a truncated account of our labor and delivery. It’s very much from my point of view. I’m sure Erin will give you her perspective at some point but just know I’m skipping some parts to get at a specific narrative. [UPDATE: Erin’s posted something here.] Also “and then Erin had another contraction” would have gotten old by about the 457th time.]

Nothing about our daughter’s birth went according to plan. The original plan, that is. But plans are about choices made based on available facts. So whatever plans you make for your life ought to have room enough for change should new facts present themselves. Since we started trying to have a kid, new facts presented themselves often:

Fact: We’re having trouble conceiving children
Choice: Go get tested; try harder

Fact: Conception difficulties solved due to trying more frequently
Choice: Start rehabbing the upstairs so we have a nursery

Fact: We prefer a natural childbirth experience through hypnobirthing
Choice: Read, read, read; go to classes; hire a doula

Fact: Erin’s now-former OB-GYN didn’t care much for hypnobirthing
Choice: Find a lovely group of midwives

[By the way, if you need a doula, let me recommend Tricia Fitzgerald, our hypnobirthing doula. She is incredible and as you’ll soon read pretty much saved me from losing my mind during delivery. Hiring a doula – and Tricia in particular – was the smartest thing we did during our pregnancy and as a first time parent it made the whole experience much less stressful. Our midwives group, West Suburban Midwives, also comes recommended by me, especially Cynthia Mason who worked with us. As a former OU student, I chalk up Cynthia’s awesomeness to her Ohio upbringing.]

All of this is just to say our birth plans changed a couple times before our due date arrived. As it is, most due dates are guarantees of a change of plans. Ours was. We were five days “late” though Erin had off and on contractions that whole time. Eventually, we got to active labor around 9pm the night before we were ended up delivering. I figured the five-minute-between mark meant go-time but the midwives and the doula know from what and what involves a dilated cervix of 4 centimeters which our five-minutes-apart contractions are no sign of at all. Instead of spiriting ourselves to the hospital we spent some time birthing at home.

As with the rest of our pregnancy, Erin takes the lion’s share of the efforts: sitting on a large rubber ball to encourage baby movement, soaking in a warm tub to relieve birthing pain, squatting in various ways to let gravity do its thing. Meanwhile, I do many supportive husband things like offer encouraging birth prompts, massage her back and fetch towels. I’m eager to leave for the hospital – we’ve had the car packed for the better part of a month – but our doula counsels us that time spent laboring at home is far better than in the hospital triage unit. I’m quiet through most of this time. I’d been running birth prompts with Erin all weekend so I’m happy to let our doula take that role for a bit. Frankly, I think Erin’s tired of the sound of my voice and could use a break from associating it with abdominal pain. Plus, my usual coping mechanism – cracking jokes – got on Erin’s nerves pretty quick. So I shut up and go for the strong, silent partner routine.

Finally, we’re consistently 2-3 minutes apart. By now it’s 4:30am and we’ve been in active labor since 9pm the night before, nevermind the four days of off and on contractions prior to this and an incident two weeks prior that had us thinking our new plan would involve a medically-necessary inducement. Long story short: We’re finally ready.

Here’s where things started to unravel. Into the car we go with Erin on her hands and knees in the back, leaning over the baby’s car seat for support. With all my thoughts and concerns on Erin, I jump in and start a very cautious 40mph down 95th street with our doula following close behind only to remember through a sleep-deprived, adrenaline-fueled haze that I have not only forgotten to set our burglar alarm but I’ve also forgotten to lock the front door or even bother to close it at all. Yes, we were a quarter of the way to the hospital before I realized someone – anyone – could waltz right into our house.

Thinking about it a few days later, I know this was the moment when I let fear creep into my head. For months prior I’d been training myself mentally for this event, adopting Hal Jordan as the Green Lantern for my “spirit animal.” My life was about to change completely and I knew keeping my wife and unborn child safe would be too much to bear unless I could overcome fear. Jordan was called the greatest Green Lantern because of his ability to do the same. So in addition to reading books on pregnancy and a baby’s first year I’d been ritually reading Green Lantern comics for weeks and even carrying a small plastic Lantern ring as a talisman of sorts. I was up to the challenge. I’d be able to acknowledge the fear to overcome it, just like Hal.

Then I left that door open…how am I supposed to care for my wife and daughter if I can’t even close a fucking door? I can’t do this. I can’t keep my wife and child safe. I can make all the well-laid plans in the world but I can’t keep them safe…I’m going to throw up…

A frantic series of calls to Erin’s sister and mine follows before my sister says she can run over and put the alarm on. And, you know, close the front door. Problem solved inside of half an hour and the house is secure again but the fear keeps tingling in the back of my brain. Knowing how silly it seems even as I’m doing it, I quietly recite the Green Lantern oath over and over, mantra-like, to keep from barfing all over the dashboard as we arrive at the hospital and…I make a wrong turn and miss the entrance. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Get it together, Scott. I turn around and park at the entrance. Our doula – who I’m now more grateful for than ever – escorts Erin into triage while I park and grab our bags. I can’t make jokes. I don’t know how to deal with all of our plans changing…

Triage presents new challenges. We labored at home, according to our plan, but based on Erin’s condition – she’s making clear “I’m about to give birth” noises and is 8-9 centimeters dilated – the nurse and our doula are saying she might not make it into the birth center. We might be giving birth right here in the triage center.

Damnit! This isn’t right, I knew we should have left earlier. We shouldn’t have labored at home for so long. This isn’t the plan. Erin needs to be comfortable, this isn’t right. The baby needs to be safe in the birthing center.

I lose it. I start crying. Not so much because of the fear – but boy is it there! – but because I look at Erin and see how amazing and strong she is. The contrast between the woman in front of me and my inner turmoil is striking.
She’s been in active labor for half a day and having contractions for days before that but she isn’t complaining, she’s focused on the goal and I realize I have married the most amazing woman in the world.

Gathering my mental faculties together for her sake, I learn we have enough time to get into the birth center and we get settled. The way everyone’s been talking about this imminent birth I assume we’re minutes away from seeing my daughter’s face but things seem to be progressing slowly. We get Erin into the bathtub to relieve some of the pressure and the midwife arrives. She checks Erin and says she’s…8-9 centimeters dialated.

And so plans change again…

We spend all of Monday morning in the birthing center trying everything we can to move the birth along. Turns out the baby’s head is pointed down but at an odd angle – there’s a term for it but I forget it now – and can’t get past Erin’s cervix. We try different positions, we try the bath again, we try reducing her cervix, nothing. Erin takes it like a champ and keeps apologizing to everyone for everything because she is from the Midwest and that is what we do. Her physical strength astounds me. I didn’t get to see Erin run the half-marathon last year but here’s the proof in front of me that she was up to the challenge. Meanwhile, the pain on her face is enough to make the fear creep back in my gut. I start crying again which makes Erin feel bad.

“I’m sorry you’re so upset, baby,” she says.

Oh nice, Scott. Give your actively-laboring wife something else to be concerned with. You’re supposed to be the tough one in this relationship. You’re the one who overcame fear, remember?

Then I feel the Lantern ring in the front pocket of my jeans. I put it on my finger. In my head I start thinking “I’m Hal Jordan. I am capable of overcoming great fear…” I know this probably means I’ve gone off the deep end but I don’t care. For my wife and child’s sake, I need to recognize this fear to overcome it. I’m going to shut that fucking door now.

“I’m Hal Jordan. I am capable of overcoming great fear…”

I look at my wife and see a woman who, despite being in the worst pain of her life for the past 12 hours, can take the time to console me. I remember who I am. My eyes dry. My head clears.

Then the plan changes again. Our doula, who prefaces what she is about to say with the words “I’m the last one to suggest this kind of intervention but…” says we’ve done everything we can to labor naturally and it’s time to think about some medical assistance in the form of pitocin to move things along. Erin looks up at me and I know what she’s thinking. This isn’t how we planned for things to go. What’s this going to mean? I take Erin’s hand in mine and tell her she’s done everything she possibly could. “You’ve done everything right. You were perfect.” We remind each other that this birth wasn’t about avoiding medical intervention but was about us making the best possible choices based on the facts at hand. And the facts said it was time for some help.

At this point in the story, the pitocin should have done its job, Erin should have given birth and all should have been well. But it didn’t. The pitocin intensified Erin’s contractions but still didn’t get us any further along than 8-9 centimeters. A couple hours later our midwife suggests Erin’s body is probably too tired to give birth right now and we need to give it a break. And an epidural. Erin and I look at each other again. Not according to the plan…but we make an informed decision and say yes. As the anesthesiologist arrives Erin says to me “You might not want to watch this.”

Me: What? Just because a guy cries all morning that makes him some kind of wuss?
Erin: Well you just seem a little sensitive this morning.
Me: I’m over that now.

The epidural allows Erin to take a nap. She and the baby are still healthy so there’s no reason to rush. The doctor ups the pitocin and we wait. But nothing happens. So finally we talk and decide a C-section is the only possible option. In terms of hours spent, Erin’s labored three times over by now. She and the baby did all they could. All the same, a C-section just wasn’t in the plan. It’s the first time in days I see Erin look scared. But after all she’s been through she knows she’s up for it.

Things move fast after that. Within an hour Erin’s in the delivery room and I’m sitting beside her in an outfit that looks like I’ll be leaving immediately after for the international space station. In fifteen minutes, I see the doctor holding a quiet, purplish body and my mind flashes to the APGAR test. Quiet and purple aren’t the ideals. I wonder if…no…everything’s going to be fine. We’re safe. Seconds later, I hear a baby crying and hear someone say “She’s pinkening up.” I turn to Erin and say “That’s our girl.”

Her name is Abigail Grace. Born February 28th at 523pm. Not according to plan, but right on time.

***

It’s two days later as I’m writing this and Erin’s been asleep with Abigail dozing on her chest. We went through our first night of near-constant feedings and diaper changes. I learned what it feels like to exchange sleeping through the night for a disconnected series of naps. I’ve watched Erin and Abigail breastfeed from their first few minutes together like they’ve been doing it their whole lives. And I was reminded again of all the reasons why I love Erin and am so grateful she’s my wife. I know there will be more challenges and difficulties to come but right now everything’s perfect.

Our daughter is amazing. Watching her figure out her little world is the best. I’m not wild about hospitals and I’ve been sleeping in a chair for two days but this little bunker of ours is full of love and wonderment and it rules.

As for my freakout, I’m almost glad it happened now. We had plenty of support around and it helped me make peace with something on my mind for weeks. I had to experience a taste of the fear, a bit of the poison so as to fashion an effective vaccine. Fear is just part of the plan.

Post-script: Our daughter is now four days old. One of those days involved Erin and I losing any confidence in ourselves due to bad-but-well-meaning advice and the fear of being bad parents, which I’m sure I’ll write about at some point. Luckily, we seem to have moved past that and gotten back to trusting our instincts. Everyone we’ve talked to says that mindset is better than a thousand books or tips from old vets. [UPDATE: Erin’s written about some of the difficulties of the last couple of days here.]

Tom Petty knew what he was talking about

Fatherhood

This past week, Erin’s been symptomatic of something called cholestasis. Now you could argue Erin’s been symptomatic of cholestasis for the past nine months –

SIDEBAR:
Ladies and gentlemen of Earth, there is a major conspiracy going on surrounding pregnancy. First, women are pregnant for ten months, not nine. Somewhere along the line, human behaviorists must have figured out if a pregnancy were described in double digits then it would reduce the number of people who got pregnant. So they propagated the lie of nine months. I think this also explains why no one mentions that “morning sickness” really lasts for your entire first trimester. The people behind this conspiracy use movies and television to propagate their lies but do not be fooled. There’s a bunch of other stuff but I’ve already said too much. (Except, dudes? If you play your cards right with foot massages and back rubs you can likely parlay the whole nesting thing into a new big-screen TV.)

If I do not survive, know that the Pregnancy Police have come for me in their black helicopters and ferreted me away to Room 101.
END SIDEBAR

– with the nausea, abdomen pain and digestion trouble but she also had itchy hands and feet so off for testing she went. The trick with cholestasis is the method of treatment is to treat whatever’s causing it: alcoholism, sarcoidosis, hepatitis, etc. In Erin’s case what’s causing it is her pregnancy. Treating it means making her not pregnant anymore which means inducing her and getting that thirty-nine-week little girl out of there. So the bags are packed and sitting in the car. The car seat is installed. Tick, tick, tick. Spending an entire day ready to go to Defcon 1 and…

…and then we find out it takes a week to get the results of her lab work.

I’ve tried to get my brain around this, but I can’t. The solution to the problem is to induce pregnancy but it takes a week to know if we have the problem? Shouldn’t you have an interim solution then? I have a computer that fits in my pocket but this we can’t solve?

***

People have been asking us “Are you ready?” and I answer “No. I know we’ll never really be ready to have a kid. Something’s always going to happen.” That hasn’t stopped us from trying, of course. Nor has it meant we’re leaving events solely to chance. But that thought – “Something’s always going to happen” – keeps my mind trained to accept fluidity. I don’t know how you mentally prepare yourself to assume the responsibility of not only keeping a human being safe from harm but also teaching them to live as full a life as possible. They’re just not compatible goals and I’d probably have a breakdown if I thought about it long enough. I have to assume the answer reveals itself over time.

So here I sit, occupying myself with comparatively nothing pressing. The last three weekends were flat-out sprints in the three-month race to turn our upstairs into Smith Family Central. I’m left now with to-do items of no real need like “Set favorites on car radio” and “Fix weird outlet in the living room.” I’ll likely do a couple hours of work to stay ahead during my time off. Maybe review the stages of labor or something.

***

We really thought Friday was going to be The Day. I figured I’d go to work in the morning and by noon I’d hear from Erin we were positive for cholestasis and I’d be off to the hospital. The night before I poured myself a glass of our best scotch and watched a couple episodes of “Chuck”, enjoying what I was sure would be the last moments of guilt-free selfishness for a good long while.

And then…nope.

Like that other Smith of some renown, I love it when a plan comes together. Not escaping my notice is how inducing Erin’s pregnancy means hypnobirthing and our plans for natural childbirth get tossed around a bit. We’ll still be able to use our hypnobirthing techniques and stick to most aspects of our birth plan but we’ll be getting a push – so to speak – at the start. We’ve said from the beginning that we’d do whatever we needed to do for a healthy birth for Erin and the baby. Our strategy remains the same but the execution has changed.

There’s little else to do now. We have a house, a nursery, a crib, a changing table, and many, many onesies and diapers. Our bags are packed, I know the route to the hospital and even familiarized myself with methods of “sleep training” so we might help our little girl avoid difficulties with colic. As far as I know, we’re all set.

We’re just waiting for something to happen.

(As a reminder, I’m using this space for longer, personal posts every once in a while. But I’m posting a few times a day at my Tumblr blog. Follow me there if you’re so inclined.)

The fall of summer

Fatherhood, , , , , ,

On Friday, I posted this on Facebook:


Some people “liked” it and others commented. My friend Megan said “There is nothing more awesome than that first time you put on jeans and a sweater without a coat. That means the weather is perfect. Ok, there are a couple more awesome things but you know what I mean.” To which I replied “And then you have a beer. And then it is perfect.” A bunch of other folks chimed in with similar sentiments.

This morning, my friend Marcus posted the following on my Facebook wall:


Leaving aside Marcus’s obvious exaggerations – worst case scenario sees spring return to Chicago in May and I spent many a joyous, sunny, warm afternoon on our back porch during my March to May layoff – I get where he’s coming from on this. The window is small. The days that call out for the beach or the pool are too few. Entire days that leave you thinking “Being outside today was great” are few in number.

And that’s exactly why I’m charging straight into fall.

I used to be a bit of a summer hater. Some of this is due to lifestyle issues; I used to hate wearing shorts and my pale, skinny body wasn’t exactly suited to temperatures and activities that exposed both to the sun or the gaze of others. Plus, when you’re a kid, summer rules. When you’re an adult, not so much. It’s hard to sit in an office and think about all the fun you could be having outside especially when you’re in clothes that are better suited to air conditioning. But last summer was a joke. It truly didn’t get acceptably warm until June and once fall arrived it felt as if the days that psychologically help you to prepare for the long winter ahead barely filled a week, much less a season.

So this year I embraced summer and didn’t complain even as the month of June dumped rainstorm after rainstorm on us and the month of August had me sweating through my button-down shirts as I walked to the train. I didn’t discover Phineas and Ferb until the mid-point of the summer but the theme song was exactly where my head was at:

(I don’t think I saw anything as poetic this summer as those first few seconds when the pages of the calendar drift off into the sun…)

I also started this summer unemployed after a work experience that taught me you can work as hard as you like at a job and it still won’t counterbalance a situation in which you’re set up to fail. I had the support of friends and family and spent that entire time hustling to find a new job. When I started work again two months later, I wondered if I’d misspent some of my time, not taking advantage of the warmth and the willingness of those around me to understand a desire to sit on my ass and do nothing but bask in a day of nothing to do. But I’m not that guy. I’m the guy who says “What are we going to do today?” And I had a great summer for it.

So I’m not celebrating the end of summer at all. But I’m also not going to mourn it either.

Fall tends to be when everything begins anew for me. Fall is when I started high school and resolved to become the person I knew I could be, not the person my junior high classmates thought I was. Fall is when I went to Ohio University after a summer of recovering from a life-threatening infection brought on by appendicitis and fell in with a group of people who became lifelong friends and gave me the chance to be a true leader. Fall is when I first fell in love. Fall is when I got married for the second, and last, time knowing full well I got it right. Fall is when we bought our house.

Then there are all of the lifestyle things about fall. Hot coffee, soup, chili and yes, scotch all go better with fall. I, like Megan, love sweaters and jeans. There’s a lot less sweating in fall and since sitting outside this past August wasn’t much fun on many occasions thanks to the humidity and the omnipresent mosquitoes, I’m looking forward to a few weeks of doing just that and enjoying all of the above.

Yes, fall means winter is coming. Winter in Chicago is rough, no question. Most years it has me cursing my existence come February. But I always consider it the price of admission for living in a city that I love the rest of the year. Of course, this year winter – February, specifically – is going to bring the birth of my daughter. So perhaps I have even more of a desire than others to dive into the next five months.

This summer taught me to embrace what’s right in front of you. As I type this I’m in our upstairs office with the windows open and a teasing breeze is gently making its way through from the open windows. I’m about to go outside and spend the better part of the next two hours tending to my lawn (which, frankly, this summer’s hot temps ravaged all to hell) then sit back and admire a job well done. This afternoon we’re going to a party with some friends. And I’m off of work tomorrow so I’ll sit on my back porch and read a book cover to cover. It’s 70 degrees outside right now and it’s supposed to be 85 tomorrow.

I don’t wish for there to be fewer days like this. I just know all the excitement and possibilities that come from putting them behind me for another year.

Pink

Fatherhood, , , ,

Sometimes I think I have no idea how to raise our girl to be a woman.

Sure, I’ve witnessed my parents do so with my sisters two. But then it’s only “I have an idea how to raise a girl to be a woman.” Not our girl to be a woman of my union with Erin. Because lo this is to be the girl who will grow to cure cancer, slay vampires, bring peace to the Middle East and will one day best monetize the websites of newspapers and magazines throughout the land.

She is to be The Chosen One.

Or so I’ve built it up in my mind.

In reality, she is but one more young woman who will be brought into the world by well-educated, over-read, liberal parents who are trying to steer their daughter clear of sexist influences and give her every choice in the world…except Pink.

Pink.

Last week, Erin and I were discussing colors for the nursery and I said “Anything but pink!” Because, of course, this will prevent…I don’t know.

Something.

It’s just too easy. Accepting pink as the default color for a girl is the equivalent of saying you liked The Joshua Tree when I was in high school: doing so raises far fewer questions about your personal point of view and allows you to get through a stressful situation without a bunch of weird looks.

In my mind, Pink is the pastel specter that hangs over our pregnancy. A threat far greater than any other, leading our daughter down the path of various princess-branded toys, which as everyone knows are the gateway drug to playing dumb to get boys to like her. And here thar be dragons!

***

A couple weeks before we learned we were having a girl, one of Erin’s relatives told us she hoped we were having a boy as she – owing largely to my fascination with all things Kryptonian – had bought us a few Superman onesies. Not missing a beat, Erin and I said our unborn child’s gender wasn’t an issue in this case as ours was a child destined to wear the shield.

Yet even Erin – a woman quite contrary – said to me at lunch last week “Our daughter might like pink and Barbies” in a tone that left unsaid the words “and that’s OK” as well as “and you might just have to suck it up and deal.”

My wife said these things after I expressed concern over exposing our daughter to – of all things – Phineas and Ferb as none of the female characters were women I’d want her to aspire to be:

* Candace – tattletale
* Isabella – boy-crazy (or Phineas-crazy, as it were)
* Mom – unobservant
* Vanessa – the child of an evil, if largely unsuccessful, mad scientist

My wife is more intelligent in these matters and reminded me that our daughter would likely want to model herself after Phineas and Ferb, the resourceful, charismatic, unstoppable heroes of the show. This brought me some measure of calm.

None of this should suggest I’m set on Turning Our Girl Into A Boy.* I want my daughter to be free to form her own identity, irrespective of the expectations of others, including – or especially – her father. After all, it’s not like I’m a typical male: I fake it pretty well but I know jack about sports, avoid dude culture at all costs and have preferred cocktails over beer since college. I’m far more Oscar Wilde than Oscar Madison.

My wish for our daughter is that she would be the human equivalent of an order in a Chinese restaurant: a little from column A and a little from Column B, becoming a well-rounded, thoughtful, multi-talented individual who’s sees nothing – even the color pink – in terms of gender and everything in terms of territory to explore at will.

* Let it be noted here that there’s an incredibly nuanced discussion to be had about gender constructs. Let it also be noted here that I’ve had a few glasses of wine and am unable to fully explore said discussion in the above but am aware of the issues surrounding it.