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Expectant

My father was a high school basketball star. Captain of the team and what not.

And it has often occurred to me, that, perhaps "five foot six, asthmatic child" would not have been a likely request tendered to any wish granting leprechaun storks within earshot.

Now, this isn't some existential diatribe about me and father. If I am a disappointment he has hidden this fact from me well, as any proper Minnesotan man should. And, having been versed in the art of genetics, I've made peace with the fact that the issue of my height is a burden more properly placed on the legacy of my mother's side than on my own glass existential shelf of meaning.

Over the past years, the only time I have imagined being a father, involves me crafting how I could teach my hypothetical child an important life lesson I just learned or formulated. In my mind, the child is attentive, and quiet, and completely appreciative of the depth and nuance of my meaning.

This is, of course, a pretty tall order, as I myself am absolutely terrible at receiving advice. I rarely think to seek it, and almost never recognize it when given, until well after the fact.

And so I often have to remind myself, that any hope for a patient child who will sit attentively, enraptured by my stories of wisdom was lost the moment I was involved in its conception...


Some have asked how I'm feeling. Anxious, excited, etc. And to be honest, I really don't think about it. I always find myself in a peaceful calm before any big change. It is always the long periods without change which wear on me the most (Elyssa, not so much).

The one worry I currently have, though, is that of saying goodbye to my current life.

This period of life elyssa and I have shared together, since college. Moving to a big city, settling in together, learning to get along. Falling into a pleasant routine. It is good, and it lacks a formal name. Nameless, and assumed useless by society. We have found peace these past few years. A type of golden years, except I'm not working as a Walmart greeter.

So it's sometimes hard not to imagine that we are sitting idly by, while the impending pregnancy slow fills the house, like a snuffed pilot light steadily mixing flammable gas with the oxygen in the house, working towards the ignition point where all daily life as we know it will be exploded every which way.

It's made all the harder by the lack of even a term for this period of our life?

Jonathan Coulton wrote a song about this very thing. And while he didn't see fit to coin a word, he certainly sang it's name: You Ruined Everything... (In the nicest way).

And while most people would agree that I have absolutely no idea of what is about to happen, that doesn't mean there isn't insight to be found in my current proto-patriarch state. In fact, for the first time, I find myself able to imagine who my parents were before my commanding screams disrupted them. For the first time, to understand that they were not always parents, but rather mere mortals who were thrust into the defining mythic roles of my life...

Quoth the Ouroborous "So that's what my tail tastes like!"

Now, any parent is honor bound via some super secret pinky swear at the hospital to claim that having a child is the most wonderful point of your life. I can only nod, oblivious to their advice, completely unable to comprehend what is to come.

But I truly hope they are right, because these past years have been pretty darn great.

2 comments:

I have enjoyed this version of you. And I am very much looking forward to the father version of you as well.

Also:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=...
by: Mike (contact) - 17 Sep '07 - 23:55
Oh good lord, I am dying of how cute that video is.
by: Meg (contact) - 18 Sep '07 - 21:34



 




Meta Information:

Title: Expectant
Date posted: 17 Sep '07 - 23:27
Filed under: General
Word Count: 625 words
Good Karma: 98 (vote)
Bad Karma: 83 (vote)
Next entry:  The Neverending Day
Previous entry:  The Basement Ceiling is for Porn

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