A dad on the bus with headphones

Some of these thoughts go back to after the birth of my first son, who is now 5 years old. At the time I was married for less than 2 years. I still felt like a kid myself, aside from having lost all of my hair in my late 20’s. Now I’m 35, nearly 36, and I have 3 sons, ages 5 years, 3 years, and 4 months, often asking myself, “How did I get here?”

We found out my wife was pregnant a few days after returning from a trip to Hawaii, which was 6 months after we returned from our honeymoon in Australia. I had just turned 30. We’d soon realize we wouldn’t globe trot like that for the foreseeable future if ever again. I started reading books, Jim Gaffigan’s “Dad Is Fat” and “Pregnancy Sucks For Men” by Joanne and Jeff Kimes. I started watching movies from my youth about childbirth and the early stages of life with a baby, like “Look Who’s Talking” and “Nine Months.”  Then I started thinking about how life would change. When overwhelmed by those feelings I’d try to tell myself, life won’t really change. You’ll keep your self-appointed coolness, all those faults will just disappear and won’t be in any way impressed upon this new little person you’re probably going to spend the rest of your life trying to keep under your thumb; the antithesis of cool. As a very cool pre-dad sendoff, my wife planned a trip for me and my brother to go to Disney World when she was 7 months pregnant. Just a couple of guys in their 30’s, one about to be a father for the first time, hanging out in the happiest place on earth. We went there a lot as kids and it seemed more practical than Vegas. I looked at everything through a different set of eyes. 

When we flew home my dad picked my brother up from the airport. I gave him a hug, told him I loved him, and we went our separate ways. That Saturday my parents were going to come down to help us finish planning for my wife’s baby shower the next month. My dad wasn’t feeling well that day, so I told my mom it was OK, they didn’t have to drive down, we could finish it up the week after. He laid down to take a nap in the evening and never woke up. They rushed him to the hospital, but there was nothing they could do, he died at the age of 60. 30 years after I was born, and the same age as his father when he died. The next days became a blur of emotion and waves of grief over not just the loss of my dad, but my unborn son’s loss of a grandfather he would never know. Repeating the same pattern of my father’s own loss, only he lost his father at age 16, and I lost him at 30. I would never get to convey the true appreciation a new parent has for their own parents only when they start to experience the pressures of being the conductor of a safe and secure environment for their own child. I would never get to ask his advice again, or hear it unsolicited, I could only take the pieces and memories I had to try to guide me in what I thought he would impart.  I decided to start keeping track of things more, to take stock of what was in me I’d want my own son to remember one day after I'm not here to sell my revisionist history of it. Maybe one day he would be a parent, or at the very least I might be enough to him to be willing to hear what I had to say when he got to an age of caring or just being aware for those types of things. I started writing my thoughts down, not only for my kids, but for my dad because his memory deserved that much. In my commute to work on the bus these streams of consciousness come, usually with headphones on and music in my ears, empathy and anticipation in my heart. Sometimes I’ll mention a song I was thinking of or listening to while writing. Neil Young’s “Long May You Run” comes to mind at this moment.  Not everything will be this dire, I promise, this is just a bit of context into this exercise.  More to come...

#NeilYoung #LongMayYouRun #Dad #NewDads