05:00AM, 9th November 2009, Nurse entered our room and asked me to go out so that she could start basic preparations for surgery. In just another few minutes, my parents and mother-in-law arrived. They caught me standing at the doorstep of my wife’s room. They asked about her, I told them that nurse was inside the room and preparing to take Pooja for operation. After 15 minutes, nurse opened the door, with my wife on the streature with a drip in arm. I could easily notice numerous expressions floating on her face. Nobody could speak anything to Pooja and only communication that took place with Pooja was with wet eyes. I hold her hand and walked along with streature as nurse ushered her to the operation theater.

I was stopped at the door as the nurse pushed the streature inside operation theatre and closed the door behind. It was 05:30AM by then. Three member doctors of a panel of 4 doctors were already inside the operation theatre, waiting for the anaesthesia doctor to join them. Soon he arrived and entered hastily the operation theatre and after a little while, the red bulb outside OT was switched on. I started walking at the OT door anxiously. My parents and my mother-in-law joined me walking down the corridor. I could easily figure out that they were constantly murmuring prayers on their lips. Ages passed while walking here and there. Every passing second was going away like hours. I could only pray for the well being of my wife and nothing else. At about 05:50AM, we heard a long sound of a baby crying coming from operation theatre. OT door opened and a nurse came out with a big smile on her face. She immediately went to my mother and gave her the news that a healthy baby boy was born. My parents and my mother-in-law congratulated each other and of course me too. I asked nurse about my wife and after she told me that Pooja was fine and she was getting stitches, I had a deep sigh breath.

The crying sound was continuously coming out of the OT. Nurse told us that the pediatrics doctor and nurses were cleaning the baby that is why he was crying. After cleaning, doctor gave lactogen to baby (first time feeding) and dressed him. At the same time gynaecologist was busy in closing my wife’s wound with stitches. At 06:45, the red bulb outside the OT went off and paediatrics doctor came out with the baby boy wrapped in towel and gave him in my mother’s arms. She immediately took the baby into the room as it was very cold in the hospital corridor. I wanted to see my wife first and then my baby. I was still waiting at the Operation theatre door for my wife to come out. Nurses were getting inside and coming out of the operation theatre every now and then. Whenever the door was opening, I would expect that Pooja would come out. But I had to wait for another half an hour when I first saw my wife after surgery. It was 07:15AM, when she was taken out of OT on streature. She was unconscious and looked as if she had fallen sick for long. I held her hand and walked through the corridor to the room. With the help of nurses, I shifted Pooja from the streature to her bed. She was later covered up with a blanket and continued to have a drip of fluids with pain killers and healing agents.

I turned to my left where my mother-in-law was sitting on the adjacent bed with the baby in her arms. I saw my baby first time. Instinctively I sensed wetness in my eyes. It was a divine feeling which could not be expressed in words. I kept on looking at him for minutes. He was looking so soft, squashy and pulpy that I could not touch him thinking that I would harm him. Looking at my baby I felt proud thinking that during initial 7.5 months of pregnancy, my wife was with me and I took or tried my level best to take care of her alone , on my own. I very well know that no father can match the pain a mother takes in nurturing a life in her womb and giving birth, but I was thinking that at least I also tried my bit to make my wife’s journey smoother in some way.

I turned again towards Pooja as she was gradually regaining consciousness. I thanked her for she bestowed the most precious gift to me. She gave me a feeble smile and slipped to sleep as the effect of anaesthesia had yet not gone completely.

You hear rumors, urban legends.  But you don’t believe them.  Nah, that is not realistic, you say.  And if it does happen, well, there must be some cruel stuff going on.

I am talking about babies and toddlers that go to sleep early and then stay asleep all night.  You know, good sleepers.

Tonight is the third night in a row that both children went to bed before 7.  We have no idea what to do.  How do you have an adult life again?  We wander around, exhausted, talking, watching a little TV, waiting for the kids to get up.  They have to get up.  But they don’t.  They sleep. (Not until morning.  No, we don’t have kids like that.  But, for them, they sleep soundly.)

We made it happen to some degree.  We got real hard about no naps after daycare for NK – even 20 minute ones.  We are finally ready to pounce on the 6pm drowsiness, not waiting until the 7pm drowsiness.  As for the baby, he no longer has an ear infection, is not teething at the moment and is not learning any new skills.  So he can rest a bit.

Tonight, they went to sleep early after a big Thanksgiving dinner.  Here is an expat Thanksgiving for you.

Wake up.  Wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving.

Take toddler to daycare.  Go to work.

Remember Thanksgiving occasionally.  Forget it completely most of the day.

Work.  Go to meetings.  Edit stuff.

Talk to the daycare teacher about Thanksgiving.

Come home to turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie made from scratch, among other things.

Almost cry of joy at the smell of the pie.  Thank your Swedish wife profusely.

Try to explain to the toddler that the turkey decorations and pilgrim candles are not for her birthday, but for everyone.

Eat.  Do a video call with grandma and grandpa.  With the cousins.

Watch the toddler obsess over the pumpkin pie, which she knows from the end of the second verse of “Over the hills and through the woods.”

“Hurrah for the fun.  Is the pudding done?  Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!”

Children sleep – magically and mysteriously.

Watch football.  Eat more pie.

Be happy.

Often, we find ourselves dwelling in dark places, with little joy, and we find it difficult to recognize the true gifts we have in life.  Perhaps these gifts are our parents, our children, or our spouse.  Perhaps these gifts are friends or teachers who have helped us along the way.  Maybe these gifts are simple pleasures in life, like a few minutes to relax after a long day or week, or a sunset (or even a sunrise).  We all have gifts in our lives, but sometimes they are easy to forget; and as a result we fail to give thanks.

We live imperfect lives –  in imperfect times.  One of our challenges, is to seek a path that does not aim to perfect but rather to accept life’s imperfection while working to improve life, to reduce suffering.  There is a great deal of suffering in this world.  Very likely, you suffer.  We all do in one way or another.  Your suffering may be physical.  It may be mental or emotional.  It may be caused by an ailment or a relationship with another person.  Suffering is the human condition.  And yet, we can work to reduce suffering, in our own lives, and in the lives of others.  One way is to give thanks.

When we give thanks, we acknowledge that our suffering has been relieved in someway.  It feels good to give thanks.  We smile when we say thank you.  It reduces suffering, not only for the person who is giving thanks but for the person how is being thanked.

This year, on Thanksgiving, I am thankful for many things.  I’ve got good health, good family, good friends, and all the things for which we are usually thankful.  But what I’m most thankful for, is that I’ve discovered some ways to be more mindful in my life and these practices are making a difference.  I am thankful that I am feeling more joy and wonder even in imperfect times in this imperfect life.

Lila-Jeanne is here now on the sunshine side of the womb. She is beautiful beyond the singing of it. Just before dawn she surfaces from her heroic struggle. Breaking through, she lets loose with an impassioned caterwauling filling her lungs with air for the first time. Under her membranous wrapping she is our rosy pink gift – warm, spluttering movement, uncertain and authentically surprised.

Mélanie sweats, grinds, bears down, pushes, struggling through the pain. Bands of steely muscle contract and loosen. Her body marches inexorably to a final unwinding. She is courageous beyond the telling of it. A last determined push helps propel Lila out to our side. Her serpentine cord, that inimitable bond, unravels like a lazy spring. In an instant, nine long months of anticipation become a joyous eternity. Her presence overwhelms us. Lila is laid on Mélanie’s breast – mother and daughter heartbeat to racing heartbeat.

I am buoyant, awash in a warm sea inhaling life’s elemental scent. This is pure joy. I am a lucky man to experience this miraculous moment one more time. I cradle Lila in my arms, our first skin-to-skin touch, and look into her small, awakened face. She stops crying as I gently rock her while walking back and forth. I’m pleased the tears pause. Just maybe I’m emitting some subliminal positive vibes that are helping her in some small way.

Did I mention that maman shows her champion mettle throughout this crescendo of breathe, push, pain – breathe, cry, birth – baby, sigh, smile?

It wasn’t always a sure thing though. Mélanie was convinced we would be returning home to The Passage with her big belly intact. Three hours after checking in dilation was still only at 2 cm. We walked around and around and around the small maze garden to stir things up after the early labour nurse gave it a go too. It didn’t appear that the stirring was going to take.

It was a relatively calm evening so we got checked into a birthing room. Mé took a long warm bath and soon afterward the contractions picked up intensity and frequency. After several waves, Mé decided it was time to call on the purveyor of the epidural – the magic man. As well as diminishing the pain, the anesthetic provided an energy jolt.

Mé was in her groove initiating conversations with the nurses about family and children, reaching out to learn about their lives. One of the nurses works regularly in remote communities in northern Manitoba. Mélanie was able to share her Poplar River experiences from many years ago. It was one of the few communities the nurse had not yet visited.

Our main nurse was with us right through to the birth. She is the same age as my oldest daughter and has two young children of her own – one pre-schooler, one school age. She was a sweet heart helping Mé throughout the night. She is a member of the Salvation Army and one of her pastors was a close friend of mine during high school. The world can be so small and beautiful.

Our doctor had been alerted earlier in the evening and received a second call to haul her out of bed and get her to the hospital. On arrival she told us she had already delivered this baby once in a dream. There had been only one snag, she couldn’t find a clamp she needed, nor could any of the nurses. There were massive amounts of blood spurting from the baby getting on everyone and everything and then she woke up. Happily, there were no lost clamp issues in the real life delivery. However, I did have to pull the doctor’s ringing blackberry our of her back pocket, tell her daughter to get ready for hockey and let her know that her mom was busy and would call her back. Life goes on even as new life bursts on the scene.

The kids are waking up back in The Passage. Lila-Jeanne and Mé get a kiss as I float out the door, dazed and euphoric. Back home, Raymond and the children are waiting wide-eyed. Noah’s exuberant, impromptu dance while rapid fire chanting his new sister’s name is a welling up of primal joy, unbridled, uncut. Nellie is right their by his side spinning, weaving, smiling, laughing still a pixie babe herself. Raymond is beatific tout court.

I make the calls to immediate family with the good news and contact my office. Even though I didn’t do any of the hard work, it’s been a long night. Raymond lets me crash to get a little rest. I drift off with the new baby smell and thoughts of Lila-Jeanne in my mind.

Thank you Mélanie for being a loving maman and a fearless championne.

A year ago, I had no idea what I was in for. Jill was still pregnant and we were still about a month away from our big day. Last Thanksgiving, we were giddy with excitement about the boy’s arrival and it felt dizzying at times getting ready for everything. The checklist was being knocked off one chore at a time: get nursery painted, put together furniture, get clothes, celebrate baby showers. I think we probably still have a few left to tackle but I can’t, for the life of me, think of what they are at this point.

But that’s part of the buzz and bliss of it all.

Going into this, we knew that it would be equal parts fun, exciting, terrifying, mystifying, strange, cool and everywhere in between. But, in coming up to this holiday of thanks (and since I seem to be prone to creating lists of late), I’d like to share some things I am thankful for being a father:

• I love raising a child in this state — in this region. There are plenty of amazing places to raise a kid, but Oregon suits us best. I am an unabashed Pacific Northwest fan and I love the fact that our child can grow up here — and that we can be parents in this community of good people.
• I am extremely thankful for the grandparents. My in-laws are close to us and take great care of our son on the days he’s not in daycare. They constantly help out and no request is too big or too small. My family lives out east and when they visit, they give the boy (and us) so much love. It’s also great to have Skype and a Flip camera to share the moments growing up.
• I have a great group of friends and colleagues. They are a part of our family. I am grateful that I can share all of this with them — and I am even more grateful for their friendship and support.
• I’m grateful for all of you who choose to take the time to read what I write. This blog is in its infancy (no pun — seriously) but I am looking forward to seeing where it all goes. I am grateful for your contributions and generous support.

Have a great Thanksgiving with your family and friends. It is a time to celebrate and be thankful — and I hope that you enjoy it to the fullest.

Fatherhood

Just recently, one of my best friends witnessed the birth of his first child and thus embark on the journey of fatherhood. 

For many in my generation, we have already been down this road and for a few of us still, the journey has yet to start.  To those of us that are priviledge to become fathers, it is something that will define you and fulfill you in ways you cannot ever imagine.  It is the perfect rollercoaster of emotions. 

Now of all the people who I knew that would be or were becoming fathers, my old roommate was by far the most prepared and best equiped.  He has always had a certain level of paternal aura to him and it would have been a true tragedy had it not happened.   Fatherhood is the completion of the life process from child to adult. 

From my own life, perseverance, commitment, responsibility, self-preservation, and discipline were the values instilled into me.  It was from my father’s own experiences that he wish to bestow on me toughness and empower me to survive the harshness of life  that he demanded those characteristics.  It was these indelible impressions of rigidness that lead a teenage son to question a father, based solely on an understanding of envy; a wish for less severe methods of  parenting.  But from these lessons, that I so fiercely came to battle, I gained an understanding and an appreciation that would later be employed in my own fathering and provide me insight into the man my own father was and how he saw fatherhood.

Now in a moment of reflection, I see it as the blending of cultures and of backgrounds and the mishmashing of environments and personalities that would ultimately hold the ingredients to the father I am and the one that I will become and hope to be.  We all hope that when it is all said and done that we did the best job we could with what we had.  I truly hope my own child will understand that during the context of her own life. 

Fatherhood offers us all the chance to play the hero, that impressionable little soul sees you as you see them, perfect.  To my old college roommate, welcome to the club and savior the moments as I know you will.

Him: Fae!  They wouldn’t eat Spaghetti-O’s.  What kid doesn’t eat Spaghetti-O’s!

Me: Ours?

Him: Ok, I made a rookie mistake.

Me: (pause)

Him: They asked for brownies this morning before breakfast, and I let them have some.

Me: (pause)

Him: They didn’t eat any eggs I made them for breakfast.

Me: (pause)

Him: Why did you hide the diaper bag?!!  Why aren’t Seanny’s diapers in there?!!

(For the record: The diaper bag has been in the same spot since March when we moved in, on the dryer by the garage door.  I stocked the diaper bag before I left.  He didn’t look in the right place, which has been the same place since Sean was born two and half years ago.  It’s even labeled.)

Him: So I made another mistake.  I noticed Evan was running around and holding himself at the park, so I asked him if he needed to go to the potty.  He said yes, but he wanted to go to Grandma’s and Papi’s to do it (because they were going there any ways after the park).  So I moved quickly, got everyone there quickly.  I pulled Evan out, who ran to the door.  He tripped and fell.  He peed.  He was very upset.

Me: I bet he was.

Him: So then we- Guys!  Stop that!  No hitting!  No splashing!  No!  Stop That!  Igottago.

(The Husband decided to bathe the boys Monday morning, and I happened to call at that time.)

Him: So when are you coming home?

Me: 3:30 today.

Him: Real quick.  What time is Evan’s school?

Me: 12:30.  Leave the house at 12:15 to make sure you have time to strap everyone in and out.

Him: Babe, you’re greatly appreciated.

Me: At least for a week.

We’re probably going to attend more Cyclone basketball games. The girls had fun and more importantly, they were really pretty damn good.

Aside from Bails trying to get out the door wearing these.

Orange shoes? C’mon Dad, what’s the big deal?

This. This is the big deal.

And if you discount the fact getting her to sit relatively still was about as successful as trying to contain a greased octopus. But all of that happened with about 5 mintues left.

Anyway, I don’t think any of the girls had more fun than Kinsey. Maybe Bailey and Riley when Kinz and I brought them cardinal and gold snow cones. No ice cream because the line looked like a bunch of Canadians waiting for health care.

We’re about midway through the first half and Kinz leans over to Mom, “Mom we’re doing awesome! They are really trying hard!”

First, this is awesome because she referred the Cyclones as “we” and second she was paying attention. On her own. And she was enjoying the game. Not watching the cheerleaders, not watching the mascot, but the game. I guess I was right when I said the NCAA tournament is good for babies…

Then a few minutes into the second half I ask her, “Hey Kinz, how do you think we’re doing?”

She replies, “Dad, it’s 50-28, I think we’re doing pretty good.”

Plus we were six rows off the floor behind one of the baskets. Great seats. Mom and the girls even got on the big video board a few times. More basketball games for us.

For all the Mothers and Fathers-to-be at the house of HOTASBALLS

Admittedly, this cartoon is more about the cat than the child, but it made a nice Thanksgiving edition!  The cat in question truly had never jumped on a counter before.  Yet, the words literally had not finished coming out of the girl’s mouth before the cat was spread eagle on the Thanksgiving turkey!

Happy Thanksgiving to all!  And a special Happy Thanksgiving to parents and other adults who are blessed to have a child / children in their lives!

Arloa Reston

Congratulations! You’re having a baby!

After what seems like an eternity, you’ll finally get to see the end results of your drunken, fumbling sexual encounter nine months ago.

But hold on. Before you start dangling your new offspring off the nearest balcony, there are several intermediate steps that must be taken. We’ll run down the pre-delivery preparations, the “miracle” of childbirth and some post-delivery issues and concerns.

So grab a notebook and pay close attention. The information here could save your life.*

*Note: Does not contain life-saving information.

Most pregnant women should drink plenty of fluids. However, this one should put that glass the fuck down.

Pre-Delivery

The Labor Bag
Labor can (and most often, will) occur at the most inopportune/inconvenient time. Any number of events may be put on hold including:

• Getting some sleep
• Awaiting sentencing
• Consummating an affair
• Having a beer with the guys

Due to its last-minute nature, you will need to have a “labor bag” or suitcase of essential items packed and ready to go at all times. Follow these checklists to ensure you arrive at the hospital prepared to deal with any eventuality.

Hers (see Appendix B)

Her kit will contain 185-315 items depending on various factors. The bags/suitcases needed will take up the entire trunk of most mid-sized sedans and weigh between 250-300 lbs.

Please note that this “kit” will always be missing a minimum of one or two suddenly important items. Fancy Plans cannot be held responsible for any shit you might take for not bringing the listed items.

You may be asking what items like “#8 Needle and Gray Thread” or “Steel Magnolias shooting script” are doing on this list. We have no idea, either. The only sure way to find out why it’s important to have is to not bring it. And god help you if that happens.

You’ve been warned.

His

• Toothbrush
• Newspaper
• Cigarettes (optional)

(Note: Any “His” item will be available for purchase on the hospital premises with the exception of the cigarettes, which will be available at a distance inversely proportionate to how badly you need one.)

Hey. Pregnancy is no reason to not arrive in style.

The Trip
As the due date draws closer, begin looking for signs that your partner is in labor. She will often drop several hints (and occasionally, body fluids). Listen closely for telltale phrases such as these:

• “My water broke.”
• “The contractions are x minutes apart.” (x = any number less than infinity)
• “I hate you.”
• “We need to go.”
• “Now.”
• “I can’t believe you slept with my sister!”
• “My instructor was Mr. Langley, and he taught me to sing a song. If you’d like to hear it I can sing it for you.”

From here, you have more choices to make.

Should you drive yourself? If you feel confident in your ability to make it from Point A to Point B in a minimum amount of time, while providing very occasional comfort to your partner between dodging suddenly oncoming traffic and tenacious highway patrolmen, go ahead and pick this option.

If you would rather that someone else handled the driving, freeing you up to calm your partner, consider asking a close friend or family member to take the wheel. Be aware that your partner’s highly emotional state will likely result in a sudden, high-volume airing of your “dirty laundry.” Depending on who is involved, this may result in some awkwardness, some of which will persist for years.

Perhaps your best bet is to call a cab. First, the presence of a complete stranger will reduce the awkwardness felt as all your worst traits and choices are put on display. The language barrier may also work in your favor.

Secondly, you can greatly reduce your hospital bill by having the cabbie deliver the baby. All cab drivers are required to pass the Backseat Delivery Certification Exam (BDCE) in accordance with every movie ever made. The only downside (besides ruining your partner’s dream of a clinical, sterile environment staffed by professionals) is you may have to name your child after the driver, which may result in unwieldly monikers such as “Abdullah Stevensen.”

Most healthcare professionals will tell you that it can be very beneficial for a mother in labor to take a walk. This will encourage contractions and can be somewhat calming.)

Consider sending your partner down the eight flights of stairs to hail a cab. She’ll get the “contraction” jumpstart she needs, leaving you time to wrap up the last-minute odds-and-ends like finishing the back nine on Tiger Woods’ Golf or calling her sister to inform her that you won’t be meeting her at the hotel.

Well, apparently they need a bigger arrow because you're still going the wrong way, Einstein.

Checking In
Once you have arrived at the hospital, a million more decisions will need to be made. As the man (and the person not in severe pain and/or covered in their own bodily fluids), these decisions, which will affect both of you, will need to be made both carefully and quickly.

You may also need to answer some questions during check-in. Let’s hope you have been paying attention. Among the many questions you’ll be answering incorrectly are:

• Due Date (“Ummm… today?”)
• Dilation (“I think it’s just the harsh hospital lighting.”)
• Contraction Interval (“Less than infinity.”)
• Partner’s Last Name (“I’m not sure. The same as her sister’s I think.”)
• Closest Relative (“Well, her sister’s at the Ramada…”)
• Known Allergens (“Buckwheat… and… nickel.”)
• Previous Pregnancies (“This is my first that I’m aware of…”)

Once you have finished fucking these up and sent your partner off to a night full of unnecessary procedures and allergic reactions (all under an assumed name), it’s time to proceed to the delivery room.

Coming up next: The Delivery Room, The Delivery & Documenting the “Miracle.”

-CLT

Kinsey had a tough morning today. Which is too bad because nobody was more excited about this week as her. Maybe me. But its close. Its Thanksgiving Week. You get two Fridays and a holiday that revolves around football. That’s not a bad week. Plus it’s officially Christmas season starting Friday.

The girls only have school Monday and Tuesday. To take advantage of that, we’re taking them all to their first Cyclone basketball game this evening. If they’re good, they can have a Cyclone swirl cone. Which is cardinal and gold colored soft serve ice cream. I’m bringing lots of wipes.

Yesterday Kinsey pops out of bed and comes into the bathroom while I’m brushing my teeth. And Kinsey popping out of bed on a school day happens about as often as I wake up saying, “Woo hoo! Sex and City marathon on TV today!”

Anyway, I’m brushing away and Kinz says, “Dad this is going to be the best week ever. We only have to go to school for two days, we going to our first Cyclone basketball game and get ice cream and we get to go to Grandpa and Grandma’s house.” Except she said it without taking a breath or any of the normal pauses you would anticipate.

Anyway, ever since Kinz was about three she’s had this aversion to wearing shirts that have “things” on them. It’s weird. For example, if a shirt has any lettering or design that is located within an area that Kinsey believes is the center of the shirt, she won’t wear it. But if the entire shirt has a pattern like stripes or polka dots or a design that isn’t located in the center but off to the side or located on both the left and right lapel areas, she’ll wear it. She’s corporate America’s worst nightmare.

Solid color shirt? No problem. Nike logo in the middle of the shirt? No can do amigo. It’s taken time but we’re pretty clear on what she’ll wear and what she won’t. The amount of resistance likely to occur and the amount of time before I need to be at work are key determinants in picking out her clothes for the day.

Today, however, Mom decided to prove a point. Proving a point for no other reason other than we’re the parents and they are the kids is a perfectly acceptable thing for parents to do. It’s a proven technique. Parents, coaches and dictators have been doing for years. Why did Ditka put in the Fridge in Super Bowl 20 to score a touchdown when it was already 37-3? Because he was proving a point. Why did the Germans take the Sudetenland in 1938? Because they could.

Mom and I have employed this technique separately and jointly over the years. I, however, have chosen not to employ this strategy in the morning. Its not a battle I’m willing to fight before 7 a.m. on a weekday. Any other time, except for the obvious exceptions involving the period of time right before a Steelers game, I’m willing to utilize blitzkrieg and/or shock and awe techniques to end any disagreements.

Mom, on the other hand, has no such aversion to fighting this battle at any point during the day.

Today she decided that Kinz was going to wear this shirt. It’s nice. But, as you can plainly see, it has an argyle pattern that goes right down the middle. Now this really isn’t a cut and dried case. It’s possible that the three diamonds in the argyle design constitute enough of a consistent pattern that covers enough of the shirt that Kinz will deem it wearable without crying. And screaming. And whining. It is also possible that it is included in the “shirts with stuff on them” group that Kinz isn’t going to wear. And she has decided this firmly. Its like she’s decided its just part of who she is. Like irrelevance to Chris Matthews.

But Mom is like Grant at Vicksburg and resistance eventually collapses save a few muted whines.

“Daddy, I really didn’t want to wear this shirt.”

“Too bad kiddo. Whining is always the wrong decision. And that’s what you did. If we let you wear a different shirt now, you’d think that all it took to get your way was lots of whining and crying.”

“No I wouldn’t.”

Did you see that? She seamlessly, almost effortlessly, went from the whining and crying routine right into the sweetness and charm method.

Who is dreading the teen years? This guy…

“But while he was a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.”  -Jesus Christ, “The Parable of the Prodigal Son,” The Gospel of Luke 15:20

There must be some spiritual substance that we cannot comprehend. Maybe it is biological and just runs through our blood and that is why we cannot control it. The sins of the father are visited upon the children to the third and fourth generations (Numbers 14:18). This is even the case, it seems, when the father is nowhere to be found. How can this be? How is a man’s seed laid so deep in just one moment of climax, when we spend nine months incubating in our mother’s womb? Shouldn’t we be more like our mothers than our fathers? For me, I have my mother’s personality; it is true. However, I cannot escape my father. Somehow in my blatant rebellion against him when I was trying to prove my manhood to the world, I did pick up a bit of wisdom from the man; for instance, I have his solid and strong work ethic. Just the same, ask any woman I’ve ever been with and she will tell you: I also possess all of his faults to some degree. I think of my own children, my two sons, and when I consider the mountain of faults that I have possessed while raising them, I shudder with fear and shame.

My first experience with fatherhood came when I was only nineteen years old. I had befriended a woman who was pregnant at the young age of eighteen. She had no interest in marrying the father. When her son was four months old we were married, and by the time he could talk, he was calling me dad. I did not steal him from his biological father. That man just disappeared. He was a man in his mid-twenties who preyed on girls still in high school with the enchanting ability to purchase alcohol. A real winner. When this man stopped showing up for visits, everyone agreed it was better for the boy I began to call my son.

I was a good step-father; one of the best, but it wasn’t until three and a half years later that I truly became a father. That is when son number two was born. I am not saying that we can only truly be fathers to our biological children. On the contrary, I did my very best to love and cherish and provide for the first boy. As I made the decision to love, I did love, and delight in my child. However, something deep inside me changed the day my second son was born. There was a spiritual shift in my heart. It did not happen when he was conceived; it did not happen when my wife grew large and I could feel him kicking against my back at night; it did not happen until he came out of the womb and I saw him for the first time. It was at that moment I discovered the meaning of life. I held this tiny human being in my arms, all bloody and gooey, and I knew that I would fight off dragons and swim across oceans to protect him if need be. I knew I would clean his poop and throw up. I would listen to endless stories, answer endless questions, and laugh at pointless jokes. I would learn to play sports and read books that I hated because he loved them. I would take a bullet for him, and more importantly, I would sacrifice all my hopes and dreams, everything that I did not get to accomplish in my very short life, to ensure that he was able to succeed in his. I looked into eternity that day; I understood what my most important purpose in life was. And when I carried this frail human being out and placed him into his big brother’s arms, I looked into my oldest son’s eyes, and for the first time I saw the eternity in him. For the first time I understood the difference between adoption and sonship. All the love, all the hope, all the wonder so newly discovered in my heart for the son of my flesh, was poured out for and transferred onto this child I had so long taken care of. Where physics and logic might tell you that there would not be room enough for both, it was like the size of my heart exponentially doubled and then quadrupled in size to make the room. Truly looking into this child’s eyes for the first time, I knew instantly that I would sacrifice my life for both of my boys.

Our Heavenly Father is like that with us. Ever since our very first parents, Adam and Eve, sinned, we have been spiritual orphans. By submitting to the snake’s authority, we chose to remove ourselves from the Father of all things, we stole his parental rights and claimed freedom, but we lost the blessing of inheritance in the process. With no place to call home, we wander a harsh and lonely wasteland. Unwilling to trust anyone around us, our first instinct is murder and survival of the fittest. But ever since Jesus was born, that pure and perfect Son who only did what he saw the Father doing, he began to forge the path to help us find the way back home again. In his perfection, he took the place of our punishment. He gave his life for ours, and he became the way. When the Father looks in our eyes, he does not see our sin and rebellion; he only sees the pure and positive possibilities: He sees all our hopes and dreams and his love freely pours out to us. We are not just adopted sons and daughters; rather, we are co-heirs and siblings with Jesus. Through Jesus, we have found our way to true sonship, and we finally have a father who will truly guide us into goodness and righteousness. In Jesus, all our sins are forgiven; even the ones passed down from generation to generation. However, to receive the blessing, we must make the choice to accept his authority once again. We must learn to walk in his ways.

Son number one is now seventeen years old. He is a man, so he tells me, and he does not need to follow any of my foolish rules anymore. I would probably agree with him, were it not that his rebellion started while he was still very young, and I fear he may have missed some of the most important lessons I offered him. What can I do? He will be a legal adult soon, and he will truly be responsible for all his own choices. He has made it clear to me that I am only step-dad at best in his eyes; he wants nothing from me, either good or bad, so I need to just keep my advice to myself. He will find his own way without me. Some of what he speaks is justified. His mother and I split up a long time ago, and he has had trouble trusting me ever since. In the wake of that title wave of destruction we call divorce, I have made many mistakes. I often chose the heritage of my earthly fathers over the heritage of my Heavenly One. But that, too, was long ago, and my redemption and restoration has been solid and true. My heart still glows with love for him, but it is also broken at his rebellion and rejection, but what can I do? He will be a man soon; he will be cast out into the wilderness to wander without the guidance of the compass of lessons he could have chosen to receive from me. What can I do? I will choose to do what I see the Father doing with all of us: “He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.” Matthew 5:45. I will continue to provide for him and be there when he needs me, whether he acknowledges my existence or not. “The LORD is slow to anger and abundant in lovingkindness, forgiving iniquity and transgression.” Numbers 14:18. I will wait, and I will pray. I will look everyday for signs of his return, and when he comes home (for I have to believe that he will), no matter how long he has been gone, I will welcome him with open arms, and perhaps we will have a party in his honor, and I will even prepare the fattened calf.

“For all who are being led by the Spirit of God, these are sons of God. For you have not received a spirit of slavery leading to fear again, but you have received a spirit of adoption as sons by which we cry out, “Abba! Father!” The Spirit Himself testifies with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, heirs also, heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, if indeed we suffer with Him so that we may also be glorified with Him.”  Romans 8:14-17.

Peter L Richardson
9/28/09

Some courts have been ruling against evolutionary biology. A recent story in the New York Times Magazine tells of husbands who suspected and later discovered they were not biological fathers after all.

In one case, with the help of a do-it-yourself DNA test kit, Mike found out after almost nine years of parenting a girl, L., that his wife had been keeping the secret from him. He filed for divorce, but said of his relationship with his daughter, “Just because our relationship started because of someone else’s lie doesn’t mean the bond that developed isn’t real.”

So Mike continues to see L., though she lives with her mother. Since Mike has been paying child support, it was perhaps doubly offensive when his ex-wife began seeing L.’s biological father. Even though he has filed to end his paternal rights, hoping to encourage the biological father to contribute some of the financial burden, the courts have ruled against him, maintaining that he is the legal father.

When asked about Mike, L. told the New York Times, “I want him always to be my real dad. Because if he’s not my dad, then who is he?”

Well #2 is here. 7lbs. 7ounces, 18 inches.  Contractions started at 3:30, got to hospital at 4:50, Got in the room at 5:07, he was born at 5:27.

Mom is a champ and already looks so hot.

I think Canaan looks like Malachi alot…..so far:)

I will update with more pictures on facebook.com/markartrip tomorrow.

See that?! That’s my pride and joy! That’s my 12-year old son Julian, competing in the 14th Annual Seattle Bouldering Challenge (SBC) at the Stone Gardens Climbing Gym in Seattle.

Hundreds of climbers competed in the event this past Saturday, and Julian came in 6th out of 36 in his division. He’s been rock climbing for years now, but only joined the climbing team at the Whatcom YMCA about six months ago.

For those not in the know, bouldering consists of climbing challenging routes, called problems, without a harness and rope, using a crash pad for safety. In climbing gyms, the routes/problems consist of a series of holds marked with colored tape. The problems in the SBC were given point values, from easy to difficult, and each climber wandered around attempting the problems, trying to earn as many points as possible. They got 5 attempts at a given problem, and only earned the points if they completed it by reaching the end point in total control, with both hands on the last hold, having used only the holds marked for that problem.

In the photo here, you can see Julian making a big reach, not easy to do, requiring a lot of hand, wrist, and arm strength. He is so into the sport these days that, in addition to rigorous team practices twice a week, two hours a pop, he regularly spends time in his room doing even more conditioning: push-ups, crunches, pull-ups, etc.

The most satisfying thing a parent can experience, I think, is when you see that your child is passionate about something positive, internally motivated to learn, progress, and achieve. It seems to stem from and builds a level of self-confidence that really helps a person in life.

I’m so excited to see where this takes him.

My Saturday began on Friday, strategizing with my wife about how we were going to conquer the events of the next day. By any measure, the itenerary was nuts – 3 soccer games, 2 parties, and a planned outing with my daughter’s volleyball team to watch the ASU-Stanford volleyball match – but not far from ordinary for a family with active kids. We could have taken our usual approach, to divide-and-conquer. That would have been a slam dunk. But with just enough time between events, we embraced the challenge to stick together and do it all as one big, happy family. We went over the start times and locations, factored in drive time and necessary stops, and plotted our course. 

Saturday morning, I was in charge of packing enough food and drink to get us through the day. What’s faster than fast-food? Easy, PBJ in the car! By 8am we were out the door.

Game 1: My son’s soccer team had been struggling against higher-caliber competition all season, and morale was sinking. This game was more evenly matched, and the boys played hard. As the game progressed, we could see some of the training and teamwork start to show through, and my son scored on a great offensive run. The game ended in a 3-2 loss, but some confidence had been restored, and we looked forward to the afternoon game.

Game 2: The final game of the season for my youngest daughter, and honestly, we were all glad to see it come to an end. She’s a great little talent and usually plays with heart and passion, but her enthusiasm was squashed this year by a coach who really just had no business leading a little girls team. He was loud, scolding and intimidating, and he’d lost the respect of the girls (and most of the parents) a long time ago.

I actually missed most of Game 2. My son wasn’t feeling well after his early game, and I had to make a run to the pharmacy. We’re still not sure what the underlying ailment was, but I had a feeling that dehydration was probably a factor.

Party #1: We wrapped the birthday gift in the car on way, and dropped our young soccer star off for a sleep-over party on the way to the next game.

Game 3: My son’s afternoon game was in serious doubt. He’d improved slightly in the past half hour, but wasn’t moving quickly and said he just wanted to go home. Knowing that he’s really good at acting miserable, I did my best high-wire act, suggesting that he at least come down to the field and make an appearance. If after warm-ups he wasn’t feeling any better, I told him we’d go home. As it turns out, I’d played the hand perfectly. Come game time, he was revved up again, and ended up scoring in that game as well. By the time it was over he was completely spent, but I could tell that pushing through was a great confidence-booster for him.

Party #2: We gathered with my older-daughter’s volleyball team for an end-of-season BBQ. Since I’ll be taking over as head coach for the upcoming season, I saw this as a unique opportunity to carry some momentum forward into the new season.

And finally, the big-girls game: Most of the girls had never played volleyball before this season, and it was great to see how far they’d come in just a couple of months. It’s one thing to teach the technical skills of how to pass, set, and hit, but how does one teach awareness, anticipation, and strategy? I seized this opportunity to drag the girls out to see ASU’s final home game, against #6-ranked Stanford. I was hoping the girls would benefit from seeing what it looks like when a team has all the pieces in place – positioning, movement, communication, focus and intensity. It’s possible that it was too much to comprehend. Volleyball is a very different game when played “above the net,” so they may have been confused by much of what they saw. Even so, it was a great night out, and a fun bonding experience. Our first practice under my supreme rule is tonight. It’ll be interesting to see how it goes.

So there it is, a busy day in the life of me. I came home exhausted, but I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything. I’m really digging this family thing.

It is trite, of course, to say it.  Shopworn.  Redundant.  Banal.  Superfluous.  But it needs to be said anyway.

—–

qb cherishes these days with the two younger ones, Silas and Isaac, because Dad still gets to coach them.  All three of the boys are athletic and skilled, and over the years their teams have won far more games than they’ve lost.  Keeping in mind that half of the teams (and therefore half of the players) that play on any given day will lose, our boys have lived fairly privileged sporting lives.  They win…a lot.

Oh, how privilege seems to give way to a sense of entitlement.

—–

The youngest is on a basketball team that qb coaches, and somehow our team of seven ended up with the better players in the school.  So when the P. E. teachers started this year’s school championships, which ended today, four of the boys grabbed one other talented boy and formed a sort of all-star team.  Before this morning’s final game, qb overheard one of the P. E. teachers saying today that she had wanted to split them up, but they wouldn’t have any of it.  And they breezed through the first couple of rounds, soundly beating all comers.

I suppose I should mention their team name to give you a flavor of what we’re dealing with:  the “Chick Magnets.”

—–

You know what’s coming, don’t you?

—–

So here’s why I love defeat:

1.  It puts the lie to any sense of entitlement.

2.  It is a Darwinian schoolmaster that ruthlessly punishes the one-man show.

3.  It debases the superstars and exalts the humble, team-oriented ones.

4.  It reminds us that when the competition is past, when the cheers have faded, and when the trophies have gathered their dust, what remains is whatever love has been invested in the friendships.

5.  It exposes any feigned respect and synthetic friendliness.

6.  It plants the seeds of sympathy and empathy for the less fortunate, the less skilled, the less gifted, and the oppressed.

7.  It fosters contentment and joy over greed and transitory thrills.

8.  It challenges our work ethic.

9.  It reminds us that even God himself will mock God-given talent if it suits his purposes.

—–

Character, boys, character.

qb

Flash drives are pretty handy. They’re portable. They can hold lots of important stuff. You can also use them without any discernable skills or training. Like Nancy Pelosi and a gavel.

I have a flash drive. I keep it right next to my computer at home. I take it back and forth to work a lot. It is in and out of my pockets more than Geithner and the boys over at Treasury.

Problem is they small. And are easily misplaced if your are not careful. Like children at Target.

When I get home from work I almost instinctively take it out of my pocket and place next to the computer. There have been a few times I’ve left it on my night stand.

I did this a few days ago. It was also the last time I saw the flash drive in question until last night.

Hmm…

Several things cross my mind. 1) “Dammit!” 2) I’m going to need to design a grid by grid search, bring in some portable spotlights, some bloodhounds and a metal detector. 3) I have three kids.

I ask Riley if she’s seen it.

“Yeah, the last time I saw it was on your night stand.”

That makes sense. That’s the last place I remember seeing it too. I search the night stand and the area surrounding it. No flash drive. But I do find 37 cents and the 2004 Big 12 Football Preview from Athlons. Idiots. They picked the Cyclones to finish last in the North. We tied for first. Beat Nebraska and scored three touchdowns in two minutes to beat Kansas State. They had Darren Sproles that year too.

Anyway, I think to myself that if its not by the night stand, it has to be by the computer. Which sounds suspiciously like, “well, if we don’t get to Moscow by Thanksgiving, we’ll just ride out the winter. It’s not that cold in Russia…”

A thorough search of the desk and floor around the computer reveals nothing except that I really need to clean off the desk and floor around the computer.

Hmm…

“Hey Bailey have you seen the little red thing that I plug into my computer?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Where?”

“Um, I think I saw it in your room.”

She smiles, gets up from the dinner table and leads the way up the stairs into our bedroom.

“I think I saw it by your bed.”

“Where?”

She flips up the bedspread and there it is…plugged into the bed right between the mattress and boxspring.

I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have looked there.

This isn’t really a blog post. This is more a solicitation of ideas. See, the boy’s first birthday is fast-approaching and I’m not entirely sure how to approach the planning. We want this to be a very special day. It certainly will be with my mom and brother visiting from the East Coast. Plus, my in-laws make everything special no matter the day. So, empirically, there shouldn’t be a problem, right?

But, I just want it to be memorable. And I’m sure it will be.

A few things that I know we won’t be doing:

1. No clowns. I am frightened of clowns (and fish and birds) and the thought of having a clown in my home (besides myself) is disquieting at best. So, again, no clowns.
2. No renting of a petting zoo of any kind. First off, we don’t have the room for it. B, live animals are never a good idea for a birthday party — unless, of course, it is your dog or cat.
3. No jugglers. You could poke an eye out. Safety first.
4. No balloon animals. Unlike live farm animals, balloon animals are clean. But, they might be a little too abstract for a small child. Children should learn about Picasso in a museum, not at a first birthday party. Plus, balloons can be dangerous. Again, safety first.
5. No Barbershop Quartets. If they don’t work at adult parties, they won’t work here. Additionally, they are loud and could bust an eardrum. Safety first, once again.
6. No Piñatas. Do I really need to explain this?

I think we’ll keep it all very simple. Family, good friends, good food and just easy and as low-key as possible. Because the most important thing is that we’re all together, sharing a very special day together and that’s what matters most.

That said, I’m open to suggestions. How did you approach your child’s first birthday? What worked? What didn’t?

Again, though, no clowns. That’s non-negotiable.

Anyone who is considering becoming a parent had better be prepared before they ask me what it’s like becoming a dad because I will be brutally honest.  Still, no matter how brutally honest I am… that will never prepare them for the onslaught of emotions that will hit them the day they stare into the eyes of their child for the first time. 

I loved Daddy’s Little Girl the moment I laid my virgin Daddy eyes on her.  The memory of her grand entrance from the moment she was extracted from her home she’d been so comfortable in for nine months is forever burned into my memory.  I will never forget the emotions cascading over my limp body at that moment… a harbinger of things to come in the upcoming weeks, months… years.

Immediately… people would ask me, “So… how does it feel!”

“Awesome!” I would say.  “Better than I expected!”

But I really didn’t know “awesome” from a hole in my head.  I didn’t really fathom how awesome it was until much later in retrospect as I watch the growth of her from infant to toddler and beyond.  I look at her and I remember everything that we went through to get to that moment

If you haven’t been able to tell already, I’m a bit of an emotional person… a little too much most of the time.  For this reason, I tend to give a dissertation when people ask the question, “So what’s it like?”

It can’t be answered in a simple sentence… too much weighs on being a parent to answer that question in one sentence.

I answer the question the way I wish it had been answered for me when I was pre-child: with tough love.  Too often, the question is answered with images of love, happiness, joy, thankfulness, etc.  While these are indeed all components to being a parent… they are not the only ones.  Fear, indecision, anger and a multitude of other emotions also seem to weasel their way into your new psyche.  Love is the most powerful emotion but it is always being challenged by its lesser, more annoying emotional cousins who are vying for the top spot.

I was recently asked by someone here at work what it’s like being a dad because he and his wife are trying to get pregnant.  I think I may have just scared him enough to rethink their strategy.

I felt really bad.  I didn’t mean to make parenthood sound scary … well… maybe I was!  I was merely trying to make it sound more realistic as opposed to painting a picture of pillows, maple glazed donuts and rubber duckys. 

I honestly don’t know if I scared the pants off the guy or not… he said I didn’t. 

In answering this question… I usually try and to be painfully realistic in the beginning of my discourse and then end it with all the rewards that are making themselves known as the days go by.  While in the beginning, there was no return on the love, hugs and kisses being displaced by her mother and I… they are starting to be returned in abundant numbers.  With the abundance of these acts of love… the lesser cousins slowly sulk away knowing their defeat is immanent.

There are so many different kinds of love the human has for different aspects of their surroundings.  They love their wives.  They love their parents.  They love their siblings.  They love ice cream and pizza.  But the love you have for your child is a totally different love that’s more powerful, more unfamiliar and evolves faster than she grows out of her shoes.  I think that if an up-and-coming parent only realizes that they are going to get their ideas of love blown out of the water by the time their child is christened by their first earthly breath… then they’ll be on the right track.