A mantra (for a weary parent)

Remember this time. I say this to myself when I have been rocking Jonah for what seems like hours as he ever so slowly, slowly falls asleep after nursing. I just want to get up and make my dinner. I get impatient. If only he would sleep so I could put him in his crib without him crying, I could finally get up and get something done, I think. I look down at his face in the soft light, in the twilight. I see his long, beautiful eyelashes. His perfect skin glows. His lips make a soft, sucking motion as if he is still at my breast. I feel the weight of his growing body in my lap, in my arms. Remember this time. I say this to myself. Remember this time. He grows and grows every day. Today, he pulled himself up to standing. It was amazing. I remember when he couldn't even lift his own head. When he cries and wails because something is not right in his world, I hold him. Frustration could get the best of me. It has. It does. Sometimes not. He seems inconsolable. I hold him and bounce him in my arms and tell him it is OK. I try to be patient because he needs me but I wish I could just put him down and play with him. I wish he would be happy so I can continue on with my plans for the day. But, as he cries and whimpers, I think, remember this time. It will not last forever. He will not be a baby forever. He will not be my baby forever. Soon, he will be walking, talking. I don't want to forget these times, even when they are trying, even when things are tough. One day, I will long to hold him on my lap, in my arms, as he sleeps. I will long to wrap my arms around him and whisper in his ear that it's alright. One day, he will not let me do these things. I won't remember my impatience, my frustration. I will remember the heft of his small body. I will remember his warm, salty tears. I will remember this time. I remind myself to try every day. ~ Nicole

The Season of Discontent

Nicole is not happy with me. I've been ignoring our birthing class homework, neglecting our baby blog, staying out late, drinking, swearing, and throwing things. I've been a miserable person to live with. And how will I explain my insane behavior to our future son or daughter? All I can tell them is: "Your Dad is a fan of the Boston Red Sox."

Yes, it's that time of year. The Playoffs. An emotional roller-coaster. When I annually question my love of this team and this silly ball game. My behavior is utterly ridiculous and totally indefensible. Yet I can't help myself. I actually argued with Nicole last night about the importance of the playoffs. She pointed out that we were suppose to sit down and write out a birth plan (our homework assignment this week) but I was busy throwing my Red Sox hat across the room and yelling obscenities. (The 100 Million $ pitcher can't get out of the 5th inning!? WTF!) Are the playoffs more important than our unborn child? Well, it is the American League Championship Series and they are three wins from going to the World Series, but NO!!! OF COURSE NOT!!! ARE YOU CRAZY? This is a baby we're talking about here! A human baby! Our own flesh and blood! But man, they won the first game and looked unstoppable before dropping the next two and now they're making me crazy! But how cool would it be to tell little (insert awesome baby name here) that the Red Sox won the World Series when they were in the womb? Of course, if that happens we'll have to name the baby Papi. Which is perfect because it works for either sex. Our we could just call the baby Red - a classic old school name! (Why don't people have old school nicknames anymore? Like Lefty and Dutch?)

Anyway, I plead temporary insanity. Annual temporary insanity I suppose. If I am to be a responsible parent I should just swear off the Red Sox (something my father has tried and failed to do several times) and forbid my child from ever getting sucked in like me. But, let's face it: that's not going to happen. So, on Thursday night when the Sox are playing one of the biggest games of the year - I'll be in birthing class. Am I complaining? No! I have a lot to learn before "Little Papi" get's here and obviously that's more important. But I just wish Nicole was a little more understanding. She actually said she hopes the Red Sox don't make it to the World Series - she said that OUT LOUD. Some husbands I know would file for divorce over that, but not me. I know she didn't mean it. She just doesn't want to live with a crazy person any longer. I was talking to a friend of mine who is - ready for this? - is a huge Yankees fan. (I didn't know this when we became friends .) Anyway, we were talking about this time of year and how despondent we can get and I said something like "yeah - Nic hates me in the fall." Apparently it never occurred to him. He was like "Man, I never thought about that. We must be miserable to live with!" He was probably insane from the start so she didn't complain. In our case it was more of a bait and switch move. When Nicole & I first got together , my love of the Red Sox had been long dormant. I gave up on them early in childhood (after watching my father become a miserable bastard every autumn.) But then Nic moved to Boston. We went to see three games at Fenway that year - 1999. All three games were Pedro starts and he struck out like a million guys (won the Cy Young that year.) Well, that's all it took. I was back to routing my ass off for better or for worse. She quickly noticed the changes in my behavior - swearing, grunting, pacing back and forth in front of the TV, dramatic mood swings, emotionally unavailable during playoffs or any games vs. the Yankees . She was not happy. "You weren't really a 'Sports Guy' when we met. You tricked me!" No trickery, it was fate. Just like 2004 when... well you probably know what happened in 2004.

Well the Patriots are looking like a pretty good emotional safety net this year, so I might survive the playoffs after all. Come to think of it Brady is a nice name don't you think?