Confessions of a new dad, vol. 2: First time for everything

Having a new baby in your life, you encounter firsts everyday. Her first bath, her first smile, the first time she squeezed your hand- even the less desirable but no less memorable first time she poops/pees/spits up on you- all go on the list of new things you experience thanks to this new little bundle of joy. All of these things remind you that you're a parent now, and brings on the joy/stress/wonderment/fear that this little one is going to be completely dependent on you for some time to come.

Which brings me to another first which really made it all hit home. Her first bill. A medical bill, addressed to this little girl, not yet but a few weeks on this earth. And the joy and wonderment more than slightly gives way to the stress and fear when you realize that this dependency isn't just going be an emotional transaction. And yes- we all know how much it costs to raise a child these days- but it's suddenly different when it's black and white (and maybe a little red due to the hospital's logo). It's as if there's a letter attached stating: You owe such and such amount, and guess what? It's just the beginning, pops.

I realize the time will come where she'll pop in the room while I am watching TV or penning my memoirs, and squeak: "Hey Dad, can I have twenty bucks?" But we're not there yet. And yes, we've already spent more than the GDP of some third-world countries on various needs and supplies for her arrival and sustenance, but it's just different when it comes in bill form.

There's one thing I can always count when I wake up in the morning (be it 8am, 4am...): and that is I will get another day of firsts from from my little girl. I know that they can't all be the warm and fuzzy kind- yet part of me wants a little time a buffer of say a few months, to retain the innocent and sun-shiney side of child-rearing. Ah hell, if I'm asking for time- gimme a few decades instead- maybe by that point I'll be ready for the slings and arrows.

Confessions of a new dad, volume one - D(elivery) Day

After months of staring at ultra-sound images of the contents of my wife's uterus, I knew I would see the contents of what had been contained in the uterus- namely the baby- however I was unaware that, due to the c-section, I would see the uterus itself.

During the surgery, I was positioned at my wife's head- safely tucked behind a curtain. With the various sounds of surgery taking place, I was more than a little interested in what was taking place on the other side. "Am I allowed to peek?" I asked the anesthesiologist, after he peered over the curtain. To which he quickly responded, "No." Oh well.

Fast forward to-- our daughter's out, and I am fawning over her at the warming table- taking pictures and getting acquainted with her while they clean her up and such. I cut the umbilical cord- which surprises me how very like a nice thick piece of calamari it is in its consistency. Grilled, of course, but really high grade calamari- not the cheap stuff you'd just throw in the deep fat fryer- but I digress.

I happen to look back over toward the operating table where, apparently, all the kings horses and all the king's men (and women and doctors and nurses- as it were) are putting my wife back together again. I notice that in the doctor's hands were what looked like guts. You know, guts: Freddy Krueger slashes the guy open, and you see his guts? Guts- that's what it looked like. "Is that the placenta?" I ask, assuming that what has been taken out of my wife were only things that were staying out. "No, it's her uterus," replied the doctor casually, at which point I was told by the nurse to keep my eyes the other direction, lest I pass out on the OR floor. Show over, I obliged, although whilst I snapped more pics of the baby, I wondered what other interesting photo ops lay just a few feet behind me.

If only I had been quick enough on the shutter- perhaps I could have been able to post a picture of my wife's guts, er uterus, on Facebook or something. She could have used it as her profile picture, with the caption, "my guts" or something cleverer like, "me, on the inside." But again, I digress.

Fatherhood begins, and a long list of things I probably never thought I saw or say or do. It only took me 6 weeks to get this post completed- so hopefully I'll post again before she goes off to college.

Out of the Woods?

Tiger Woods made his first public appearance and statement today after what you could probably characterize as "a couple of bad months." Tiger seemed contrite, visibly shaken, and sincere in his apology. Now begins the veritable fire-storm of coverage- What did he say? How did he say it? Was he sincere enough? I watched a little of his statement, and you know what? Good enough for me. And you know why? Because really, it has nothing to do with me.

Let me be clear about something: Tiger Woods owes the media and general public absolutely nothing. His wife and family? Absolutely. Friends and close supporters? Sure. But for any of us that follow or cover golf or professional sports of any kind, to stand in judgment of this guy seems foolish. He is after all, a human being. I don't care how much money he makes. I don't care what kind of image he put out, or has had put upon him- he is subject to the same issues and problems that any of us can have. It doesn't mean he's a good person, or that I feel sorry for him- I'm just saying that if I, as human being, am not immune to the emotional challenges of life, then why, just because he's a public figure, should he be? Anybody who feels different is living on another planet, or perhaps should maybe work on some of their own issues.

I like watching Tiger play golf. He's an amazing talent. The fact that he is an imperfect being does not sway my perception of him as a golfer. I will continue to watch him, when he returns to play. If you don't want to buy the products he hocks, if you don't want to watch him or root for him because of is transgressions- that is certainly your prerogative. But for anyone who judges him as a person, because of some sort of unreachable ideal that was projected on him, needs only look in mirror before the casting of stones.

I'm the type that's willing to forgive. And it's easy to do, when the person really hasn't done anything to me in the first place. Also, not to put marital infidelity on some sort of sliding scale of wrong-doing, but let's face it- he's not the first guy to cheat on his wife, and he won't be the last. He got caught, and it seems he's taking steps to repair the damage done to his family. He shouldn't get a pass, but he also shouldn't be scorned- least of all by the general public- because bottom line, it's really none of our business.

Groundhog Day Nonsense

I'm not feeling it.

The idea of allowing an over-grown rodent to predict the near meteorological future isn't flying with me. I get it- believe me- I get it. The pomp and circumstance of hauling this groundhog - who no longer lives in the ground, by the way- out every year, the ceremony, the pictures... it's very dear, and I'm sure he enjoys it immensely.

So legend has it- if the groundhog comes out and sees his shadow, he gets scared and goes back in and it's six more weeks of winter. I've got a problem with this. If he sees his shadow, then there's gotta be some semblance of sun out, so how does that constitute more wintry days ahead of us? Don't insult my intelligence, or the intelligence of groundhogs. There must be some sort of international allegiance (or at least a Facebook page) for groundhogs who are furious over the fact that human kind has invented a scenario in which these hogs of the ground don't understand the basic principles of seasons; or that they are such cowardly creatures as to be scared into six weeks of self-imposed imprisonment by the sight of their own shadow. I mean, honestly. Honestly.


I would love for one uppity groundhog to walk out, and declare "It's February 2nd, of course there's about six more weeks of winter left. Look at a calendar, douche bags." And then walk back into his domicile with his middle claw extended in the air for all to see. Such a groundhog would have my admiration.

But until then, it's Punxutawney Phil, every February 2nd forever and ever- or at least until the groundhogs rise up and destroy us.

The year we made contact?

2010. I mean- man! 2000 and 10. Twenty-ten. Geez Louise. Remember when that number was just total science fiction? Flying cars, vacations to the moon, not to mention the 1984 movie: "2010: The Year We Make Contact" - the title of which having something to do with making contact with a lost spacecraft, as well as making new discoveries on the moons of Jupiter (that's if memory serves, as it's probably been 20 years since I've seen the movie). And while flying cars have yet to hit the market, and outer-space trips are available only to the mega-rich, I do believe we are still waiting on that whole "making contact" thing.

Not to say we are out of touch, per se- Facebook and text messaging and the world wide web itself keep us abreast of even the menial details of each other's lives: Who-had-what for breakfast, or who's-wearing-what on which red carpet... we what's going on, for better or worse. But this isn't really one of those, "how connected are we really?" kinds of pieces, so I digress.

Recently, while trying to resolve a matter of supreme annoyance in regards to a present I had ordered for my wife for Christmas- I did what anyone might do these days. Go to the website I ordered from, and look for the "Contact Us" link to try and right the situation. Now with all the technology at all of fingertips these days, this should make the whole Contacting-us thing a simple transaction. But, no it's- "press 1 for this, press two for that." Or in this case, it was "leave a message and we'll get back to you within 48 hours..." Or for faster service, "visit our website or send us an email, and we'll return your message within 24 hours." And while these response times are extreme for nowadays, the actual the fact that the contacting part of "contact us" seems harder than ever is the norm. (At the risk of sounding like a grumpy old man) There is no contact when it comes to customer service- and some prefer that way these days- but how hard is to make eye contact with someone across the counter at the drug store. If that's too much to ask for, then hoping for a little virtual-face time for an internet or phone transaction is probably a pipe dream. So perhaps we just change "Contact us" to- "See if we care" or "You've got to be kidding."

2010 has brought us to a world that is indeed uber-connected, but we've got a long way to go before we've actually made contact. Sorrowfully, this has turned into one those "How connected are we really?" kinds of pieces, so feel free to stop reading now.

Take two (or three) and call me next season...

What is our fascination with the TV hospital drama? Obviously this is not a new thing, they've been around forever, but in recent years it seems to be getting out of hand. Some go off the air, only to be replaced by two, three, or four replacements in the same slightly-tweaked format. NBC itself, after finally shutting down the long running show ER- replaced it this fall by introducing to new shows "Trauma" and "Mercy" - which seem to be the old ER split into two different shows.

Now this is not to say I'm immune to the hospital genre. I watched ER back in its infancy, and currently watch Grey's Anatomy. But for anyone who has spent any amount of time in a hospital, as patient or visitor, these shows take an enormous suspension of disbelief to take them seriously. How many times have you been put off by a show or movie because of something like - Oh come on, that's sooo unrealistic it's ridiculous. Well, these hospital shows that we know and love are the worst offenders- and yet we keep coming back for more.

On the shallowest level- I have never been treated by a doctor in a hospital who looked like any of these people. Yes I know it's TV, but come on- dial it back a little; perhaps at least one "normal" looking character. Nor have I ever seen nurses in the hallway pleading with and fighting the doctors for patients' rights or needs, or the emotional connections to said patients that invariably happen on these shows. Hell, I'd settle for nurses who at least act like they want to be there.

Although, I am willing to believe that they're all sleeping with each other in empty OR's and broom closets- this at least explains why it take so friggin' long to be seen.

So as another television season descends upon, against the backdrop of the country's battler over health care, we'll tune into visions of what health care isn't. And why the hell not, TV's a good form of escape- right? Or is it what we'd hope it to be? Might as well set the next hospital drama on the moon or Mars- or would that be too unrealistic?

Bathroom couplet...

Methinks that I shall never see,
A lovelier place 'n which to pee.

Okay, not that kind of couplet- more of a couple different musings both centered on the bathroom at my place of employment.

THE SMELL!!
And no, it's not what you think.

Ten floors up, our bathroom faces out toward the backs of buildings on 48th Street. Often times the window is left ajar a bit, so as to air out the goings on that go on in a bathroom. Well, somewhere down below there is restaurant, from which delicious smells waft up into the air, seeping through the open window and into the bathroom- burgers, chicken, onion rings, and other fried goodies...

Often times I have walked into the bathroom, and for moment thought -- Mmmm, what's that smell?-- and then immediately remembered where I was, and felt very strange about the sensory contradiction I have encountered. And I'm not the only one- I have spoken to a few other co-workers who have faced the dilemma of the delicious-smelling bathroom. It just feels wrong to walk into bathroom and be made to feel hungry.

Don't get me wrong, sometimes it stinks like a bathroom usually does. But it's almost a comfort when it does. Ewww, that's more like it.

A SIGN OF THE TIMES?
On the mirror above the sink, there's a sign that states "It's flu-fighting season, don't forget to wash your hands!" Because it's flu-fighting season- that's why you should wash your hands. Not because you're in a bathroom, having done your business where countless others have done similar business.

And if it's the type of person who doesn't wash their hands after using the restroom- does this sign even register? Is the fact that it's "flu-fighting season" a deal-breaker? As if it's like, "Oh I don't mind a little fecal matter or the like on my hands- but the flu? I just can't have that!! Better wash my hands." I don't know. I would think this person is comfortable in his savagery enough to think himself impervious to such petty things as the flu, or say, social convention.

So, thanks for the "reminder," but you're probably preaching to the choir with this one.