Fatherhood the Blog - Week ??

What is Fatherhood? There once was a boy called Andrew. It may have taken him a score of years, and a ridiculous trial of easily avoidable experiences, but he figured our what, "Andrew" meant. What, "O'Dell" meant. Most importantly, what, "O'Dellicious" meant. It takes a series of revelations, disappointments, and self-important destructive tendencies to eventually come to the point where one is at peace with oneself. On my 22nd birthday, when I was still a wandering poet, I penned these lines:

I don't yet fit in
To my own skin
But I'm closer now than I've ever been

           It's been five years. I've figured out who I am, and who I want to be. I know how I want to die, what I want on my tombstone, the song I want played at my funeral, and the type of person I want to be between then and now. But guess what, contestants? It ends up that, "Who are you?" was never the final question. Remember the $25,000 Pyramid? That's small change now folks. The answer is bigger and further and harder to find. After I thought I had it all figured out, suddenly loomed the new question - Who is Andrew the Husband? This took me far longer to figure out than it should have, and caused an immense amount of growing pains and, let's face it, grief, before I had handle on it. Finally, I am at peace. Finally, this boy knows his exact position in the world, measured from any angle. JPLAY BOII. Now it's time to figure out who this new stranger is on the horizon - Andrew the Father.

           Last Sunday (which is our Saturday) Mag made bacon and eggs and bagels, and we began to tackle our, "Totally Arbitrary Honey-Do-Or-Do-Not List." A part of that list was to wash our cars, and we did that with both gusto and a totally inappropriate amount of wasted water spraying throughout the air. At one point I was over at my car, while Mag was at hers, and she stood up, clutching her stomach, and gasped out, "...my water..."  Panic shot through me and my brain tied itself in knots, not having any clue what to do. Her water was breaking this early in the pregnancy? It ends up her stomach was just cramping and she was asking me to get her bottle of water for her. My filthy mind started working in overtime during this process (you know, the Devil's Playground and all that) and I started fixating on the actual birth process. Admittedly, it probably didn't help that Knocked Up was playing on E! all weekend. I don't know what the birth process is like - I've never experienced it! I asked Mag, "When they say your, 'water' breaks, does that really mean there's a ton of blood and goo everywhere?" She didn't know - she's never experienced it either!

             So anyway, I started thinking about all of this. Number One, I've never been anywhere near some sort of medical procedure. Well, except: I had a cancerous mole on my back, and the doctors cut out the customary pound of flesh. Twice. I remember the first time, face down on some sort of table as the doc cut out a hunk of my back. I felt no pain, but I could feel the cold of the scissors cutting through my skin. My dad, present in the room, described the process to me: "Oh, they're cutting through a big hunk of your skin now," his medically trained ass told me. "Please stop talking," my non-medically trained ass replied. The second time  this happened Mag entered the room with me, and told the doctors she wanted to stay as long as she could. They eventually kicked her out, just before their shiny sharp cold blades pierced my skin, leaving a scar I'll carry until my body is worm eaten and buried in the dust below. I love both my wife and my father, but if they went in for a procedure I'd be in the waiting room, Jim Beam hidden in a satchel, tapping my foot wildly while reading Reader's Digest.

                  I started thinking about the actual birth process, and I got more and more scared. I'm going to be in the room as blood is expelled? As my wife hollers for reprieve? As medical professionals run around in some sort of semi-cute tizzy? Someone asked me the other day, "Do you want to cut the umbelical cord?" "HELL NO!" I exclaimed. I am paying a medical professional who spent 8 years in school to do what he/she was trained to do. Why in God's name would I do part of their job for them? If your answer has anything to do with symbolism, go right to sleep and don't bother with waking up. I'm not interested with taking some sort of symbolic step to show that I'm severing my child's connection with his (or hers, but in this case his) mother. I sat on the couch on Sunday afternoon trying to not have an anxiety attack (I've never had one before, but I assume this is how they start. A slow terror creeping throughout your body, your throat beginning to constrict, the only thought in your head is the mantra ican'tdothisican'tdothisican'tdothis) and trying to figure out a way to NOT be in the room when my son is born. I confessed my fears to sweet Maggie May and she bucked me up by appealing to my strongest character trait - my vanity. She began listing the skinny little dumb guys we know that have knocked their girls up, as well as every other father we've ever met. If they can make it through the birth process, she reasoned, how could I not? I'm keeping that in my back pocket to hold my fears at bay, but I still expect it to be quite terrifying. I will survive though - I have the easiest job in the room (besides Flipper).

My painting job.

                    Oh yes! Flipper! I guess I could talk about him some. Really though, what is there to say? This blog is called Fatherhood and it's about my experiences of being a father. It's not called Sonship and about the experience of swimming around in fluid in the pitch dark and kicking wildly in rage and jealousy whenever your father dares to have the gall to lay his hand upon the belly of your mother! Flipper just lives much as he has for the past while without any effect on me, asides from the psychological of course. He's developing rapidly, but I can't see it! I'm desperately wanting another ultrasound, but we have to wait another two weeks to see one. By then he'll be huge, staring straight at the camera, wearing a fedora, holding a suitcase, and tapping his watch impatiently. Margaret can't see him either, of course, but since he's inside of her she's much more attuned with him on a day to day basis. He's been getting hiccups, which is hilarious, and which Margaret can feel.

One of the pillows Mag covered.

                  We're trying to prepare every little thing we can for his impending arrival (well don't let me exaggerate here, we still have another ten and a half weeks, officially, but everyone knows time travels much faster during football season). I painted his dresser drawers with the colors Mag picked out and I'm quite content with the job that I did. Mag, having caught sewing fever from working on the window treatments in Flipper's nursery, has since made pillow covers for his room as well. After that she made a curtain for our bathroom, and then two more window treatments for our bedroom. We even have packs of diapers stacked on his changing table and in his closet. We're looking online for damned FAN CHAIN PULLS just to add the finishing touches to his nursery. Everyone says you just do this for the first child, and practically ignore the next one (trust me, as a second child, SOB, I know this to be exactly and precisely true) but even if that is the case, who cares? At least do it for the first kid!

The curtains Mag made. I didn't take the best picture so you
really see the clever little fold in the middle.

                    Today I started thinking, as I drove down the road - what if Flip was born with no eyes? This is ridiculous, and impossible, and we've already seen his eyes via ultrasound, but still that random thought popped into my head. I could picture a little baby with just smooth skin where his eyes should be and I thought, "What if I knew right now that that's how Flip would be born?" Without really having to think about it, the answers began pouring into my head - I thought about how I would describe sight to him, about seeing-eye dogs, about the type of life he could have and the type of life I would want to help build for him. Of course he has eyes - he's actually far enough along in development that he can open his (traditional beautiful O'Dell) eyes, is growing (the traditional beautiful O'Dell) eyelashes, and I know he is totally fine and healthy. It was a weird moment for me though. Not only the obvious weirdness of the thought, but the fact that my first reaction was solution, not panic or fear. I reckon that means I love the guy (for now, at least). Speaking of the way he's developing, did you know that he now has the capacity to breathe oxygen? There's no oxygen for him to breathe at the moment, of course, but if he decided to hop on out, or if Mag self induces labor by her violent jumping and screaming once college football starts, he'll get to experience that beautiful tasty thing we call air.

              Speaking of air, on Sunday Mag and I went hiking (and breathed air - that's the segue). I didn't think that it was possible for pregnant women to hike, but evidently it is. If you've never hiked (and a surprising amount of people haven't) it's like walking, but a lot harder. There are hills and trees and lizards and stuff. AND NO BATHROOMS. But anyway, we did 4.3 miles, which is a lot further than 4.3 miles on paved streets. If you exist (and the fact that you're reading this means you probably do) than I'm sure you realize there was a string of tornadoes throughout the southeastern United States this Spring. One of them skipped merrily along Pine Mountain and managed to take out approximately eighteen thousand trees. The trail we hiked we've hiked a dozen times already, but this time it looked totally different. There were huge swaths where there were no trees left standing and you could see far across the mountain and the sun beat down unmercifully upon our poor shorn heads. It was a sad and terrible sight but an unforgettable one, which it should be if it's BABY'S FIRST HIKE!

                   I lay my head on Mag's belly today and talked to Flip (as he repeatedly punched me in the face) and I threatened to pay him back punch for punch when he was born. Two more months little boy. It's going to be crazy.