Thus Begin the Ramblings of a New Dad: The Arrival

I'm a dad.

 

Holy. Shit.

 

I'm a DAD.

 

*insert big goofy dad grin here*

 

(Um, you know that's what happens with pregnancy, right? I mean, you've been writing about this for months…)

 

I know, but… I'm a dad. I have to keep saying it for it to sink in. You wait for something for so long, and then when it happens it just doesn't seem real. But it's so very real. I'm a dad.

 

I'M A DAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

(Take a deep breath…)

 

*breathes*

 

Okay, I'm fine now. And I say that without any degree of cynicism or sarcasm. I am truly fine. Finer than I have ever been in my life. Because I'm a dad.

 

In fact, I've been a dad since the morning hours of January 22^nd. And yes, it's taken me this long to finally express in words just what I'm feeling, and to describe what's transpired over the last, incredibly surreal and amazing eighteen-plus days.

 

I mean… Should I be funny when I talk about this? Should I be serious? Emotional? All of the above? None of the above? How do I write about this?? How much detail do I give??

 

(Dude, just be yourself, and the words will come.)

 

Okay, you've met me. You know what happens when I do that.

 

(I… well, shit. This is gonna get interesting….)

 

And so with that, we begin the ramblings of a new dad….

 

Our story begins the morning of Sunday, January 21^st with the ceremonial breaking of the waters… several hours later with no real signs of active labor, we find ourselves at the hospital in triage... A couple hours after that, induction. THEN the fun began….

 

Now, being the man during labor sucks. And since you know me, you know I don't mean it sucks in the sulky, I'd-rather-be-drinking-playing-video-games-doing-anything-else, man-child kind of way. I mean it sucks because I felt so helpless. I could encourage breathing. I could help her stand. I could rub her back, or not, say little things, whisper encouragement…. But do little else. It hurt me to see my beloved hurting… of course that sentiment became literal in the later hours of labor as she dug her fingers into my arm and her teeth into my shoulder…. And yes, that hurt, but not as much as squeezing an eight pound child through your hoo ha with no pain killers.

 

(Hahahaha… wait… what? Did you say eight pounds with no pain killers?)

 

Yup.

 

(That hurts me just reading it.)

 

No kidding. My love is a warrior. Of course, that wasn't part of the birthing plan. We had a plan. We did know something 'bout birthin' some babies, and we were ready. The plan was to labor for a while, then epidural, then the relatively less painful pushin' of the peanut through the p...agina.

 

(*smacks head*)

 

Anyhoos…. Yeah, by the time it was time for the epidural, the time for the epidural had passed; full dilation and go time. It was happening. After nearly ten months, twenty hours passing in between the water breaking and birth, four-to-six hours of painful labor, and a good twenty-plus minutes of hard pushing, our child was about to emerge.

 

It's funny, in retrospect; I wasn't nearly as emotional at the time as I thought I would be. I wasn't grossed out, queasy, or anxious. I was unexpectedly calm, and fascinated, as I watched my child literally emerge into the world. And then I heard her cry. And it hit me.

 

I had to choke back the flow of tears and onslaught of emotion and keep it together. They took her, cleaned her, wrapped her, and placed her at my beloved's breast, and I got to stare, happily, proudly, at my family. At my wife-to-be… at my daughter.

 

My daughter.

 

She was here. For real. Alive on the outside. Resting there, crying, wiggling, and learning to live.

 

No longer could I say I'm going to be a dad. No longer could I say I'm going to have a daughter.

 

I am a dad.

 

I have a daughter.

 

I'll spare you the details, as more activity followed before all was well and my love could rest with my other love in her arms. Although… remember when I joked about people saying birthing was beautiful and I said "the f*ck it is"?

 

The. Big. Honking. Hairy. F*ck. It. Is.

 

I'm glad momma couldn't see what was happening below her knees, because what took place, had it been filmed, could have been titled "Nightmare on Elm Street: Afterbirth" directed by Wes Craven.

 

(Dude!)

 

I'm serious. I never want to see that again. And yes, for those playing the home game, I saw the placenta, and it was every bit the slimy, oozy, gelatinous, gigan-disgustingness I thought it would be. And NO, we did not eat it, nor will we. *gack*

 

(Did you cut the cord?)

 

I did. It felt kind of like trying to cut through a piece of calamari. Weird, but cool.

 

Vitals were taken for baby and momma and, in my best WWE announcer voice:

 

In this corner, we have Baby Goodman, weighing in at a whopping eight pounds, one ounce, measuring twenty inches!

 

[EDITOR'S NOTE] Now, I know some of you are wondering what we decided to name this child of ours. Well, here's the thing; this is a public blog. While I tell you a lot about myself, I've never revealed my true birth name, nor provided too much detail. Privacy is still important to me, and is now even more so that I have a child. So, we're gonna keep her name off these pages. For our purposes, you can call her Baby G.]

 

And then… calm. We were alone with our child and her newly-minted grandmum, and… that was it. She was out. She was born. She was part of our family. We had a family.

We had a family.

 

The next hours and days in the hospital were a blur, filled with sleepless hours, feedings, diaper changes, testing, some more testing, and little treatment for a minor health hiccup, visits from family and friends, and then… it was time to go home.

It was time to take my perfectly healthy, beautiful, baby daughter home.

 

It was time to take my family home.

 

My daughter sat in her car seat for the first time, and rode in the car for the first time, and…. So many "for the first time" moments.  The ride home was conspicuously quiet, not because there wasn't anything to say, mind you. We'd just had a child, and were taking her home. There was plenty to say. But… I couldn't speak. I knew that if I tried I'd not be able to control my emotions. I remained relatively silent, uttering only a few words here and there, until I carried my daughter through the front door, set her car seat down, and cried.

 

I had spent nearly twenty years, living in three states and six cities/towns, through three changes of employment, owning five different houses, experiencing two marriages, and two divorces, and finally meeting the right woman…. Having a family was a long time in the making for me. The realization that yes, I finally had a family of my own, well, it hit me like an avalanche.  

 

I was now standing in my own living room, looking at my child, and I have never in all of my life felt such joyful elation. I sobbed. My love held me and cried with me. We stood like that for some time, just staring at our daughter....

 

Our daughter.

 

Holy. Fuck.

 

And just like that, we were parents.

 

I know, I know, you're waiting for the funny stuff. You're waiting for the stories about poopy diapers and getting peed on and spit-ups and funny baby faces and noises and sounds and all those parenting foibles and fables you know are going to come.

They'll come. You know they'll come. For now, I… I don't know. Those words still escape me. For now, All I can do is reflect on the last two-plus weeks in which I've been a father, and smile. I think about laying on the couch, with my daughter on my chest and my dog snuggled between my legs. I think about that look of pure maternal beauty on my beloved's face as she feeds our daughter.  I think of the cooing sounds my daughter makes as she drifts oft to sleep. I think of her wide, expressive eyes staring up at me, and… I tear up. I smile. I grin uncontrollably. And I do it all over again.

 

(Goddammit. I have something in my eye…)

 

Okay, Okay… I'll leave you with one funny story. Anyone who's had children and has changed an infant knows that in the first weeks, when the child feeds on nothing other than her mother's milk, soiled diapers usually contain some yellow liquid mixed with a greenish brownish liquidy-ish what the hell is that-ish substance. All in all, thus far, the diaper changes haven't been that bad, even when they're bad. However, there are two things to note about changing a baby girl:

 

1) Yes, yes they can pee on you just like a boy can; and

 

B) Projectile infant poop is a thing. Dear holy baby sweet bejeebus, it's a thing. 

 

(BWAAAAHAAAAHAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!)

 

Yeah… so the pee thing? Several times now. I mean, how do you feel when that cold air hits you square in the nether-lands? Diaper off, butt wiped, and… there she blows like a tiny little whale child.

 

(Tiny little whale child… And I thought there was something wrong with you before. But parent-you????)

 

I know. Light a candle and say a prayer or something. This is only gonna get worse.

 

BUT…

 

Projectile. Infant. Poop. PIP for short. Oh, there was PIP. PIP here, PIP there, a little PIP went everywhere!!  I mean, it just… across the changing table, my arm, the room, the carpet… Thankfully it missed the dog. Barely. I mean how does a ten day old child do that? Seriously, this wasn't just projectile. This was straight line, precision pooping. If there was an Olympic category for Projectile Infant Pooping, I'm pretty sure this child o' mine would have won silver. She could have won gold, but, you know, the Russian judge always screws the Americans.

 

(*facepalm*)

 

So there I was, now cleaning the baby, changing the baby, dressing the baby, changing the changing pad cover, wiping down the crib, busting out the Resolve to clean the carpet, trying to keep the dog from sticking her face in the diaper genie, all while mom managed to snag some much needed morning zzz's in our room across the hall.

 

*sigh*

 

Parenting.

 

And it's pretty fuckin' awesome. 

 

*grins uncontrollably*

 

I'm a dad.

 

I'm a dad.

 

 

 

(too be continued….)

 

 

© 2018 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.