Ramblings of a New Dad: Nine Months on the Outside

When people tell you that time goes by fast when you’re raising and caring for a baby, believe them. Believe the ever living f*ck out of them.

(How does one believe the f… never mind. We don’t want to know.)

All I’m saying is that the time does goes fast. Like, Buffalo Bills fans leaving the stadium during the third quarter of a 41-9 blowout fast.

(Bitter much?)

I’m a Bills fan. It’s in my blood.  Anyway…. I admit that I am sorely remise in my writing my parenting prose lately. It's been three months, and for that I do sincerely apologize. Several months ago, as many of you know, I took on a new writing gig that has taken up a good deal of my writing time. And, frankly, my creativity. Add to that the regular stresses of work, some work travel for both me and my betrothed and, well, here we are. My daughter has now been alive on the outside as long as she was on the inside.

Holy. Crapballs.

As fast as time itself has gone, my daughter has grown equally fast. At 29+ inches tall, she’s in like the 456^th percentile for height.

(Um, I don’t think that’s possible.)

Fine. But she’s tall. Or long. Wait, how to you measure babies again?  Whatever the case, she… lengthy. I’m going to go with tall, because she’s well into standing up and, if I was betting man, I’d say she’ll be walking by 10 months.

(That’s kind of early.)

Oh, we know. That doesn’t change the fact that I’ve been a dad for a little over nine months and holy shit my daughter is eating solid foods and is gonna walk and probably talk before her first birthday and.. and… and…

(Breathe.)

*inhales*

(You have to breathe out too, stupid.)

*exhales and coughs*

Right. I knew that. But still… There are some things people don’t warn you about. Like how fast it really does seem to go. Or the fact that when you start introducing table food what comes out of the other end is like some unholy mixture of the pea soup from the Exorcist, the slime from Ghosbusters, and Aunt Edna’s Swedish meatballs that sat out all night in the crockpot someone forgot to unplug after the Christmas party. And it smells like that mixture, too.

(Has anyone considered starting a Go Fund Me campaign for your therapy? Because…)

Shut it. If you have a child you know exactly what I’m talking about. No, no one warns you about that because it’s something you just have to experience on your own. And there is so much to experience. Like watching my daughter light up and come crawling to me when I pick her up from daycare. Or witnessing those first instances of cognition and comprehension when you say “where’s mommy?” and she turns her head to look right at her mother. Or watching her smile and giggle as she walks, yes walks, pushing a walker toy.

And then there are those moments that break your heart. No one tells you about those, either. Like when your child is teething and nothing you do will assuage her pain and irritation. When she experiences separation anxiety after you put her to bed and you go into the nursery to find her standing in her crib with tears streaming down her face. Or that first time she falls and scrapes herself even though you were right there, watching and protecting, but she moved just the wrong way or too quickly or whatever the case may be, and you couldn't prevent it.

That fucking sucked.

And I know, I know, that’s going to happen. Probably, hopefully, not a lot, but it’s going to happen. It’s part of growing and developing for her, and part of learning that no parent is perfect for me.

(Still fucking sucks.)

*sigh*

Yeah, yeah it does. But then ten minutes later, there she is, doing the same exact thing she was doing when she hurt herself and acting like nothing ever happened. Kids are resilient. They bounce back quickly. Which is good, because I’m still not sure how she felt about me feeding her while dressed as an Imperial TIE Fighter Pilot on Halloween.

(Wait, what??)

Come on, did you think this kid was gonna have a normal childhood with me for a parent?

(Touché, pussycat.)

Yup. So here we are. Nine months on the outside. Although maybe I shouldn’t describe it like that. It makes it sound like she just got out of prison and should be bagging groceries at the local supermarket or something.

(Did you just compare your wife’s womb to Shawshank Prison?)

What? Noooooo. Okay maybe. But that’s what I’m saying! It’s not like that. And good catch picking up on the movie reference. Anywhoos…. Yes, she’s been alive on the outside now for as long as she was on the inside. Everything is new. Every single thing. Every sound, every step, every bite, every smile. Everything. So incredibly, wonderfully new. And it goes soooooo goddamn fast.

It’s funny…. Here I am writing this on the day we turn our clocks back. We literally have an extra hour to play with today… and it’s still not enough. I want to enjoy every second of every minute that I can just watching this child grow. And I know I can’t, and that sucks too. I can’t really explain how that feels. If you’re a parent, looking at your child and seeing bits and pieces of yourself looking back at you, you know. I don’t have to tell you.

I will tell you this, however. And this is something I bet a lot of new parents do too but didn’t tell you either, so you’re welcome in advance.

(Okay, what is it?)

When they say life changes forever, it’s true. Because now, I cannot lay down without going back into the nursery one last time just to hear my little girl breathe. I can’t go to bed and fall asleep myself unless I do. Every single night. That’s just my life now. And I wouldn’t change it for anything, not even that billion dollar Mega Millions jackpot.

There are still times I look at her and it feels surreal. But it feels natural, just the same.

Nine months old. My daughter is nine months old. In three months’ time, she’ll be one year old already. A year. A. YEAR.

Normally I hate the time change, but this year? Today? I’ll gladly accept it getting dark at 4:30 in exchange for that extra hour.

An extra hour with my daughter.

I’m a dad now, and that’s just how it is.

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