Ramblings of a New Dad: First Christmas

In the span of four days my beloved offspring turned eleven months old and celebrated her very first Christmas. And this dad's head exploded. I think there are still bits of my brain in the Christmas tree.

 

(Okay, first, ew. And second, EW!)

 

Oh grow up. My head didn't really explode. Figuratively, however, there's bits-o-brain everywhere. My daughter is eleven months old. In less than a month's time, she'll be one year old. And for the record, can someone explain to me again why we measure baby life in months? She'll be a year old. Yes, technically, that's also twelve months. I don't know why but it annoys me when people say "oh my little one just turned twelve months old." Your kid is ONE, Brenda. One year old.

 

(You get annoyed at the most random things.)

 

I do. I can't help it sometimes. Don't ask me about what happens when I see people who have their windshield wipers going too fast.

 

(Wait, what about peo—)

 

I said don't ask. Anywhoos…. Yes, my daughter will be one year old come the end of January, and it's honestly a bit overwhelming. For the last year my wife and I have been experiencing anything and everything new when it comes to parenting. Diapers. The Nose-Frida. Colds and boogers and coughs and ear aches and poop up the wazoo and everywhere else. Nursing, then solid foods. Teething, walking, communicating, and playing. All of this has taken place over the last twelve months.

 

(I see what you did there.)

 

It's annoying, isn't it? One year, twelve months… I don't know where the hell the time has gone. Everyone says time goes by fast when you're a parent of an infant. Ain't that the truth. It seems like just yesterday she was wearing tiny little mittens so she wouldn't scratch herself. Now, just two days ago, she walked around the house Christmas morning with a bottle in one hand and a new toy in the other.

 

Her first Christmas.

 

Holy fu…dge. My baby celebrated her first Christmas. I have to say… it was a little anti-climatic. There's a definite upside to her being as old as eleven months at Christmas, certainly. She could open her gifts, tearing into the tissue and wrapping like nobody's business. But she's still too young to understand the purpose and meaning of the day. Plus, more often than not, she was more interested in eating the tissue paper than playing with or looking at whatever was wrapped in it.

 

Still…

 

My baby's first Christmas. And yes, I cried. I'm not too proud to admit it. It was my dad that did it. When he arrived, he came carrying a pink rocking horse, pictured here:

 

 

It was an incredibly touching and tear-worthy gesture for a few reasons: 1) My father made it; B) he didn't just make it – he made it about forty-three years ago. That rocking horse, you see, was the one he originally made for me; and 3) he updated it for his granddaughter, my daughter.

 

(I… I think I have something in my eye….)

 

Right? Add in the fact that her other grandpa gave us a framed picture of my wife with her two dogs from when she was a child, so that our daughter could see what her mommy was like when she was little… and a pair of grandmas giving our little one contributions to college accounts and her very first Jeep, a walk/ride-along Jeep toy, and well…

 

(That's one emotional first Christmas.)

 

Did I mention the fact that I hand-painted my daughter's very first dollhouse for her very first Christmas and surprised my wife with it by sneaking it under the tree after she went to bed?

 

 

 

(GODDAMMIT I'M NOT CRYING YOU'RE CRYING!)

 

Yeah. It was a good day. It was a very good day.  Sometimes things just work out the way they're supposed to. It took me a while, a great, long while, to get to this point in my life, but I got here. I have the wife and family I'd always hoped for, a home, a dog, two Jeeps in the garage. And there's so much more to come as we watch our daughter learn and grow. Of course, we're now getting into this whole "testing boundaries" phase where the word "no" elicits giggles and smiles instead of the fear of God her parents would prefer she experience. Thrice we cleaned up spills of coffee and/or the dog's water on Christmas day. THRICE.

 

(BWAAAHAAHAAAA... er, I mean, that's a shame.)

 

Go ahead, laugh. It's okay. You kind of look at her and want to be mad but she's so damn mischievous and cute and… wait…

 

Crap.

 

I just saw me in that smirk.

 

(You're screwed now.)

 

I am, I really am. In the best way possible.

 

Next stop: one year.

 

 

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