Ramblings of a New Dad: A Year and Counting

Well, for those playing the home game, yes, I survived my first year of parenthood. My daughter is one year old. I and my beloved wife have managed to keep another, completely dependent human being alive for a whole year. Yup. That's… it's been… my daughter…

 
HOLY FUCK MY DAUGHTER IS ONE YEAR OLD ALREADY.
 
(You mean twelve months old?)
 
Shut it you. But yes, twelve months, fifty-two weeks, three hundred and sixty-five days, however you want to enumerate it, my daughter is a year old. And when they say that time goes fast, boy howdy did they mean it. Incidentally, who are "they" anyway? Are they the same "they" that say you should stop and smell the roses to keep time from passing too quickly? Because honestly I don't pass a lot of roses on a daily basis. Plus I don't think sniffing plants would really have that effect.
 
(*blink blink*)
 
*sigh*
 
Yeah, I know. I need help. Can we move past that and talk about how my child is a year old already? I mean, it seems like yesterday I was lying there, on the couch, with this tiny, brand new life just lying there on my chest. Her hands were wrapped over with the ends of her onesie so that her tiny little razor-like finger fingernails wouldn't scratch her perfectly cherubic, tiny little face. Do you know what she's doing now?
 
(I have a feeling you're going to tell us….)
 
I'll tell you. She's walking. But you knew that; she's been doing that since a week before she turned ten months old. But now she's walking, with regular, rubber-soled sneakers on. And she's running. She's walking and running and she's thirty inches tall and she's climbing. Walking and running and climbing and holy sweet bejeebus she's even talking. TALKING. TAL-KING. As in using words. WORDS. In context.
 
(Wait, she's only a year old and she's already doing all of that?)
 
Yup.
 
(You are so screwed, dude.)
 
Tell me about it. But when I hear "dada" and "momma" in her sweet little voice, or she holds her arms up in the air and says "up up"? I melt like a sundae on a hot summer day. This child is progressing so fast and learning so quickly. Just yesterday we asked "where's you book?" and she went to her basket of toys, pulled out a book, turned, and said "ook! Ook!" We're going to start reading War and Peace soon.
 
(Let's not get ahead of ourselves there, sparky.)

I know. But do most one year olds do that? I'm biased, certainly, but I can't imagine this is that common. I have friends whose children didn't even walk until they were thirteen months old or later. So, to recap: walking, running, talking, able to recognize words in context and respond accordingly. At one. Year. Old.

 
What I've witnessed, watching this child grow and develop literally from the second she emerged into the world until now, has been one of the most profound, exciting, terrifying, exhilarating and emotional journeys I've ever experienced. Every day something new happens, she learns something else, achieves another milestone. It's humbling, truly, to know that I have a part in that.
 
Of course, it scares the ever living shit out of me, too. And what does that even mean? The ever living sh—
 
(DON'T. Just, don't.)
 
Fine. But it is terrifying, this parenting thing. I don't care how many books you read, how many seminars you attend, or how much advice you get. None of it prepares you for being a parent. None of it. The books and pamphlets and advice? They're a collective guide, not a preparatory tool. Was I prepared for how my eyes would well up that first time I heard my daughter cry out "dada" in the middle of night? Or when, just two days ago, after turning my back for two seconds, my daughter climbed up on the ottoman, and then the couch, and them tumbled end over end off of it before I could reach her?
 
(Ouch! I'm assuming she was okay, hopefully?)
 
She was fine. Stunned, but physically fine. Her father was an emotional dumpster fire. Watching her fall and thump the ground made me feel as if my internal organs were doing a Chinese fire drill inside my gut. But yes, she was fine. And there are going to be plenty more of those breathtaking-in-a-bad-way moments. I get that that. They still suck and you can't prepare for them but hey: that's parenting. Anyone who tells you otherwise is selling something.
 
(That's a bit cynical, don't you think?)
 
Am I wrong though? Look, parenting is an experiential, well, experience. I understand that now. I get it. You have to be a parent to understand parenting a human child. I previously equated caring for my dogs to parenting, but… But. Sorry, dog and pet owners and lovers without children. I've lived on both sides of that fence now, and it is without question a false equivalency. Parenting a human child, your own child, is something so wholly and completely different.  And there's no way to adequately describe it in words.
 
(Yeah, about that human thing….)
 
She's. Been. Tested. We've been over this.
 
As of this writing my daughter is now one year and six days old. She's thirty inches tall, weighs twenty pounds, six ounces, and carries in that tiny little body my heart and soul. I would never ask for anything different, would never change a single thing. Everything I've done in my life, every achievement and misstep, every bit of laughter and every tear, every elation and every heartbreak, lead me to become her father. I have never, and likely will seldom ever again, be so grateful for anything in my life.
 
Through the pregnancy, and now through the first year of my daughter's life, I've chronicled my journey as first an expectant, and then new dad, here on these pages. My intent was multi-faceted. First and foremost, writing is cheaper than therapy and for me achieves pretty much the same result. This has been my means of getting all of the words, the emotion, the anxiety of becoming and being a parent out of my head.
 
On the other hand, I wanted to share my journey with you because I know there are so many of you reading these words that have either already experienced it, are experiencing it, or will experience it soon. The "it" to which I refer, obviously, is becoming a parent. I joke and jest and use humor to diffuse, but I know some if not many of you are thinking many of these same thoughts, feeling these same feelings. You've told me as much. So I hope in sharing my adventures in becoming a father with you, out loud, so to speak, you understand that you're not alone, and that it's okay to be scared. It's okay be anxious. It's okay to feel like you don't know what you're doing because, if we're being honest, you don't.
 
THAT'S. OKAY.  
 
You'll get through it. Parents have been parenting long before Betty White was born in the Jurassic Era, and they'll be parenting long after we're all gone. Except Betty White. And Keith Richards. Probably. I'm pretty sure they'll both live forever.
 
(*face palm*)
 
Look, my point is that you'll get through it. Hell, if this overly worrisome, anxiety-ridden lawyer, writer, husband and father can do it, so can you. I mean it. Feel anxious about parenting? Go back and read my post about projectile pooping. If you can't either laugh at it or relate to it, well, then maybe I can't help you and you have bigger issues. Just remember that you're not alone.
 
I honestly can't say if I'll continue the Ramblings of a New Dad after today's post. I've been rambling on now about my parenting adventures for over a year and a half. Is there more I could say? Well, duh. Of course there is. But something tells me from here on out, you might need to figure things out on your own… just like I need to. Plus, I mean, I'm a writer. I have other words in here, too. As much as I'd like, and could, continue to talk about my daughter and the elation she's brought to my life until the cows come home, perhaps there's other things I need to say, too, and other things you might want or need to hear. Who knows. I certainly don't.
 
I'm just a dad, writing about my daughter. My beautiful, amazing, one year old daughter.
 
My daughter is one year old.
 
*grins uncontrollably*
 
Now, where do those cows go, exactly, and why does it take them so long to come home?
 
© 2019 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.