Greetings Little One

A phone for Clara

It seems like every year, the age in which kids receive their first cellphone decreases, little one. Though we maintain a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy in my classroom, I’m pretty sure that at least half of my students own one already, and they’re ten and eleven years old.

If the average age continues to decrease, when will it be time for you to receive your first cellphone? On your first day in kindergarten? As a reward for completing potty training? Once you can identify all ten numbers of the keypad?

If you keep sleeping the way that you are (seven uninterrupted hours last night!) you’ll be able to purchase your own cellphone by the time you’re three years old!

And when it comes time to finally purchase you a phone, how could I bear to give you anything less than an iPhone?
To do otherwise would seem uncivilized.

Compliments

As a teacher, I have a policy, little one, of refraining from ever commenting on a student’s physical appearance. Haircuts, new coats, a fancy hat, new shoes and even a suit or a dress for a special occasion are off limits by me. I know that many find this position extreme, but I believe that the emphasis on physical appearance in this country is damaging to kids and their self perceptions (and quite shallow and stupid), so if I can limit this emphasis, even a little, in my students’ lives, I will have done some good.

I also think that with the disparity in incomes between families, commenting on a student’s shoes, jacket, or shirt is simply another way of delineating the haves from the have nots. As beautiful as a little girl’s dress may be, to say so likely impacts the way in which another student is feeling about her clothing, which was not complimented.

As fair and balanced as we try to be, it is impossible to ensure that all students are complimented equally, or that that the perceptions of these compliments are received equally, so I refrain. Besides, physical appearance should simply be beyond the purview of the teacher. We have enough to do without commenting on hair styles and clothing.

And I encourage my students to do the same. I explain to them that a meaningful comment goes beyond the clothing that a person is wearing (and was likely chosen by a parent) and should encompass the person. I try to compliment students on the way they treat others, the effort that they put into an assignment, or their willingness to do more than is required of them. I point out things that they do well and compliment what they do and create rather than the color of their eyes or the sheen of their hair.

But what about you, little one? This morning I realized that I comment on your physical appearance constantly. You are a beautiful little girl and I probably say it a thousand times a day. Should I fear an overemphasis on physical appearance, or are comments like these appropriate for parents? It’s not like I have much else to compliment you about. Yes, you’re sleeping well, but what else is there? Should I mention your excessively loud belches, your ability to wet a diaper as soon as I’ve finished putting it on you, or the remarkable volume that you can achieve when upset or distressed? You don’t do much, little one. So I have little with which to work.

At this point all I’ve really got is your beauty, and while I can’t imagine myself refraining from mentioning it from time to time, I think that as you grow older and become capable of more and more, I will attempt to shift the majority of my comments towards who you are and what you do rather than what you look like.

Will I refrain from commenting on your physical appearance forever? Unlikely. I’m not sure yet, but it seems to me that the role of every Daddy is to make his daughter feel beautiful, at least in his eyes. But I also want you to understand that your beauty will ultimately be the part of you that I am the least interested in or impressed with. While I want you to be healthy, your choice of clothing, hair style, and overall appearance will ultimately mean much less to me than your academic achievements, your degree of sportsmanship, the kindness that you show others, your intelligence and creativity, your work ethic, and all the other things that extend beyond the fabric on your back and the shape of the hair atop your head.

You are beautiful, little one, but that’s just the start. There’s so much more to learn about you in the coming years, and I will be sure to find the beauty in who you are and mention it again and again and again.

Leaving you

Leaving you every morning so that I can go to work hasn't been too bad, little one.  Leaving before you awake is especially hard, since I don't dare kiss you or pick you up lest I rouse you from your slumber and deny Mommy an hour or more of precious sleep.  But usually, leaving you isn't so bad.

Granted there are moments in the day when I desperately wish that I were home, but my students fill my time with lots of laughter and love, and they truly get me through the day. 

Your mother sends me a photo each day as well, to keep me in touch with what's going on at home.  Over lunch, I open it on my phone, stare at it a while and share it with friends. 

Yesterday Mom sent me a photo that instantly made me want to come home to you.  She had just finished giving you a bath and took this picture:

I don't know what it was, but this photo made me miss you more than you can imagine. 

I told Mommy not to send any more super-cute photos during the day anymore. 

Reality bites

This story from The Onion, which I have cut and pasted here in fear that by the time you are old enough to read it, it will no longer exist, is devastating in its veracity save one important element:

Unlike the man in the story, I would contend that most men know exactly how difficult parenting will be, and that we have known it since the age of ten.  This is why men are constantly dodging and postponing children and women are anxiously awaiting them.  Men have known since middle school that parenting can be downright awful at times.  In fact, when thinking about children, I believe that most men begin by considering all of the negatives associated with parenthood, and it takes us a long time to reconcile these issues before we can realize the positives and move forward. 

Women, on the other hand, seem to focus more upon the idealized version of parenting and forget the mind-numbing monotony that can be associated with the care of a newborn, or the blood curdling screams that a little one like you is capable.  They imagine pushing strollers in the park and preparing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for school and rocking babies to sleep in minutes, and it's only after they are born that reality hits them.

Sure, postpartum depression is related to the hormones that rage in a woman's body after delivery, but I also truly believe that it has a lot to do with reality setting in for the first time.  

While not everyone will agree with my assessment, little one, many mothers have confirmed this belief.

Fortunately for us, parenthood has not been bad so far, thanks to you.  You're sleeping well, eating like a horse, and you rarely cry.  The dog has adjusted well to you, and even Owen, the cat, seems to be behaving better.  Other than a little gas, which all infants suffer with to one degree or another, you are healthy and energetic.  We've managed to dodge all of the potential problems associated with a newborn so far, thanks to you.  We feel very fortunate, and therefore, a little less like the man and woman in the story below. 

FROM: The Onion

'This Is The Happiest Day Of My Life,' Lies Man Holding Baby

February 7, 2009 | Issue 45•06

PASADENA, CA—Looking out at a sea of expectant faces, new father Dan Rudloff commemorated the birth of his daughter, Elizabeth, by holding the small, vulnerable child in his arms and blurting out a series of lies and half-truths about how happy he was at that moment.

New father Dan Rudloff tries to express joy while realizing he will never ever be able to get that boat.

"Oh my God," said Rudloff, staring down at the squalling, vernix-covered infant who will depend on him for everything from eating, to bathing, to keeping her head upright. "She's beautiful."

Realizing he was now forever tethered to this utterly helpless new life, responsible for its shelter, upbringing, education, safety, and all related expenses for the next 18—or, perhaps more accurately, 25—years, Rudloff rattled off a series of patently false pleasantries about being overjoyed with his new baby girl. The 32-year-old property manager even managed to form his lips into the strained approximation of a smile, despite suffering through near-constant visions of dropping the fragile baby or accidentally squishing her delicate internal organs with his clumsy, brutish hands.

According to onlookers, Rudloff took the resulting lull in conversation as an opportunity to shift his gaze from his wailing progeny and stare into his wife's opiate-sedated eyes, at which point the two shared the knowing glance that comes only with the realization that your days of selfish solitude, unrestrained drinking, sleeping in until noon, and enjoying any semblance of independence are now forever gone. After taking several deep breaths to maintain his composure, Rudloff came up with another sentiment he thought was expected of him

"This is the greatest day of my life," Rudloff said in an apparent attempt to convince friends and family of his delight so he could sit down, drink a glass of water, and gather his thoughts. "I've never been happier."

In fact, records indicate the new father had been happier on several occasions in the past month alone, usually following a satisfying meal. Records also suggest the greatest day of his life actually involved a particularly fun round of miniature golf that ended with the coital act that resulted in the child he was† now holding.

Nevertheless, Rudloff continued to grasp for more happy words to conceal his trepidation at not being able to casually leave the house for the next 13 years without making provisions for his daughter.

"This is so…," said Rudloff, thinking "nightmarish nightmarish nightmarish" as tears began to well in his eyes. "I never thought this day would actually come. I'm—I'm speechless."

Thus fulfilling the first of thousands upon thousands of new fatherly obligations, Rudloff posed for a picture.

Though not a habitual liar, Rudloff has skirted the truth to meet social expectations on previous occasions. Late last year, he expressed gratitude to his mother-in-law after receiving a Scottish sweater for Christmas; and from the ages of 14 to 16, he feigned an interest in playing JV football.

After estimating that he had held her for an adequate amount of time, Rudloff quickly scanned the room to find a suitable candidate to whom he could relinquish control of the infant before he completely lost it right there in front of everyone he knew.

"I can't imagine doing anything greater than this with my life," said the hapless father, hoping against hope that his daughter would not retain the memory of his trembling arms and grow to resent him, leaving home at 15 to cover her body in tattoos and piercings and hitchhike around the country, bedding any random trucker whose arms would give her the feeling of protection she never received from her worthless dad. "Here you go, honey."

Satisfied with his masquerade of cheerfulness, Rudloff gingerly handed the infant back to his wife.

"I'm so proud of you," Dana Rudloff said while thinking about an old college boyfriend she broke up with who went on to become a successful software designer. "You'll make a great father."

Cash for sleep

For the past two nights, little one, you have been very well behaved.  After being fed around 11:30, you've been sleeping until 3:30, when Mommy must get up and feed you again.  But once you are done, you are back in bed and asleep until 8:00.

Not bad for a baby just over a week old. 

This is a big change from the first few nights at home, when you spent a great deal of time with me in the family room, watching television and crying inconsolably.  It is our sincerest hope that this can continue, little one, as I return to work tomorrow and your mom will be home alone with you.  A decent night's sleep will be essential to her ability to get through the day.

So here's my deal for you, Clara.  For every night of reasonable sleep that you afford Mommy and me, I will pay you one dollar.  So far we have had two nights of satisfactory sleep in a row, so you've already earned yourself $2.  I will keep a running tally until you are three years old and then pay you the allotted sum, plus interest, on your tenth birthday, at which point you can do with the money as you please. 

It's up to you, little one.  How much cash do you want?  I realize that by the time you're old enough to understand this arrangement, the opportunity to earn cash will have ended.  But perhaps the essence of this deal will somehow permeate your cells and make a difference in your behavior. 

Anything is worth a shot.     

Daddy's dilemma

This post is not meant to imply that fatherhood is any more difficult than motherhood, little one, but is meant to illuminate one challenge that fathers face that breast feeding mothers do not.

After dinner tonight, you began to get a little fussy.  You had eaten about an hour ago, and after changing your diaper and ensuring that you were warm, I knew that you were being fussy for the sake of being fussy.  Underdeveloped nervous system, a desire to make your Daddy crazy... whatever.  It was all you. 

But when Mom heard you whimpering and beginning to cry, her immediate response was, "I'll feed her.  She's probably still hungry."  While I have no doubt that sticking you on her boob would've quieted you right down, I also knew that you had just eaten.  You weren't hungry.  You were simply being fussy.

But as a breast-feeding mother, Mommy is equipped with a sure-fire, instant cure for your blues. Whether you had fed fifteen minutes ago or three hours ago, breastfeeding is an automatic pacifier for most babies, including you.  As a result, your mother has rarely heard you cry, since when you do, she either latches you onto her breast or I take you downstairs to listen to you cry, or as one nurse in the hospital said, to listen to you "Tell me your story."

This makes fatherhood especially tricky, little one, since I do not have a form or method of instant appeasement for you.  Eventually your mother will pump breast milk that I can use, and perhaps that will help, but until then, I have been forced to develop a series of strategies to quiet you down. 

I've gotten quite good at it, if I do say so myself, but I've also learned that there are times when babies cry, and if their diaper is changed, their body is warm, and their bellies are full, it's okay.  Cry away, little one.  It makes your mother crazy, partly because she can't stand to think of you as upset and partly because of her inexperience with your crying, but for me, I know it goes with the territory, so it only disturbs me in that I cannot hear the television over your wailing. 

But that's why God made headphones and audiobooks.   

So as your mother rose to feed you last night as your whimpering began to escalate, I told her to sit down, since I knew you weren't actually hungry.  Instead, I checked your diaper, ensured that you were warm, and began my series of soothing strategies, which can include whispering softly in your ear, rocking the flat-bottomed bassinet in a few different, albeit tiring ways, placing both hands on your body and applying slight pressure in a form of an infant hug, and as a last resort, picking you up, placing your head on my chest just over my heart, patting you on the back, and breathing long, deep breaths that threaten hyperventilation a times. 

These things usually do the trick. 

Last night, I simply rocked the bassinet on a pillow, stuck a pacifier in your mouth, and performed the two-handed hug for about thirty seconds.  You were quiet in no time.

It doesn't always work that well.    

But it's an illustration of a challenge in parenting that you mother has yet to face.  With a breast full of food always available, your mother has not been forced to evolve survival strategies yet.  For me, I am forced to evolve or perish the way of the dodo bird, a story I will tell you about during one of your marathon screaming sessions one night soon.       

Debrief

The nights have been an adventure for us, little one.  They haven't been too bad, but because of the late hour and the randomness of your schedule, it's often difficult to recall what actually happened throughout the night.  For this reason, your mother and I conduct an early morning debriefing of the pervious night, in order to determine what happened, when it happened, and how much sleep each of us managed to squeeze in. 

It's harder than you think.

For example, last night we went to bed around 11:15.  At 12:45 you mother awoke me because you were crying and I took you downstairs to listen to you scream.  It's become a ritual of sorts for us.  We snuggle into the chair and I continue telling you the story of my life, and after about 45 minutes, you settle down and fall asleep on my chest.  Then I switch on the television.  Last night I flipped between Ratatouille, Bottle Rocket, and Saturday Night Live in an effort to remain awake and give you mom a few more hours of sleep.  I even managed about fifteen minutes of writing.  At 3:15 I brought you upstairs for a feeding (we only know the time thanks to your mother's iPhone breast feeding application, which tracks every minute of your eating) and went to sleep.  Next, I have a vague recollection of your mother asking me to move over in the middle of the night as she climbed into my side of the bed, curled up beside me, and shared my pillow.  But I barely remember this moment, and if you told me that it had been a dream, I would've believed it.  I awoke again at 6:45 this morning, when your somewhat insane mother awoke you from a sound sleep, fearing that you had gone too long without food.  Mommy was sweating and hungry and for some reason assumed you were as well.

We won't make that mistake again.

But what happened from 3:15-6:45?  This is why we debriefed.  It turns out that Mom managed to get you to sleep after your feeding by rocking you in the cradle, but after standing, sitting and lying down next to it, she realized that she could rock the cradle from our bed if I moved over. 

We also debrief in order to calculate the number of hours that we sleep each night, so we can determine of naps are in order.  Last night Mommy and I each slept about five hours, which is good for me but not so much for your mother, who requires more sleep and is now nursing as well.  She did squeeze in a two hour nap earlier in the evening, but still, the girl needs to rest.  

Oh, and you sucked your thumb for the first time last night, an accident really, and one that you have yet to duplicate despite your efforts.

It's time

This will be the last post before you are born, little one. Mommy is fully dilated and getting ready to push. Soon we will meet and our lives will never be the same. Our family of two will suddenly become three, and with this new addition, many, many things will change.

Mommy and I have talked about how much we love our life as it’s presently constituted and how much of that life may change with a baby. At times, the thoughts of these changes have scared us. We love our lives, damn it, and we want much of it to remain the same. But it’s okay. Though we intend on retaining as much of our previous life as possible, we are just as excited about the new adventures that you will bring.

It’s remarkable to think about how quickly things are about change. Last night Mommy and I were eating roast beef sandwiches and watching Battlestar Galactica, our last supper as childless parents. Now we are minutes away from meeting you for the first time.

Our journey together is about to begin.

Thank goodness for hospital Wi-Fi.

Rock-a-by the baby

It seems as if every item of clothing and bedding that we have for you, little one, is uncommonly soft. 

Too soft, I fear.  After all, life can't always been cozy blankets and downy pajamas.  We need to toughen you up a bit.  The world can be a cold and cruel place at times. 

That's why I would like to put a rock in your crib along with all the plush toys and other soft accouterment. 

Something hard and gritty to occasionally rub up against your skin.  Just to keep you from becoming too much of a wimp.  

Discipline

Last night your mother scolded you for the first time.  You were undulating in her belly, so she ordered you to stop, as if you were sitting beside her. 

Behave, little one.  Mommy can be one tough cookie.