Worrying

I worry a lot. About everything. It's not my fault. Seriously. Ever since I was a little kid, I have worried and worried and worried. If you had wanted to meet a macabre 7-year-old who was literally convinced that the world would be incinerated as a result of nucclear war before he turned 21, I was your boy. It's just a part of who I am. I consciously try stave off worry by being "pro-active," being reasonable and thinking about the best manner in which to take care of some problem, not procrastinating, not hesitating to rely on friends and family for assistance or advice, etc. I devised a mantra for myself after college, simply to survive my brain: "I will not worry about that which I cannot control." It helps, somewhat. But what about that which I CAN control or SHOULD control? Well, you bet your ASS I worry about that shit, too.

So now that I'm going to be a parent in like 6 months or something, a deluge of fun, new worries have recently invaded my thoughts. My seemingly ever-waking thoughts.

I worry about not making enough money. I'm not a lawyer or a doctor or some business guy who makes 6 figures and rides around in some car that costs more than every car I have ever owned combined. I probably COULD have done any of those things but in all honesty, they don't interest me whatsoever.

I worry about just plain being a shitty father.

I worry about balancing being a GOOD father while still being able to do things that _I_ like to do, like aikido training and poker playing and music listening and football watching and albeit fairly innocuous stuff. But I still WANT to be able to do these things. Will I?

I worry again about not making enough money. My wife and I do great, for 2 people with limited financial responsibilities who don't live crazy, extravagant lifestyles. We are modest, down-to-earth people. Throw a screaming kid into the mix, though...

I worry about being able to retain the "romantic" aspects of our marriage at their current intensity. (Or at least at their recent intensity.) If you know what I'm saying. And I think you do.

I worry about all the excruciatingly minute decisions every parent makes like 10 times a day in terms of their kid's rearing. What if I make the wrong one? Will I completely fuck my kid up? Will "Decision X" be one of those moments that the kid remembers for the rest of their lives? Will "Situation Y" become tattooed on their brain and color their adolscence and adulthood?

I worry about being physically EXHAUSTED. Can I keep up with a kid?

My wife is--to a fault, maybe, given that I can be such a pain in the ass--supporitve. "It's OK to fail. Every parent does." "Things cost money. It's OK." "You're being such a pain in the ass. Stop worrying." Etc.

It's really not helping.

She seems so comfortable in this new knowledge, as if wrapped in some elegant blanket. As if this--THIS--fits her. And here I am, in the dressing room, trying to cram my fat ass in pants 3 sizes to small.

A Bustle in Your Hedgerow

You know, I'm glad it's OK to like "Stairway to Heaven" again. You know why? Because that song fucking ROCKS!

Sure, we all got a little carried away with it in the late 80s and early 90s, so it's probably in all of our best interests that there was this Wayne's World-induced moratorium on enjoying the song. We needed about 10 - 15 years to just mellow out a little bit.

But I feel like that's over now. Right? Right. So crank it up, people, and enjoy it.

I'm Not Embarrassed Anymore, Dammit

I'm going to admit it: I love "America's Funniest Home Videos." There, I said it. Phew. I feel better.

This may be a shock to some people who know me. I have an extensive CD collection, ranging from The Beatles and James Brown and Allison Krauss to Sonny Rollins and Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane to Beethoven, Bach, Bartok and Szymanowski. I have many erudite books on my shelves and I know how to properly use the word "erudite" in a sentence. My favorite film of all time is "Fargo," followed by others that do not involve dudes getting it square in the nuts.

Mind you, I don't love the inane pre- and post-clip patter of course, nor do I give a shit about who "wins," since it's invariably the WORST video submitted that week* and sure...how many times can you really watch some kid ride his skateboard into a tree and still laugh about it? (Unless it's REALLY funny, of course.) But I'll tell you this: some things are just completely hilarious:

#1: People being chased by birds. Large birds, small birds, lone birds, flocks of birds...it don't matter. It's ALL gold. People freak the FUCK out when a bird (or birds) has got it in for them. It's awesome.

#2: Montages of toddlers or infants sneezing, falling, bumping into things, getting dragged around by pets, laughing, shooting food out their noses or dumping it on themselves, making messes and getting caught, saying cutesy stuff that little kids say because they don't know any better, singing, dancing, accidentally hitting their fathers in the nuts, walking, running, spinning, or playing around in the tub or shower. Kids are cute. I can deal with that.

#3: I once watched a montage of people in those big animal / mascot costumes you would see at Disney World completely losing control of their faculties and falling down or crashing into things and people and--best of all--terrified children screaming. I wet my pants a little it was so funny.

#4: Watching people who clearly shouldn't be doing what they're doing get their comeuppence. It's satisfying to see some idiot guy, precariously dangling off his roof attempting to sheer off a tree limb, fall onto his lawn. Either (1) do it the right way or (2) hire a professional, you know?

Anyway, I'm not going to hide it any longer. Funny's funny.

*The "winning" video is always the single WORST one. Literally. At least half the time, it's some lonely woman prompting her cat to meow its "unusual" meow at the proper time:

[demented cat-freak of a woman]: "Old McDonald had a farm! Ee-eye-ee-eye..."

[cat dressed up like a farmer]: "Meeeeeeeeoooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwww." (which may or may not actually sound anything like "Oh.")

It's just SAD. Poor crazy cat lady.

Distractions

When I think about the baby in terms of just another thing going on in my life, I actually find myself getting--I don't know if this is really the right word--annoyed.

"Blah blah blah work and blah blah blah Mom and blah blah blah house and blah blah blah groceries and blah blah blah aikido and blah blah blah poker and blah blah blah [wife] and blah blah blah BABY?!?"

And lately I have a lot of Mom-related stuff going on, so I haven't exactly been completely focused on the birth, despite the fact that we had our first gynecologist appointment last weekend. Impending fatherhood has almost been an after-thought the last week or so.

So last night as I got in bed I picked up the Baby Manual (a.k.a. Daddy Smarts - A Guide to Fatherhood or whatever) and read another 1/4 of the book, as I haven't even cracked it in a week. (The book is OK, but that's another entry. I'll reserve judgement until after I've finished the entire thing.) The first couple chapters were dedicated to more pragmatic and--frankly--obvious issues such as finances, the fact that there's a good chance your wife might tear off your nutsack like a paper towel as a result of her hormonal imbalance, you know...stuff like that.

But then I got to Chapter Eight: "What kind of Dad will I be?" And it's not that what Richardson wrote was all that illuminating or anything, but as I read ("you should think long and hard about what kind of father you want to be"), I realized that I have been thinking about this, for a lot longer than we've been pregnant in fact, and I'm probably way ahead of the curve on this one and then everything else in my life kind of evaporated and all that was left was this image of some kid--my kid, our kid--looking up at me with a big goofy grin on its face and I then noticed that I was no longer reading at all, that I had set the book down on my chest and I was just lying there next to my already sleeping wife, smiling.

We Get It, Lady

So now that I have been going to City Hall for almost a year now for work, I have become familiar with the Cast of Characters which populates the Traffic Department and surrounding areas. I also have become friendly with some people who are just like me: the unfortunate individuals at their respective companies who have been assigned to pull permits at City Hall. Some of them are very nice. Some of them are unbelievable jerks.

This one woman, N, couldn't be any older than me, if as old. She's perfectly nice. And she's maybe 5 or 6 months pregnant with her sixth child. SIXTH! And as if the bulge below her boobs and above her hoo-hah wasn't enough, everything that comes out of her mouth has to do with her pregnancy.

**drops pen** "Oh, can you get that for me? I'm having a hard time bending over in my condition. Number six here!"

"I took my other 5 kids trick-or-treating last night and boy am I wiped out. Bun in the oven, you know!"

"I'm SO hungry. This one must be a linebacker!"

And so on.

Uh, I get it, N. You're pregnant. With number six. Wonderful. You may want to slow down a bit, or at least read a book or something so you'll have another subject to discuss with people.

Christ.

Into the Wild and Out of this World

So I finished the Jon Krakauer non-fiction account of Chris McCandless' journey into Alaska, Into the Wild. For those of you unfamiliar with the narrative (since it was a best-selling book about 10 years ago, I thought I was the last individual alive who hadn't heard of it), here's the gist:

Boy born to affluent family in the suburbs of DC. Intelligent, affable, seemingly mature beyond his years. Eventually learns some not-too-great stuff about his father and family which may have been the impetus for the anti-authority, anti-institution, anti-establishment values he ardently espouses. Graduates Emory University, with Honors. Decides to go on an adventure afterward, culminating into a trip into the Alaskan wildnerness, to live off the land, alone.

Long story short: he dies after a little more than 100 days.

How did he die? The author, through what appears to be tireless research, concludes that McCandless ate moldy seeds of the wild potato, which caused his body to be unable to tak e in nutrients from the meager subsistence he did have available.

Throughout the novel, we learn (obliquely and acutely) that McCandless was searching for something. He called it "truth." Fair enough. Krakauer goes out of his way on several occasions to point out that McCandless did NOT have a death-wish. He was venturing out into the wilderness with spare (and that's being generous) supplies and gear to find something. Truth.

I do not believe that McCandless had a death wish. I really don't. I also do not believe that he was necessarily stupid and cocky and unprepared. Had he not eaten those seeds, his journal entries intimate that he was most likely ready to emerge from the bush and reintegrate himself with the rest of humanity, for better or worse. It seemed as though he did learn that life, at least on some level, is all about interacting with others, again, for better or worse. The human condition, after all, cannot exist if there is not another human with whom to share it.

But didn't McCandless find truth? Everything dies, including an idealistic, bright, well-liked and albeit troubled boy from Maryland. And that's the only real truth there is.

The Parent Trap

M and his wife don't want kids. In fact, this decision factored into their relationship progressing beyond the nascent stages of boy-meets-girl. M and J view kids the way most people view ebola or rats or O.J. Simpson or pond scum or dirty underwear. Needless to say, if you feel that way about kids, do everyone a favor: don't have 'em. So I respect their decision.

However--M mentioned--the idea of having a "little you" running around was quite alluring. You know, someone to do what you do and like what you like and poo-poo that which is summarily poo-pooed by you.

This, however, is what I believe is the true "parent trap." Putting expectations on that which one's children are going to turn out to be is a rocky concept, one which is better left to the insecure, unsure and soon-to-be-living-vicariously-through-their-children-by-screaming-bloody-murder-at-a-little-league-coach type of parents. As long as my kid is (1) happy and (2) not causing anyone else harm as a result of their individual pursuit of said happiness, I'll be like a pig in shit and will feel that I have done my job well. I suppose, though, that there are certain things which are simply musts for my children. To wit:


My children must be able to laugh, not only at that which is funny, but also at themselves. My wife is the funniest woman I have ever met in my life and I consider myself a fairly amusing individual, so the idea of our children not being able to crack jokes or laugh at others' is pretty terrifying.

My children must be able to appreciate beauty. And when I say "beauty," I'm not talking about the Natalie Portman / Jude Law type, nor the pair of shoes or a lamp or some other over-priced piece of crap type. I mean: music and film and art and literature and everything else that makes me happy to be a part--albeit a small one--of this world.

My children must not be judgmental, throw stones and/or feel as though they are in any way better than anyone else. No one likes a person like that.

My children must not be irrationally predjudiced in any way. Sure, we all have our own biases and everything, but I just really hope my future child doesn't become preternaturally fascinated with Stalin or David Duke or someone.

My children must not be douchebags. You know what I mean.

My children must be able to feel empathy for others. Empathy is one of the richest, most imperative and in some ways basic emotions a human being can feel.

My children must be able to make reasonable, intelligent and insightful decisions, even if they turn out to be wrong. I realize that it is up to me to impart on them the knowledge to do so, and I consider it a pleasure. Ask me how it went in like 22 years.

My children must like James Brown. I understand why certain people don't like The Beatles (although I'm always a little suspect of such individuals.) They tire of the fact that everyone and their mother won't shut up about how The Beatles were the best rock/pop band of all time (which they were); about how the combination of their fame, their commerical and critical success AND their contribution to Western music will never be topped (which it won't); about how Lennon and McCartney are probably both in the top 10 greatest songwriters in the Western world (which they are); about how at least 3/4 of Beatles' albums are canonical classics (which, again, they are); about how Abbey Road may be the greatest album of all time (which it is); blahbety-blah-blah. I get it. But someone who just can't GET DOWN to The Godfather? I have no time for you.