Daddy's column about me
Daddy wrote this in his "Inkspots" column in the paper on Jan. 4. It was nice of him to write about me and all, but I'm not really thrilled that he called be a little bugger. Or that he thinks i'm going to skip three grades and be a university professor. I can't see myself wearing those tweed jackets with the suede elbows.
No, I figure I'll be a rock star (because I'm loud), a swimmer (because I love the water), or a pro wrestler (because I'm so freakin' huge).
I’ve never been a patient man.
As a kid, I hated waiting for Christmas, for my birthday, for the three o’clock bell at school. I loathed the phrase “please allow four to six weeks for delivery” when I sent in my Kool-Aid bar codes for a Frisbee or a ball. That was a month or more of school days and weekends and checking the mailbox.
I never thought I’d develop the virtue of patience. I thought I’d be impatient forever (instead of cold feet at my wedding, I was impatient all that day for the show to get on the road).
Then, last September, our first child Jack was born. And everything else became background noise. His screaming and crying for hours because he didn’t want to sleep was trying, but I didn’t find myself too impatient. Every sound he makes reaffirms that he is my son, and that I have a beautiful child.
I’ve learned to be patient when he cries, to take my time at bathtime to make sure he’s clean behind the knees and behind the ears; and to make sure I read to him slowly and in a bright voice. I’m at peace with the fact that my life now runs on his schedule, not mine.
Since before he was born, I’ve had high hopes for Jack, and like most parents, I’ve got his life mapped out for him already: reading by the time he’s three; skipping Grades Two, Six, and Ten; accepting a full scholarship from Dalhousie, Simon Fraser, or McGill; Ph.D; and then a career as a university professor.
But the little bugger can’t even roll over yet, and that is making me impatient again.
How is he going to crawl, stand, walk, run, and carry books under his arm if he can’t roll over? Other than holding up his head and grabbing for things (which he does), rolling is the cornerstone of the rest of his motor skills. You have to roll before you can crawl.
I try to remind myself that Jack, who is breastfed, was more than 11 pounds when he was born, and now, at just shy of four months, he weighs more than 18. That’s a lot of baby to roll over.
And the frustrating thing is that he is so close. He holds his head up and pushes up on his hands. He tucks his knees up, and he lifts one shoulder. He’s got the positioning, now all he needs is that big push to tip his centre of gravity.
Every time we put him down for “tummy time,” he looks around, pushes up, tucks, and lifts. I cheer from my knees on the edge of the blanket, and lean over like I’m coaching a swimmer.
He starts to turn...and then he puts his head back down on the blanket and sucks on his hand. I could tear my hair out.
But then my wife reminds me this isn’t really even a trial, not like the ones we still have coming up: getting Jack to eat his baby food, getting Jack to go to bed, getting Jack to eat his vegetables, and getting Jack to remember to write down the phone messages. We will long for the days when all he did was eat, sleep, and suck his hand.
Instead, the first time Jack rolls over, it will be another one of the small miracles of baby- (and parent-) hood.
She’s right, of course. Mothers usually are, even if they’re not your own. I still have a ways to go with my patience.
Before long, I’m going to have to keep my cool when Jack starts decorating the house with pureed peas, then with crayons, and finally with posters of swimsuit models and God forbid, heavy metal bands.
By that time, nu-metal band Limp Bizkit’s 2000 hit “Rollin’ — and Jack’s first roll — will be golden oldies.
No, I figure I'll be a rock star (because I'm loud), a swimmer (because I love the water), or a pro wrestler (because I'm so freakin' huge).
***
I’ve never been a patient man.
As a kid, I hated waiting for Christmas, for my birthday, for the three o’clock bell at school. I loathed the phrase “please allow four to six weeks for delivery” when I sent in my Kool-Aid bar codes for a Frisbee or a ball. That was a month or more of school days and weekends and checking the mailbox.
I never thought I’d develop the virtue of patience. I thought I’d be impatient forever (instead of cold feet at my wedding, I was impatient all that day for the show to get on the road).
Then, last September, our first child Jack was born. And everything else became background noise. His screaming and crying for hours because he didn’t want to sleep was trying, but I didn’t find myself too impatient. Every sound he makes reaffirms that he is my son, and that I have a beautiful child.
I’ve learned to be patient when he cries, to take my time at bathtime to make sure he’s clean behind the knees and behind the ears; and to make sure I read to him slowly and in a bright voice. I’m at peace with the fact that my life now runs on his schedule, not mine.
Since before he was born, I’ve had high hopes for Jack, and like most parents, I’ve got his life mapped out for him already: reading by the time he’s three; skipping Grades Two, Six, and Ten; accepting a full scholarship from Dalhousie, Simon Fraser, or McGill; Ph.D; and then a career as a university professor.
But the little bugger can’t even roll over yet, and that is making me impatient again.
How is he going to crawl, stand, walk, run, and carry books under his arm if he can’t roll over? Other than holding up his head and grabbing for things (which he does), rolling is the cornerstone of the rest of his motor skills. You have to roll before you can crawl.
I try to remind myself that Jack, who is breastfed, was more than 11 pounds when he was born, and now, at just shy of four months, he weighs more than 18. That’s a lot of baby to roll over.
And the frustrating thing is that he is so close. He holds his head up and pushes up on his hands. He tucks his knees up, and he lifts one shoulder. He’s got the positioning, now all he needs is that big push to tip his centre of gravity.
Every time we put him down for “tummy time,” he looks around, pushes up, tucks, and lifts. I cheer from my knees on the edge of the blanket, and lean over like I’m coaching a swimmer.
He starts to turn...and then he puts his head back down on the blanket and sucks on his hand. I could tear my hair out.
But then my wife reminds me this isn’t really even a trial, not like the ones we still have coming up: getting Jack to eat his baby food, getting Jack to go to bed, getting Jack to eat his vegetables, and getting Jack to remember to write down the phone messages. We will long for the days when all he did was eat, sleep, and suck his hand.
Instead, the first time Jack rolls over, it will be another one of the small miracles of baby- (and parent-) hood.
She’s right, of course. Mothers usually are, even if they’re not your own. I still have a ways to go with my patience.
Before long, I’m going to have to keep my cool when Jack starts decorating the house with pureed peas, then with crayons, and finally with posters of swimsuit models and God forbid, heavy metal bands.
By that time, nu-metal band Limp Bizkit’s 2000 hit “Rollin’ — and Jack’s first roll — will be golden oldies.
posted by Jack at 6:23 PM
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