We have had a pretty eventful week though. There have been doctor’s appointments, car rides, guests, bath times and diapers. Oh the diapers. Great times.
In terms of business at hand, I’ve a few posts planned to cover some of these events as well as the coming home pictures, which really should have been done sooner. But, you know, kid business and such. Honestly, I suppose I should be better about all this. I consider it my primary fatherly duty at the moment. Sure, I help with all the day to day stuff, but this is what I’ve decided my main role is at this point. Chronicler of the Life of the Princess. And I imagine it will continue to be so until my services as a ninja assassin are required. Whether that be doing battle with the ornery denizens of the galaxy lurking on the dark side of the bed or murdering the wouldbe suitors of the Princess. Otherwise, I’m playing it by ear.
Unfortunately, in terms of my responsibilities here, it seems that my own personal timescale has suffered some fashion of catastrophic melt down that has left it spinning wildly out of control faster and faster. At its current rate, I anticipate that by next Thursday at 4ish in the PM I’ll be 55 and welcoming my daughter’s daughter into the world. On the plus side, no midlife crisis. On the downside, nearly thirty years in less than a fortnight can’t be good for the digestion. I wonder if one should stretch for such a thing.
Seriously, it’s been how long?
Before the baby was born, Danielle’s dad hauled an unassembled rocking chair up four flights of stairs and spent the better part of an hour assembling it in front of a glass sliding door which had the sun beating down on it. As a result, we were able to do our first feeding of the baby upon returning home in the comfort of a delightfully soft rocking chair. At least, Danielle and the baby were. I had to stand, fend off dogs that wanted to help and render assistance to Danielle. Such is life. We had to do some finger feedings for the first couple of days.
Claire agrees, in the classical sign language shared by all rockers alike:
In June, I found myself having forgotten to trim my goatee with my last haircut. My very pregnant and emotional wife asked if I was auditioning as a homeless person, which she indicated I could be if I wanted to look like one. This was said with love. Not having learned my lesson in December, I said I was growing it out in support of her for the home stretch. The goatee made me uncomfortable and got in my nose when I slept. She liked this idea.
By July, people began to comment. With my shaved head and glasses, I felt I looked like an effete Trotskiest considering membership in the Aryan Nations. Less favorable, I think, some suggested I looked like a pedophile and thought I should avoid being within two hundred yards of a school. Some couched their criticism in more polite terms: "You look stupid." Thank you friends and family, for your support.
Here’s a picture of me gazing whistfully into the far ground in my OR garb minutes before Claire was born. I don’t care what you say. That’s hilarious. Followed by one of my holding Claire. Less hilarious.
Shortly after the last picture, my beard was ritualistically laid to rest. There’s video, but Danielle was zonked on Ambien at the time and I had only slept like 12 hours of the preceding 100 or so. Suffice to say, upon review, it was weird.
So, that’s the birth story of my goatee. More has now been said than is necessary. No questions, please.