Moments of Clarity

Life's a rather funny thing. One minute you're a single guy on the prowl, boozing until 2AM, sleeping through noon, and generally leading a life of sloth and decadence. The next thing you know, you're pushing a shopping cart down the aisle of a suburban Denver Babies R Us, having an impassioned discussion with your wife as to whether the many uses of Butt Paste warrants its inclusion in your ever-growing registry.

I'm fairly certain every father has that "Come to Jesus" moment when the reality of their soon-to-be-irreversibly changed existence kicks them squarely in the ass. For some, that moment may come at the sight of the first + sign on some hastily purchased, self-administered pregnancy test, while for others, that moment may not arrive until they're slapped with a paternity suit while enjoying a light lunch at a local Denny's. Either way, it's coming.

For me, that moment undeniably arrived this past weekend, as Lauren and I made the three-hour journey to Denver in order to take part in the expectant parent rite of passage that is registering at Babies R Us.

Saturday also doubled as Valentine's Day, so I wanted to put on my best performance for my wife. The way I looked at it, she's shown infinite patience with my constant complaining about every ache and pain I've experienced for the past eight months. The least I could do was grin and bear it through a marathon effort in a crowded retail establishment, which if I understand my Dante correctly, is one of the seven levels of hell.

The first thing I had to overcome was the vernacular. If I spontaneously decided to take up cricket, the terminology wouldn't provide as great a hurdle to comprehension as the stuff I heard on Saturday. Pack and Play? Breast pump? The aforementioned Butt Paste? Look...individually I'm aware of the definition of each of those words. Hell, the majority of them have made me giggle like a schoolgirl for the better part of the past three decades. But put them together and I couldn't be more lost as to their meaning or their potential impact on my impending fatherhood.

My only source of solace was that Lauren was learning as she went as well, so we took the day slow and steady, emphasis on the slow. Like four-and-a-half hours in Babies R Us slow. And by the time we were finished, with 60+ items of varying price and practical application scanned and added to our online registry, Lauren and I were both physically and emotionally spent. After all, shopping is the most exhausting activity one can engage in, aside from soccer.

That night, as we rested in our Denver hotel, it dawned on me that somewhere in the seemingly endless string of bottles and strollers and blankets had come the stark realization that baby Nitti is fast approaching. And I couldn't be more excited.

Sure it's intimidating. And nerve-wracking. And more than a little bit terrifying. But damn if the exciting part doesn't win out more often than not. Lauren and I are going to be parents, and while we have absolutely no idea what that means, we're going to find out, and we're going to find out together.

I'd like to think I'm going to be a good father, and if I'm not, I really have no one to blame but myself. I've spent thirty-three years learning how to be a man from the ideal role model, and if I can find a way to be half the dad my father is, my son is going to be one lucky kid.

And I've clearly hitched my wagon to the right partner. I think anyone that meets Lauren walks away pretty certain that she was meant to be a mother, and a special one at that. There are some people that you cross paths with and for whatever reason, you just can't shake the feeling that perhaps it would be best if they didn't procreate. Maybe I'm biased, but from the day I met my wife, I've believed that the world would be a worse place if she didn't pass on her genes and raise children. That's why I knocked her up.

I am sure of one thing: Lauren and I will do everything in our power to encourage our son to lead an extraordinary life. And by "extraordinary" I don't mean by the standard idea of extraordinary as reality television has come to define it-- the accumulation of fame, fortune, or power -- but rather by the willingness to dream and the determination to pursue those dreams.

My parents have always encouraged me to chase my dreams, nonsensical as they must have seemed to them. Now at 33, despite being fairly anonymous, relatively broke, and as powerless as a Nevada boxing commissioner, I believe my life to be extraordinary. I'm living exactly as I daydreamed it throughout college and my twenties: a simple mountain-town existence with my soul mate and my faithful dog, free from the shackles and monotony of corporate office life. It's not for everyone, but to me it's extraordinary. And as my son grows and develops his own definition of extraordinary, I'd like nothing more than to help him see his dreams to fruition.

After all, at the end of the day, isn't that what I'm here for?