People are full of shit. No, no...not you. You're a straight shooter. I was talking about everyone else.
If it wasn't bad enough that I spent Lauren's entire pregnancy being pestered with a million iterations of the same unanswerable question, ever since Ryan's arrived, people have felt the need to offer their unsolicited nuggets of wisdom as to what it means to be a father. At first I listened, since I knew dangerously little about what I'd gotten myself into. But now that I'm four months in, I can pretty safely call bullshit on a lot of what I was told. So for those of you soon-to-be-first-time-fathers, take heed.
Fallacy #1: "Having a Kid Changes You, Man"
I used to hear this one quite a bit before the boy showed up, and I must confess, I started to look forward to the potential for a forced transformation. The way I figured it, I could stand a good personality overhaul more than most. From the way people made it sound, as soon as Ryan popped out, I'd be bawling at Kay Jewelers commercials, doffing my cap to strangers, and generally -- to quote Clark Griswold -- whistling Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah out of my asshole. Needless to say, none of that happened.
That's not to say parts of who I am haven't changed. For example, before I became a dad, I rarely carried around an L.L. Bean bag containing used diapers. So that's new. But I don't think much else about me is different. Best I can tell, I'm still the same selfish, anti-social guy I was June 1st. Only now, I'm a selfish, anti-social guy with a kid. Which means there's a 50% chance he'll grow up to be selfish and anti-social, which kind of sucks for Lauren. Circle of life, I guess.
Fallacy #2: "Enjoy Every Minute of It. They Grow Up So Fast!"
Oftentimes, people say things merely because they believe they're supposed to say them. Some common examples include:
a) "What a lovely home you have here!"
b) "You have beautiful children!"
c) "You're a great gal. I'll call you sometime.....now can you help me find my pants?"
It's the same situation with Fallacy #2. It seems every parent I know has warned me just how quickly time goes by with a baby, and how Ryan will be all grown up and applying to several small liberal arts colleges before I know it. These people are very, very wrong. The boy is four months old, and I can say with confidence that it's been the longest four months of my life. Do you know why?
BECAUSE I DON'T SLEEP ANYMORE.
/Turns and shakes fist at boy. Boy appears unfazed.
Remember that one time when you went a little crazy, stayed out until 3AM on a Wednesday night, and went to work the next day really, really hungover? I'm willing to bet that day didn't exactly sprint by, now did it? Of course not. The days absolutely drag when you're exhausted. I clearly remember a Tuesday in early August that lasted 43 hours.
Of course, that's just my subjective view of why life has crawled since we had the boy. We can also look at this from a purely mathematical perspective.
For the better part of my adult life, I've slept somewhere between 8-12 hours per night. That comes to, on average, 70 hours of my week spent in a state of blissful rest. Time flies when you're sleeping. You go to bed, your body recovers, your mind rests, you travel to far off places and solve mysteries or arm wrestle Yoda or whatever it is you do, and the next thing you know, it's morning. Sleep rocks.
Take away that sleep, however, and there's nearly twice as much time per week you've got to find a way to kill. Essentially, your conscious life has instantly doubled. Does that sound like a good way to speed up time to you?
Fallacy #3: "The Birth of Your Child Will be the Best Day of Your Life"
Prior to Ryan's birth, I'd been alive for 12,000 days, give or take a few. That's plenty of time to fit in a memorable moment or three. Now, I've given this a lot of thought, and with apologies to my wedding day, college graduation, and that time I found a twenty wedged between the couch cushions, the best day among those 12,000 came on Saturday, September 29th, 2001.
I had just finished a week of work at a client site in Portland, Oregon, and while I was free to head home to Denver for the weekend before returning on Monday morning, the events of three weeks prior had added the very real possiblity of being flown into a large building, so I made the sensible decision to stay put and spend my two off days in the Pacific Northwest.
On Saturday morning, I woke in my Westin hotel room at 9AM, just as the first games of the day were kicking off. I flipped on the TV, cranked up the A/C, and drew those wonderful hotel double blinds, leaving my room darker than Wesley Snipes and colder than Ted Williams' head. Over the next twelve hours, while never venturing outside my self-created cave, I managed to win $900 during an 11-1 stretch betting on college football while spending roughly the equivalent of my company's money gorging on room service, before finally falling asleep bloated and happy in my Heavenly bed at 8:30 PM. Now that, my friends, is a good freaking day.
Lets compare this to Ryan's birth.
After a semi-panicked late afternoon phone call from my wife, we went to the OBGYN and found out we'd reached the point of no return. I dropped Lauren off at the ER, then drove forty miles round trip in an apocalyptic thunderstorm to retrieve our stuff for the hospital stay.
By the time I got back to the delivery room, Lauren was in active labor. For the next 13 hours, I alternated between being scared shitless for my wife and scared shitless for my soon-to-be-born son, separated only by brief moments where I was scared shitless that I was going to go into cardiac arrest from being scared shitless for so long. Two days after Ryan was born, I got an EKG because I was convinced I'd had a minor heart attack during the delivery. Sadly, I'm not joking. Sounds like a great time, doesn't it?
Don't get me wrong, the moment of birth is magical. It's everything it's cracked up to be. But unfortunately, that moment lasts for all of forty seconds, or roughly until the time you notice the team of doctors surrounding your child and wielding ominous looking instruments, taking all sorts of measurements and speaking in hushed tones.
Look, having a son is awesome, there's no doubt about that, and I'm extremely excited for the future. But if you think having a kid is going to turn you into a better human, save your marraige, or make those 9-5 shifts down at the cracker factory fly by, you're barking up the wrong tree. Have a child because you and your wife/mail-order bride/lifemate think you're prepared to provide a loving setting and a wonderful opportunity for some lucky kid, not because you think that kid will fix all of your problems.
That's what booze is for.
