Lessons Learned

For those who don't know, my daughter is adorable.

I realized today that I've already lost my daughter. She's adorable. She's cute. She's funny. She's weird.

She's also smart, and playful, and extremely "independent" (I say independent, although, let's face it, without anyone to feed her, she'd... well... anyway).

She's a hit anywhere she goes. She's been on stage three times, once in an actual role. She lit up the stage in a song and dance routine, and was subsequently recognized for her role. She's been to the Big Apple, been a jet-setter for a proportionately large section of her life, and has written her own hauntingly beautiful sonata on the piano.

It's funny, because I'm so amazed at the wonderful person she is already. I know that her light will just get brighter and brighter as she grows, learns, and matures. But it's also a little sad. I miss the tiny, flailing, bleary-eyed munchkin we brought home from the hospital. I definitely miss that when we would put her somewhere and turn our backs, she wouldn't go anywhere.

It's the hallmark of any era that at its passing we mourn it, even if we move on into something greater. Penelope is becoming her own person. She has likes and dislikes. She prefers some people over others. Now, given a choice, my daughter will snuggle with my wife rather than with me. This is perfectly normal and nothing is wrong with that. But sometimes, I miss the little girl I knew before.

Being a father is bittersweet.

This One Girl...

This little girl steals hearts...

Well, it's been a little over two months, and our little girl is thriving. Sure, her pediatrician thinks she could stand to gain a few ounces. But she is thriving, regardless.

In the past month, she's learned a few things:

1. Smiling. She is a smiley, happy, gurgly little baby. And we absolutely love that.

2. Pooping. By means that escape us, she is completely capable of getting poop up her back, down her leg, and all over us.

3. Rolling over. She can roll over. Child prodigy, right here. We make 'em right.

4. Diva-ness. Penelope Mae knows when she wants to be fed, when she wants to be rocked to sleep, when she needs to have her diapers changed, etc. And she makes sure the world knows when these events are to occur.

The best part about Penelope, for me, has been seeing all the small cues that have developed that hint at her personality, and the type of person she will be when she is older. It's an amazing process.

Also amazing is seeing my wife's maternal instincts. Elizabeth is an amazing, loving, caring, and nurturing mother. She puts me to shame with her awesomeness.

Day Seven...

At least, we think it's day seven. When you tend to only get five hours of sleep a day in random spurts, time flies fast.

For those of you who don't know, we experienced the arrival of a stowaway!

Penelope Mae Mosey was born on January 4th, 2013 at 5:28 PM

Penelope Mae Mosey on day one!

DNA test results are inconclusive, but this photo is proof of my fatherhood.

For those of you who have children, you will know what I mean when I say that the last seven days have been a whirlwind. I find it difficult to believe that in only seven days we have timidly transitioned from being an expectant married couple to being a family of three. It's a heavy draught for me to swallow, and I've even been here for all of it. I can only imagine the reactions of my acquaintances as the news has been passed round. Outright shock and denial. Me, a father?

Shocking as it may seem, it is fact. And each morning and night I marvel at the beauty and miracle that is my baby daughter. She is currently sitting on my chest as I lounge on our sofa writing this blog. I'd like to imagine she is flattered that I am writing about her, and is voicing her opinions in each coo and moan.

This blog post has been Penelope Mae-approved.

In these seven days, we've had a lot of drama in The Flat (our affectionate, Brit-inspired name for our apartment). Without going into too much detail about breasts and feeding off of them (for all you little boys and girls out there that might cry "ICKY!!"), there has been a bit of trouble in paradise. Whether because of some oversight or mistake on our part or our daughter's, Penelope has not been gaining the weight her pediatrician hopes that she would. She was and is a petite little thing, but the desired flab just won't stick. We've had two appointments in three days, with another scheduled "weigh-in" tomorrow morning. If we don't have our desired results, we may have to opt for some more intensive feeding options.

As far as we can tell, the problem does seem to lie with Penelope. When it comes time for a scheduled feeding, she becomes violently agitated. She kicks and screams, and even when she latches, she lets go. Then, in a fit of frustration, she cries that she lost her latch. It's a vicious cycle, and while it does showcase her remarkable lack of self-awareness (a hallmark of seven-day olds, I imagine) it also reveals her independence and stubbornness, both qualities I tend to value. However, I tend to value these quite less when they prevent me from sleeping at 3 in the morning.

Other than said drama, Penelope is doing extremely well. Beth and I like to look for different ways that we believe that she is better than all the other children her age, and some that are older. We can already tell that she's a smart girl, much like her mother. And she has my fingers and toes. We love our little hobbit/Chipotle burrito/munchkin.

Penelope Mae on day seven!

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

Here, at the Beginning of All Things...

I'm sitting on my couch, thinking. Which is a dangerous thing for a first-time father the night before his wife is induced into labor.

The past nine months have been indescribable. From crisis to crisis, from elation to elation, and between every single momentous occasion, time has flown. Penelope has grown from being a lump, to a bump, to a basketball-sized parasite in my wife's belly.

I feel that my first response to my reflections is to say thank you. Thank you to our families. Thank you to our parents, and brothers (and brothers-in-law). Thank you to friends and co-workers. Thank you to anyone and everyone who made my wife feel special and cared for. Thanks to those of you who gave us shower gifts. We would not be this prepared for Penelope Mae if it weren't for you. Thank you for a stroller/car seat/baby carrier set (I mean you, Brandon and Kelci!). Thank you for thinking of us and our child, and for giving your time and energy to help us be better parents.

I cannot believe I just said that. I'm going to be a father. You know, I read somewhere that becoming a father is a little more emotionally rough than becoming a mother. It said that the mother has nine months to expect, encounter and feel changes that are coming. For the father, it literally happens overnight. One moment, you're just an average joe (in my head, I'm still the seventeen-year old naive boy I was seven years ago). The next moment, you're a father. In a matter of hours, you go from being an oblivious, useless human being to being a provider, caretaker, and protector of a small life full of potential. I wish I could adequately convey the intensity, scope and depth of emotion I feel tonight.

As a final word before the hectic day tomorrow will be, I'd like to say thank you to you, my readers. I know there aren't many of you. But I have felt your excitement and support (all three of you! haha) throughout this journey. Thank you for reading, and I hope you continue to do so.

And now, in the immortal words of Don Herold:

"Babies are such a nice way to start people."

A Show of Fours

We're heading into the final countdown. We have less than four weeks left until our due date, and we could not be more excited. Nor could we be more overwhelmed.

In honor of our four weeks, I am posting a few lists so as to further your invasive insight into our personal lives, which I inevitably and disturbingly extend to everyone on a regular basis.

Four things we look forward to losing in four weeks:

1. Beth accidentally bumping her belly into her surroundings.

2. Heartburn, muscle aches, exhaustion, sore feet, etc.

3. People randomly touching Beth's belly.

4. Sleep. Losing sleep can be a good thing.

Four things we look forward to gaining in four weeks:

1. A baby girl who will be as beautiful as her mommy is. Please see above photo.

2. Fun toys to play with (this will not be me. maybe.)

3. A captive (and immobile) tiny audience for storytime.

4. A family of three that will rock the world.

Four things we need within the next four weeks:

1. A way to ensure our baby girl looks NOTHING like her father. Ever.

2. A stroller, a car seat, a pack-n'-play, and a bassinet. Might be time for us to spend some dough...

3. Finish our birthing and labor classes.

4. To find a pediatrician and get insurance blech set up.

We're coming close to the end now, so stick with us.

We'll be back next time, same Bat-time, same Bat-channel...

P.S. A huge thank you to all who have been so generous in shower gifts! We appreciate your support and the gifts! And I promise that any and all toys given to us will only be semi-played-with by the time the baby girl gets here. Scouts' honor.

The Tragedy of the Third Trimester

Pregnancy is the perfect torture.

In the beginning, pregnancy is exhausting. It's like your wife has the flu for three months.

In the middle, hope springs eternal. There's a reason they call it the "honeymoon phase". Sicknesses subside and everything is sunshine, daisies and Pikachus.

But Pregnancy isn't over yet, and She is not satisfied with a happy ending. That's when the third trimester strikes.

Beth is a zombie again. She's exhausted. Today, she napped for two and a half hours, and she's still ready for more. She's a voracious sleeper once again, and the pains, nausea, and discomfort are back, like acid reflux after Mexican food. Only now her sole source of relief... lies in a delivery room and several helpings of extreme painkillers. The painkillers may or may not happen.

Needless to say, this is the shirt I will be wearing the day of Penelope's arrival:

I approve this message.

We're both still excited. For slightly different reasons, though.

P.S. Beth is having another ultrasound tomorrow. We'll post pics, cuz we're invasive and creepy like that.

A Good Father, or Something like It

I wrote this piece for an introspective writing class I'm taking. Felt as though I should share:

I wasn’t very old when I began to notice that something about my life was different from those around me. Throughout school and the early years of my social existence, I slowly came to the realization that my parents were different from others. A friend I made in third grade brought this fact into stark focus. He lived with his grandparents as a stowaway child in the midst of a retirement community. The neighborhood’s regulations disallowed children, which forced him to stay constantly inside and subsist on television and video games. His mother was never to be seen, and I was never sure if she was still alive or just neglected him entirely. His father was, at best, an inconsistent and shady figure in my friend’s life, as he managed to neglect basic parental responsibilities such as holding a steady job in exchange for a hefty amount of smoking dope. More often than not, I found their father-son roles reversed, with a father that refused to be an adult. My friend grew up with grandparents that cared for him and in a home that loved him, but I couldn’t help but realize that something was different. My friend eventually moved out of my life, but I’ll never forget the lesson that I learned because of his misfortunes. It was such a contrast to my own childhood that it has etched into my mind the greatest purpose parents can achieve, merely to be there for their children.

            As I have matured, I’ve often felt that I knew how to be a parent, and it was always my dream to have my own family. While my musings and philosophizing about being a father may have been no more profound or correct than an ape contemplating the stars and galaxies, the fact remains that I always felt confident in the face of fatherhood. That all changed in May, when my wife received a positive result in a take-home pregnancy test. Immediately, doubt lifted its ugly head and let out a derisive snort. “You’re no father,” it chuckled. For a moment, I believed the idea. For only a moment, I sank into a fearful despair. Yet, in the darkened recesses of my mind, a timid voice cried out. “Yes, I am!” I believed that voice. I reflected on my own childhood, and on the examples that it gave through my own parents. At that moment, I realized an indelible truth. I know that I will be a good father, because of the love, support, and teaching that my parents gave me.

            My parents have never been perfect. They sometimes had to scrape and sidle by when it came to providing for my siblings and me. I saw many of the struggles that it takes for one human being to guide and raise another. On the other hand, I witnessed a great amount of unconditional love and caring, which nourished far better than material goods. One particular method my parents used to convey this love was by attention and quality time. During my early teenage years, my father would spend hours outdoors with my brothers and myself, both having a catch with us and hitting pop flies for us to field. Even though he had countless projects to pursue and a hundred other worries and concerns, he rarely hesitated to give me a large portion of his time, and by so doing, show outwardly his inward affection and love. Because of those times in my youth, I have never felt without love or concern. By remembering the importance of love and attention, I will be a good father.

            When it came to expectations, my parents were always very open and accommodating. They tried never to allow me to achieve less than my full potential, but did so in a non-invasive manner that allowed me free reign to seek out my own way of accomplishing goals. They allowed me to be a child, to have imagination and to seek for the Neverland, or something like it. One goal they did gently teach me to work for was to serve a full-time mission for my church. I sought for this goal, but in the summer of 2007, this goal seemed beyond my reach. I was nearly denied my ability to serve a mission; instead of outright denial though, my mission was merely delayed. Nearly a year would lapse in the interim. It was a very dark period for me, and I struggled in several areas of my life. I strangled most ties with old friends, and crept deep into video games to lessen the pains around me. I kept a shoddy job at a nearby bookstore, and wondered if I ever would really go on my mission. One dark, cold winter morning I reached a low point. I turned to my father and told him how I wasn’t even sure I would go on my mission and that I felt I’d missed my chance. I didn’t fear a violent response, but I did expect disappointment or something similar. Without missing a beat however, my father simply said, “Okay.” He responded in such a supportive way, and I found tremendous strength in his response. I felt okay for feeling this way, and I felt a strong support I had forgotten existed. In my vacuum of self-doubt and numb-mindedness, my father’s reaction was a beacon of light and rejuvenation. It helped me wake up, and throw off the weights keeping me bound. In spite of my fears, I did serve a full-time mission. I learned and grew during those two years in ways and depths that I would not have comprehended had I neglected my goal and stayed home. My father showed me that sometimes help is more important than right and wrong. By keeping me grounded in my roots, my father helped support my own fledgling growth.

            Finally, arguably the most important role for a parent to fulfill is that of teacher and mentor. Whether it is instruction on mundane grammar rules, or guidance that helps one to realize their purpose and joy in life, parents are required to teach and direct their children to those things that will bring happiness and fulfillment. Throughout my childhood, my parents bombarded me with lessons and learning opportunities. I can vividly remember watching my favorite movie, Star Wars. Just after Darth Vader chopped off Luke Skywalker’s hand, Vader offers his recently revealed son a choice. He can join him, live, and rule the galaxy with his father. Luke, however, opts to jump off the catwalk into an abyss. As he fell through the air, my mother suddenly blurted out, “See? Even though he could die, he still is choosing what he knows is right.” When she initially did this, I wanted to slap my face in exasperation. How silly of my mother to adhere a quaint, homemade lesson to this master epic of galaxies and war. However, I still remember that lesson to this day. In whatever way they found possible, my parents taught and instructed me to prepare me for life as an adult, in which I’d have my own tough decisions to make. To be a good father, I will teach my children as well.

            John Wilmot once said, “Before I got married I had six theories about bringing up children; now I have six children, and no theories.” I am in a similar pickle; I am full of theories, but no results. However, when confronted with challenges in the present, people instinctively look to their past for answers. In my challenge of being a good father to my child, I have a great past to draw upon. I have the examples of my parents, who raised me with love, support and instruction. I know to spend time with my daughter. I know to allow her to find her own way and to be supportive. I will cherish watching her fulfill her own dreams, use her imagination, and find her Neverland, or something like it. I will be a great father, and I can’t wait to get started.