I play hockey on a men's league team at Johnny's Ice House. For those of you who have played in various adult leagues, hockey has one big difference: inconsistent scheduling. We neither play on the same day nor the same time throughout the season. For example, last night's game (Tuesday) started at 10:00pm, my game next Monday starts at 11:10pm, and the following Saturday is at 12:30pm. Except for the noon game, these can lead to relatively late nights.
My teammates include one of my brothers and one of my best friends. Teams can pay $3 per can of beer before the game for a bucket in the locker room after the game. We are likely going to be sponsored by a local bar, and I am the head of the "sponsorship committee." Therefore, I have to go to the bar after games, if only for a short visit.
Last night I got home at 12:45am. (For those raising their eyebrows, I had one beer after the game and one at the bar.) When you get home after your hockey game, even if you've been out for a while, you cannot fall asleep right away, as you're still charged up. I probably fell asleep around 1:30am.
My son woke me up with a screech at 6:30am.
Nope, no calling in sick or late for this job! It's up-and-adam, make me a bottle! On some weekends after special occasions, my wife will take pity on me and let me sleep. But during the week, I have to live with the choices I made the night before.
Am I dragging a bit? Sure. Was it worth it? Absolutely.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
New Accessory
I've been wearing my son on my chest lately. It happens mostly when we go shopping. He is too big for an infant carrier. He is too small to sit upright in a shopping cart. I don't have enough hands to push a stroller and a cart.
There are many contraptions used to carry one's child in this way. Ours is the famous Baby Bjorn. (Don't things always sound gourmet when they have a European name?)
Our son did not like going in it at first. This was when he had to face me. How could I blame him, having to stare at my face or chest for prolonged periods of time. And if he turns his head? Nose to armpit. Need I say more? Now that he can face outwards, he is happy being carried around in this way.
At first I felt a little silly. It's my manliness. No, more like my fading adolescence. How silly I felt with a person strapped to my chest! There are straps hanging off here and there. It certainly doesn't feel "cool".
But now I am happy wearing it. I am a Dad and very proud of it. Our son is very smiley and people always look at him and smile. That works especially well in the grocery store where many of the shoppers are attractive females. Married or not, always nice to get a smile. Puts a charge into your step. Being a good Dad is cool. And, so I've heard, it is attractive. At least my wife thinks so.
Then I can go about my shopping and meal planning with ease. My wife feels better because there is no chance that I'm leaving him alone even for a second. It's easier than lifting that infant carrier. Most of all, he's happy. And as we parents all know, what keeps the baby happy keeps the parents happy!
There are many contraptions used to carry one's child in this way. Ours is the famous Baby Bjorn. (Don't things always sound gourmet when they have a European name?)
Our son did not like going in it at first. This was when he had to face me. How could I blame him, having to stare at my face or chest for prolonged periods of time. And if he turns his head? Nose to armpit. Need I say more? Now that he can face outwards, he is happy being carried around in this way.
At first I felt a little silly. It's my manliness. No, more like my fading adolescence. How silly I felt with a person strapped to my chest! There are straps hanging off here and there. It certainly doesn't feel "cool".
But now I am happy wearing it. I am a Dad and very proud of it. Our son is very smiley and people always look at him and smile. That works especially well in the grocery store where many of the shoppers are attractive females. Married or not, always nice to get a smile. Puts a charge into your step. Being a good Dad is cool. And, so I've heard, it is attractive. At least my wife thinks so.
Then I can go about my shopping and meal planning with ease. My wife feels better because there is no chance that I'm leaving him alone even for a second. It's easier than lifting that infant carrier. Most of all, he's happy. And as we parents all know, what keeps the baby happy keeps the parents happy!
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Playgroup
I had my first real experience being a man in a woman's world. It was at a playgroup hosted by a cousin of mine. It was the second playgroup I've been to with our son. The first was a playgroup consisting entirely of at-home Dads. This consisted entirely of Mothers.
The first shock to my system was walking into a house where eight to ten children between two weeks and four years old were running rampant. Or crawling, or just being held.
It was a perfect place to host such a gathering: a quiet, tree lined street, open living room with enough sitting room for the adults while having enough open space for the kids to do lots of playing with little potential for damage - damage to property as well as to themselves.
They've got a good stock of toys. There was a small rocking horse and one or two electronic-based riding toys. There was a black mesh bag filled with toy cars, books, small stuffed animals, hand-held games, and other novelties. A thin foam pad floor occupied a three-by-three space. The rooms were well lit with natural light. A stereo played a mix of rock 'n roll songs, including tunes by the Grateful Dead and what I think was the Indigo Girls.
Being such an early age, the parents were still generally involved in almost all of the play. I, of course, had our son and held him in some fashion almost the entire time. He primarily interacted with a girl of nine months. They did tummy time together. It was amazing seeing her so confident on her front hands, handling a small blue plastic block. She tried to share it with our son, but he is not yet so deft and dexterous. My cousin's son responds to most questions with a resounding, "Yeah!" A little girl of about two years said, "Bye," whenever she saw someone get up, as if they were leaving. The eldest child was a boy a month shy of four years. He had long hair cut like he belonged in the band The Killers. It was great. The kids played, then went to their mothers for treats, then went back to the grind. The rock-star and another boy got on each others' nerves as the morning progressed and, if given the time and the space, may have gotten to fisticuffs. Early in the visit, I pulled out my digital camera. As I took pictures, there was no regard for allowing me to capture the scene I focused on. The kids would walk in front of me mid-shutter, looking directly into the lens from point-blank, then walk around back of me, as they knew that the image would immediately be developed.
It didn't take long for me to realize that I was the only adult male in the room. It was not that I thought there would be other fathers. It was the old Sesame Street, "Three of these things belong together, one of these things is not the same." Indeed, for a moment, I didn't feel that I belonged. Not that they weren't friendly or inviting. Quite the contrary. I was immediately accepted as one of the gang. But the women were mothers. None of them appeared to be out of place. There was breast feeding. There was no talk about sports, except for a passing note that I wore a White Sox hat. There was no raunchy humor. There was talk about schools and homes and such family oriented things. I felt young. I felt for a time as if I was a friend or a younger brother coming over to play with their kids.
And I did play. Some of them climbed on me. With others, I tried unsuccessfully to participate in whatever game they had concocted in their head.
It is taking some time to realize that I am a father, the evolution of my former self. Our son will look at me as I looked at my father. Other kids see me as our son's father. When I walked into that house, I was someone's father, not just some guy. The mothers, as I do, must look around and wonder what happened to their twenties. What happened to working and to happy hour? What happened to getting up late Saturday and / or Sunday mornings? Now, everything is midnight feedings, early mornings, dirty diapers, wet diapers, bottles, breast feeding, formula, solid food, food allergies, tummy time, nap time, cranky time, preschool, kindergarten, testing into elementary school, day care, crying, whining, big smiles, big laughs, little bumps, little falls, little steps, crawling, picking up, laying down, car seats, strollers, and, finally, my time. And "my time" usually revolves around household chores that will get half-done before the little guy wakes up. Or you'll get your chores done and hope to eat. But just after making yourself something simple, like microwaved leftovers, you will hear the sounds of awakening and frown as you know that the next time you look at this plate, the food will no longer be hot.
It really doesn't matter that I am in a gender minority. Just as women have entered the work force and are just as competent as men, men have entered homemaking with equal competency. There are general gender differences that can make the genders differ in parenting styles. What we all do, though, is love our children, love each others' children, and try to give them the best world in which to grow.
In that room, with all of those kids and their mothers, I found that I felt right at home and that I was happy that our son and I could be in such a wonderful environment. After looking at that hot plate knowing that you won't get to eat for at least another hour, you go and, as you pick up that child they give you that thankful smile. And then you're not so hungry as you have filled with something so much more nourishing.
The first shock to my system was walking into a house where eight to ten children between two weeks and four years old were running rampant. Or crawling, or just being held.
It was a perfect place to host such a gathering: a quiet, tree lined street, open living room with enough sitting room for the adults while having enough open space for the kids to do lots of playing with little potential for damage - damage to property as well as to themselves.
They've got a good stock of toys. There was a small rocking horse and one or two electronic-based riding toys. There was a black mesh bag filled with toy cars, books, small stuffed animals, hand-held games, and other novelties. A thin foam pad floor occupied a three-by-three space. The rooms were well lit with natural light. A stereo played a mix of rock 'n roll songs, including tunes by the Grateful Dead and what I think was the Indigo Girls.
Being such an early age, the parents were still generally involved in almost all of the play. I, of course, had our son and held him in some fashion almost the entire time. He primarily interacted with a girl of nine months. They did tummy time together. It was amazing seeing her so confident on her front hands, handling a small blue plastic block. She tried to share it with our son, but he is not yet so deft and dexterous. My cousin's son responds to most questions with a resounding, "Yeah!" A little girl of about two years said, "Bye," whenever she saw someone get up, as if they were leaving. The eldest child was a boy a month shy of four years. He had long hair cut like he belonged in the band The Killers. It was great. The kids played, then went to their mothers for treats, then went back to the grind. The rock-star and another boy got on each others' nerves as the morning progressed and, if given the time and the space, may have gotten to fisticuffs. Early in the visit, I pulled out my digital camera. As I took pictures, there was no regard for allowing me to capture the scene I focused on. The kids would walk in front of me mid-shutter, looking directly into the lens from point-blank, then walk around back of me, as they knew that the image would immediately be developed.
It didn't take long for me to realize that I was the only adult male in the room. It was not that I thought there would be other fathers. It was the old Sesame Street, "Three of these things belong together, one of these things is not the same." Indeed, for a moment, I didn't feel that I belonged. Not that they weren't friendly or inviting. Quite the contrary. I was immediately accepted as one of the gang. But the women were mothers. None of them appeared to be out of place. There was breast feeding. There was no talk about sports, except for a passing note that I wore a White Sox hat. There was no raunchy humor. There was talk about schools and homes and such family oriented things. I felt young. I felt for a time as if I was a friend or a younger brother coming over to play with their kids.
And I did play. Some of them climbed on me. With others, I tried unsuccessfully to participate in whatever game they had concocted in their head.
It is taking some time to realize that I am a father, the evolution of my former self. Our son will look at me as I looked at my father. Other kids see me as our son's father. When I walked into that house, I was someone's father, not just some guy. The mothers, as I do, must look around and wonder what happened to their twenties. What happened to working and to happy hour? What happened to getting up late Saturday and / or Sunday mornings? Now, everything is midnight feedings, early mornings, dirty diapers, wet diapers, bottles, breast feeding, formula, solid food, food allergies, tummy time, nap time, cranky time, preschool, kindergarten, testing into elementary school, day care, crying, whining, big smiles, big laughs, little bumps, little falls, little steps, crawling, picking up, laying down, car seats, strollers, and, finally, my time. And "my time" usually revolves around household chores that will get half-done before the little guy wakes up. Or you'll get your chores done and hope to eat. But just after making yourself something simple, like microwaved leftovers, you will hear the sounds of awakening and frown as you know that the next time you look at this plate, the food will no longer be hot.
It really doesn't matter that I am in a gender minority. Just as women have entered the work force and are just as competent as men, men have entered homemaking with equal competency. There are general gender differences that can make the genders differ in parenting styles. What we all do, though, is love our children, love each others' children, and try to give them the best world in which to grow.
In that room, with all of those kids and their mothers, I found that I felt right at home and that I was happy that our son and I could be in such a wonderful environment. After looking at that hot plate knowing that you won't get to eat for at least another hour, you go and, as you pick up that child they give you that thankful smile. And then you're not so hungry as you have filled with something so much more nourishing.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Great Moments in Parenting
I hope to remember to do this more often. Just a jot on little things that make parenting worthwhile. Or are just plain funny.
A great moment is the time when you watch your child closing his eyes as he falls asleep. They're open, then they close, then open halfway, then close, and so on until they're sleeping. It's one of the most satisfying and tranquil moments of the day. The next moment is realizing that, "Woohoo!" you have a bit of "free time." Free to do laundry, free to pay bills, free to start dinner, free to clean up last night's dinner...
A great moment is the time when you watch your child closing his eyes as he falls asleep. They're open, then they close, then open halfway, then close, and so on until they're sleeping. It's one of the most satisfying and tranquil moments of the day. The next moment is realizing that, "Woohoo!" you have a bit of "free time." Free to do laundry, free to pay bills, free to start dinner, free to clean up last night's dinner...
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