I SUPPOSE this needs a title. Deserves a title?

I wonder if a new post will make the blog visible/active.

No Mas

So, it's Friday.

Friday night in the City of Love.  Or, the most hated city in Canada. 

Rock on.

Not really.

It's too late to rock on.

But not too late to write.

About Jodi.

About how she's not responsible for me being as happy as I am.

That it's all about my Posse.

No Posse = No Happy.

(Pardon me while I have some port and hardo bread with cream cheese.  If not for Jane Petrie, I wouldn't know about port.  If not for my dad, I wouldn't know about hardo bread.)

Miss me?

Don't care.

I was gonna wax poetic and philosophical.  F**k that.

Saul helped shape a rough piece of play dough into something better.  Emily, lucky her, go that piece of play dough and continued to work on it, along with Saul.  Saul and Emily continued to work on the play dough (OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Dregs from the bottom of the bottle of port.  But I digress.) as James came onto the scene.

If not for Saul, Emily and James - along with Doug, my parents, Mr. Tindall and Mr. Dworkin (Is that Mrs. Tindall and Dworkin?  Heh!) and several women, I wouldn't be with Jodi.

If I'm not with Jodi.

If I'm not with Jodi, I'm not happy.

Which came first, the chicken on the egg?

No matter.

But what does matter is Jenna Morrison's tragic death this week.

She was the 38 year old pregnant mother, with a 5 year old son and a husband who is/was fighting cancer, that was killed while cycling to pick-up her son from school.

I've been trying to conceptualize what my life would be like if there was no Jodi.  About how I would possibly be able to be daddy and mommy to Norah. 

Or, the flip-side that I've been mulling over what life would be like for Jodi if I wasn't around.

Or, if this were to happen to one of us when Norah's five, and the other having to explain to Norah that Daddy or Mommy isn't coming home.  Ever.  Again.  Never.  Ever.  Ever.

So, that's been bubbling.

I told my backyard neighbour, who cycles, about how this has affected me.  I asked him if he had been affected by it.  He told me that the runner that died in the Toronto Marathon was his assistant.  So, his connection with death, realities of life, mortality, whatever, were much more direct and immediate.

I think that's all I can muster up now.

Made yummy cocoa shortbread today.

Super Dad

When you were a child, who did you want your dad to be? 

I wanted my dad to my dad. He was my star: he fixed my bicycle; he painted and wallpapered the entire house; he cooked up a storm in the kitchen. He was the strongest man in the world, he was the smartest man in the world. He was Super Dad.

In my eyes, my dad could do anything. That was when I was a child. Then I got older, and, as time went on, he became less hero and more human. We still shared a love of sports, eating, grocery shopping and scoring a bargain -- ideally, simultaneously! But other than that, we didn’t agree on much of the big things: politics, religion, or race.

Seeing other dads, I also realized that mine wasn’t able to do everything. My dad was 40 when I was born, and in my mind he has always been old. I never played catch with my dad, we didn’t spend much time hanging out and he didn’t see many of my baseball games. My dad did what he could, when he could.  Don’t get me wrong, I always knew that if I needed him, he was there for me.

But Super Dad became, simply, Dad.


My own plan was to be married and a dad before 30. Well, I married at 39 and now I’m The 40 Year Old Father.  Much like Steve Carrell’s character in The 40 Year Old Virgin, I’m coming to this for the first time at this age, since my daughter was born seven months ago.  Sure, I have four nephews and a niece, lots of friends with children, and I’m a kindergarten teacher.  Yet none of these have prepared me for the reality of fatherhood.

When my wife and I found out that she was pregnant, it triggered a number of emotional responses and electrifying memories.


Firstly, I didn’t want to be a dad.

I couldn’t be just a dad; I had to be Super Dad.  But I felt too selfish to be the best dad I could be for my daughter.  I felt that I couldn’t make the necessary sacrifices required to be the champion of all fathers.  That I just didn’t want to give up that much of me, for fear that I would lose who I was.  

However, the more I thought about my limitations, I realized that my wife is the only person I could ever see myself raising a child with.  She’s my best friend, my drinking buddy, my travel companion, my (usual) accomplice, my sous chef, my biggest fan (and critic), and she makes me look better by being on my arm.  I got married for a very good reason: I enjoy spending time with my wife, because its fun, and not demanding.

So, why wouldn’t I want to be a dad, with my wife as the mom?

Taking these conflicting emotions into account, along came Norah.  


Am I having issues with fatherhood?  Without a doubt.  I feel like I’m not doing enough at home or at work.  I wonder if I’m willing and able to do what is necessary to be a better father and husband.  How successful have I been thus far?  


Well, a wise man once told me that he didn’t have a chance of being happy if his wife wasn’t happy, and to expand on that, if my daughter’s not happy, than my wife isn’t going to be happy.  


So first and foremost, I have to make sure my ladies are happy.  This means I do the cooking/baking, washing/drying (and schlepping the laundry up and down the stairs), emptying the dishwasher in the morning, giving Norah a bath, feeding her from time to time, taking her for walks to go grocery shopping, to the local farmers’ market, for a coffee, or just through the neighbourhood.  And don't get me wrong, my wife shares in the child-rearing, and she's doing a peach of a job! But she’s not alone. We tag-team it.

Recently, just after my 41st birthday, I spent a week in bed with back problems.  I felt very old.  I felt like a failure.  After I got off my back and started back at work and being more active/helpful at home, I vowed not to be “old”.  

This school-year is the first that I’ve cycled to work, when the weather allows me.  I cherish the small things in life, like sitting on the porch with Norah, watching the children in the neighbourhood play ball hockey. Playing old-school rap for her is fun. Trading silly noises with my daughter is a prime pleasure. Dressing her makes us both happy, since I get to pick out her clothes, and she ends up getting lots of funny Daddy faces and noises. Feeding Norah food that I have prepared for her makes me feel like I am providing for my daughter. Seeing the progression in her development makes me proud.  Rough-housing with my little girl is good fun, especially since she’s strong and seems to enjoy it.  Hearing Norah almost giggle, make a baby dinosaur noise, sneeze, cough or just breathe, makes me happy.  Feeling Norah’s soft skin reminds me of the bond we have, especially when she touches my face or hand.

I have sworn that I will not be distant from my daughter.  I will help to guide her through the maze of life, all the while giving her the tools to be an independent and effective decision-maker and problem-solver.  I want to change my world, and I have every hope in the world that Norah will be successful in whatever she decides that she is going to do with herself.


Becoming a dad at 40 means I’m better able to prioritize, and also to recognize what’s important and what isn’t.  I wish I had more time to do the things I’m not easily able to do, but now I find that I enjoy the things that I have to do.  Changing diapers, wiping a nose and trying to find ways to make Norah happy are things that I enjoy.


After all, I’m Super Dad.

A Year Later

Okay, so this was a year ago:

http://the40yearoldfather.blogspot.com/2010/10/how-globe-mail-caused-prostitute-to.html

Now, she's a year old.

My life would be easier if there was no Norah, but it wouldn't be as good.

She's awesome.  She's smart.  Adorable.  Inquisitive.  Happy.  Tough as nails.  Fearless.  Loves her mom and dad.  Loves day care.  Loves the boys playing on the street.  Eats almost everything in sight.  Enjoys going out and about.  SO excited for the snow to come, so we can play in it.  So looking forward to the future!

Thanks so much to her mom, Jodi.  My wife.  My partner.  The one that I truly owe a debt of gratitude to for the awesomeness of my life, and my ball of Wonder Thunder, Lady Flopsy Picklebum, Bubba Dude PooPoo.  Norah Inessa Kruger Rice.  My buddy.  My daughter.  My inspiration.

9/11

Where were you?

That's a question I've always heard in connection to JFK's assassination. That was six years before I was born, and I believe my mom and sister were in the kitchen. As I was with my mom when CFRB announced that Elvis Presley had died. I rolled my eyes up a bit in thought, looked at the ceiling, and then said/asked, “I know the name, but who is Elvis Presley?”. I was seven.

The question that doesn't seem to be asked (and the non-existent hairs on the back of my neck just prickled as a jet flies overhead) is, “Where were you on 9/11?”

It's often volunteered.

Presidents of the United States of America have been assassinated before. Just think about Honest Abe.

But something like having two jets flying into the World Trade Center. The Twin Towers.

It didn't register, because at first there wasn't much information.

Then we found a TV.

And I only then realized that I L-O-V-E-D to go to Century 21. Across the street from the World Trade Center. I could have been there. It could have been me that was a name. A number. A casualty.

Okay, maybe a whole lot of a stretch. But it wasn't some imaginary far-off land of wonderment. I had been there. That year. The year before. The year before. This wasn't just something to watch on TV. This was real. Everything became real.

It was the second week of teachers' college when 9/11 happened.

We were told that classes were canceled and the building was considered a secondary (tertiary) attack site and they weren't taking any chances. So, I went home. Can't complain about that!

ue.

Then it again became some far-away news story, and I had lost the personal connection to it. As far I knew, there hadn't been anyone I knew that had died. So, it wasn't so much real anymore.

Until I went to Ground Zero the following Spring.

I saw the names and pictures of people that were missing. I saw buildings covered in black fabric. Unsure if it was a monument to signify mourning, or because the buildings had been damaged. My friend in Williamsburg/Brooklyn, Eleanor, told me that they had used Century 21 as a morgue.

I didn't want to shop there.

In the calm of Ground Zero I cried.

I cried not for anyone I knew. I cried not for the people that had died, or been injured, or suffered emotional distress. I cried for the change that I felt. The fact that the “innocence” of America was over with. Americans knew, or assumed, or heard, or sorta weren't sure, about their country's involvement in other countries. But, it wasn't on American soil, so what did it matter.

Timothy McVeigh did the most heinous thing imaginable, and he paid the appropriate price.

This was a foreign attack on American soil.

This was the Brooklyn Dodgers leaving for Los Angeles.

This, was unthinkable.

And the city rebounded. The city rebounded almost immediately. Thanks to sports. I watched a powerful video essay by Stephen Brunt, on Rogers Sportsnet (or whatever they're called), and I love anything he does. He could be talking about professional apple growing, and I'd watch/read it. But especially watch it. For even though he's a newspaper guy, he has a great voice and everything he's involved with is well shot.

I was in the front room with Norah. Norah was in the Exercise Yard, which used to be the Baby Jail, but it's a evolved a little bit over time. Norah and I frequently watch sports highlights and new shows in the mornings during the summer and on weekends otherwise. She sometimes watches a highlight or two, but especially loves the Jays promo spot where it shows highlights of a lot of Brett Lawrie, Jose Bautista and it's got a repetitive “WHOA-OH-OH” sorta thing goin' on. LOVES IT!!!

But she also likes to have her feet tickled, and enjoys chewing on bath toys.

So, all the emotion of 9/11's fallout came rushing back and I started to cry.

Sitting, watching TV on a Sunday morning in my front room, hanging out with my daughter, and BOOM!!! Crying. But, it wasn't just 9/11. It was the added layer of Norah. It was the added layer of Jodi. It was the added layer of having been reminded of our friends' friend. She gave birth about a year ago, but her daughter never went home.

There was an extra candle on Elijah's birthday cake yesterday. Not for good luck, but for that little girl and her mommy, who will never celebrate her first birthday.

And that just destroyed me.

When I think about how lucky I am for all that I have in my life right now, well, it's mind-blowing. Especially since I didn't want to have children.

Heh.

My daughter is awesome. She's fearless. She's tough. She's happy. She's walking. She's got some teeth. She seems to have said her first word in context, “Shoes!”.

S**T!

Closer to saying, “Daddy” than “Mommy”.

She eats almost everything. Whatever she doesn't eat, we put yogurt or hummus on/in it and she eats it. She's a GOOD EATER!!! And doesn't cry. And seems to share, and spend less time pulling the hair of other children. She snorts. She drools. Her poopy diapers are remarkably similar in odour to my expulsion of waste. She likes beer. LOVES meat! Sometimes “High 5!”s, and we're working on “JAZZ HANDS!!!”.

9/11 also makes me think of heroes. Or, to be even more PC, heroes and sheroes. And that's sheroes, as in women heroes, not members of the Freddy Shero family.

A hero is someone who sacrifices their life in order to potentially protect the lives of others. A hero is someone who goes into a burning building to try to save someone. A hero is someone who really gives of themselves, in order to help someone else. A hero is someone willing to stand-up and speak their mind in the face of adversity. Or a tank. A hero is someone who leaves their country in order to seek a better life for their children. Or, someone who makes sacrifices in order for their children to prosper.

Norah is my hero. Because of who she is, she brings so much joy to other people. To her grandparents, two who get most of their “Norah Time” via Facebook, but get the most out of a modern connection. Norah makes her Bubie very happy, as she really gets to see a lot of the developmental milestones, and different crazy things that come along with having me as a father. Like putting a cycling helmet on her and having her walk in a grocery store parking lot with her Radio Flyer. Which may have aided her sense of confidence in walking. Or, it was just fun.

Don't care.

Point is that I'm way more relaxed now than before Norah came along. And before I met Jodi.

So, ya, Jodi is my hero. Because of who she is, and what she allows me to do. And yes, that involves hanging myself from time-to-time with too much rope, but hey, she's my wife and not my caregiver. But she is. Both. She's awesome in how much she seems to enjoy life and all that throws at her. Or, whatever I literally launch at her. And the trials and tribulations of being an at-home mom. Or, as a friend put it this week, “Groundhog Day”. The same thing, over and over and over......unless you make a point (and have the time/energy and resources) to do something different every day. Which would get you out/about/active, which must be a good thing.

But I digress.

Jodi's an awesome (English) teacher. While she still hasn't been able to get me to speak English properly, she has been able to teach so much otherwise. That thinking about the feeling of others is a good thing, and trying to do it advance is the best way to go. Saying, “Sorry.” isn't just about being sorry, but about realizing that my actions affected someone else negatively. That earplugs are an effective thing. But she doesn't snore quite loud enough for me to put a pair on.

She's taught me that less is more. Lots of food choices for dinner are great, but sometimes a protein, a starch and a vegetable can go much further, as there's more space in the fridge for something to be made the next day. And I do love to create in the kitchen. Jodi loves that about me, and I love that she allows me to do as I wish when doing my thing.

But, she's also taken some huge leaps with what she's comfortable doing in the kitchen. She bakes some killer breads (THANKS LEON!!!) and has a knack for recreating my leftovers into tasty morsels of dining delight.

And she doesn't eat fruit. Hates bananas. Can't stand baked beans or their ilk. No avocado on her sushi rolls. Raisins? E-V-I-L!!!

But, if that's all I can really complain about, or make fun of.....then I'm in good shape.

And, all things considered I am.

Minus the aches and pains that seem to flare up more frequently. The stress of teaching 28 grade 4/5 students. The desire to try and get out of the classroom and get attached to an Urban Agriculture/Nutrition Education Centre that's supposedly going to be built in Regent Park. The desire to be doing something “professionally” with food. Cooking and/or baking. The desire to affect change in “my world”. In my community, in my classroom, in my family.

The reality is that I am more aware than ever. About the realities of where I'd like to affect change. I can only play to my strengths, try to avoid and minimize my weaknesses, and remember to always keep things in perspective.

The thought of not having Jodi or Norah in my life, and in my world, well....I think by now you get the picture. And for those of you wondering why I post so many pictures of Norah (and others). It's because we all see different things. I post the pictures I like the most. Rarely will I not edit before posting. By sharing more, I give people the opportunity to see more with their own eyes.

Maybe that's what I'm trying to do in the classroom too.

And at home, I'm trying to look at things through new eyes, thanks to my girls.

(I have not edited this.)

Six Months

I had the greatest feeling today.

Well, sorta.

I went up to try to comfort Norah, who was crying. She was on her stomach. I put her on her back, shushed her and rubbed her stomach and chest.

Her soft little cold hands smacked against my right hand as it massaged her, as I continued to sooth/shush her.

The crying stopped, and it was the greatest feeling.

It started between my closing her bedroom door and getting to the stairs.

But it still felt great.

On Friday, she'll be six months old.

She's cute, can turn on her mobile, smiles when I clap or make goofy noises, love sports highlight shows and CBC News, has strong legs, great curly hair, fantastic cheeks, folds of fat all over, likes to hang out with me, is easy-going, and my daughter.

MY daughter.

I like the sound of that.

I look forward to what the future may hold...

My Amazing Wife, Jodi-Lyn

See, people just don’t get it.

My wife rocks, which results in helping to make my life rock.

Let’s see, Jodi is at home with Norah during the day, and doing an amazing job of looking after a pretty easy-going baby. I go to work, leaving at about 6:00 AM, coming home between 4:15 and 6:00 at night. I hang out with Norah, and then Jodi and I balance getting dinner ready, bathing Norah and getting her fed and to bed. Some of the responsibilities have changed in the past few weeks as Norah’s sleep routine has evolved, and the two of us have done a mighty fine job of flowing through the changes with ease.

See, now I have a happy easy-going baby, and an amazing and sleep-deprived wife.

So, in order to help Jodi to get some more sleep, I take Norah in the morning on the weekends, until it’s feeding or first nap time. I also take Norah out grocery shopping or to the LCBO, in order to give Jodi some more catch-up time. Then there are the outings that Norah and I go on, which usually involve going to visit friends or family with her, giving Jodi some time to herself.

There are the times that Jodi and I hang out with Norah, just having fun with her, all-the-while talking about stuff. Needs and wants, work-related stuff, silly and serious stuff. Not always world changing, but communicating nonetheless. We read stuff off our iPhone feeds or Facebook, and I bounce food/recipe ideas by Jodi for her brainstorming energy, thoughts on global politics and inappropriate undergarments, and the like.

I have time to create in the kitchen. Cooking and baking. This is something that I love to do. Passionately. Jodi lets me do this because it means that I’m doing something I like, and often the results are positive for all parties. It also means she’s not doing the cooking. But, she doesn’t love the mountain of mess I’m prone to leave behind in the kitchen. I’m working on the “Clean as you go”, but it’s just too hard to keep on top of what I’m doing when going as fast as I go. I’m apt to be doing three or four things at once. As sous chef, line cook, head chef, prep cook and bottle washer, a mess is going to result.

And Jodi steps up and sometimes deals with piles of dirty dishes and prep stuff all over the kitchen. But her doing this means that I have time to do laundry. I’m not going to try and convince anyone that I’m doing the laundry after I’ve spent hours creating in the kitchen and on the BBQ. No, but when I grab Norah in the wee hours on a Saturday or Sunday, I start to get the washing and drying done. This helps to keep costs down (water costs less on the weekend) and means that Jodi can fold the laundry whenever she has time. And if it's feeding time, then I'll head down (as I did today) and cleaned up the mess from last night while Jodi was feeding Norah.

So, we’re once again working together as a well-oiled machine.

With a happy baby. A happy baby that’s started a new sleep routine that seems to be resulting in her being even happier, and a little more independent in starting to sooth herself and sleeping in her crib in her Keith Haring-adorned room.

Keith Haring in the baby’s room! Yet another reason why I love my wife so much.

My wife is amazing. (Almost) perfect for me. I wouldn’t be fooling anyone in saying she’s perfect, since she doesn’t eat fruit. But she eats my cooking. The spectacular and the mundane. The too salty and the too spicy. Because she gets the bigger picture. She trusts me. Implicitly. Perhaps more than I deserve. But she has a sense of who I am and what I’m about, and part of what I want to do with my hyphen (1970 - ????) of life.

I’ve never felt more alive. I’ve never felt more connected with my world, and the world around me. I’ve never been happier. I owe that happiness to a lot of people, but more assuredly my wife is at the top of the list. And Doug Tindall.

There is so much that I learn from Jodi, and that she allows me to teach her. Though, she does seem to ignore random bits of trivia that I share with her. But, if you ask her who the band is that’s playing, she’ll probably say “The Cure”. Jodi is fearless. She led us through five months away. She delivered a peach of a daughter like a champ. She parents with a great combination of common sense, calmness, learning from others and reading the right books.

I guess she parents the way I cook. Maybe that’s why Norah’s so damn tasty.

Jodi, thanks so much for being one of the two greatest things in my life.

What is the cost of your food?

I was walking through No Frills with Norah this morning when I realized that I don’t buy much in the way of prepared foods. Lasagna, pizza, frozen hors d’oeuvres, chicken fingers/nuggets/buddies, packaged diet meals and their cousins in the “Heat and Eat” family.

Why would I not buy those convenient foods? I have a busy/hectic full-time job and a newborn baby at home. Why would I not want to buy the easy and inexpensive food? How much is my time worth? How much is my health worth?

My time? Well, I know I’m not the norm in that I love to cook and bake. Throw that out the window. Let’s pretend that I don’t mind cooking, and do it when I have to, in order to eat healthy and nutritious, instead of Salty, Fatty, Preservatives and Additives. Let’s face it, most prepared food are loaded with sodium, saturated fats and chemicals with more syllables than anyone knows what to do with. And last time I checked, this wasn't the way to have a healthy life. (I also have a feeling that processed/prepared foods probably contribute to a lot of "modern" diseases)

Second, how much does the food cost? Sure, it’s cheap. FOR A REASON!!! If the food doesn’t cost much to produce, then why would it cost more to sell to you, the consumer?

Let’s assume it’s a meat-based product.

If you take care of an animal the way that animals should be taken care of, then it’s going to cost money. Prepared foods use industrial meat. Industrial meat is rife with issues like poor taste, poor nutritional value, and the possibility of containing steroids, hormones and antibiotics. Depending on what the meat is, and where it’s from. (Do you know where the meat in your prepared foods is from?)

Any time that a store is selling you something for $1, how much do you think it cost them? Less! And the distributor? LESS! And the original producer/seller? EVEN LESS!!! So, cheap food is just that. Cheap. Look up the word in the dictionary if you’re unclear of why I’m using it in a negative context here. I’m not saying frugal, penny-pinching, bargain hunter, or anything positive. C-H-E-A-P!

What can one make that doesn’t involve much effort or skill, and tastes great? Make a pesto by toasting some nuts, letting them cool and then adding them into a blender/food processor with a chopped up green herb (basil or parsley or cilantro), fresh garlic, extra virgin olive oil, sea salt and parmesan cheese, or another hard/aged cheese like reggiano or asiago. Put it into smaller containers and freeze. They can be mixed with rice, couscous, pasta or quinoa, all of which are very easy to make. Toss in some veggies and you’re set. Add some protein, like a grilled piece of meat or fish, or shrimp, or leftover whatever. Et voila. FOOD!

Real food.

Tomato sauce? Real simple. In a saucepan, over medium heat put some oil and diced onion and garlic in and cook until the onion is soft. Add diced tomatoes (fresh, or canned without salt) and continue to cook. Add an herb – basil, oregano, parsley.....along with some sea salt, fresh black pepper and some balsamic vinegar (red wine vinegar, or red wine will also work just fine!) and let it simmer, covered. Serve with any of the above, or blend with some pesto for something a little different. This sauce can be cooled and mixed together with tuna for a healthy and easy lunch option too. Put it into smaller containers and freeze for use at a later date.

Real food isn’t rocket science, and doesn’t take long at all. Cooking is seriously simple, and the reality is that if you cook and bake, you’ll be teaching your children the skills they need to look after themselves. I know we don’t all have children, but we should all be cooking, or at the very least eating real food.

Yes, I’m a parent and a teacher. But I’m also someone who benefits from the fact that I feel better about myself knowing that my wife and daughter are connected to their food and where it comes from. From me. And in many cases I know where the food is coming from otherwise, as I buy my meat from a farmer.

In closing, I hear a lot about how eating locally, ethically and sustainably is too expensive for everyone to do. And to a certain extent, yes that’s true. But, it’s certainly not difficult to cut down on buying prepared/packaged foods that are loaded with low nutritional value ingredients, chemicals and additives and wrapped in plastics that we just don’t need. I try very hard not to buy products in plastic.

Oh, and please watch this:

http://tinyurl.com/4g3jt9w

I think my new man crush is on Michael Symon.

d.

On Being a Dad

(This is unedited. I know that it goes back-and-forth between my experiences and a how-to-be-a-father/partner of a newborn, and their mother. That said, I wanted to get it out, since I'm sick of hearing/reading about how having a baby is so awful and how so many biological fathers of newborns are being really s**ty fathers and partners.)

Norah was born October 8th. My last post was a few days after her birth. In the three months since, I have found a new balance in life, a new outlook on life and hope for my future like I've never had before.

All because of a 7 pound, 8 ounce bundle of deliciousness.

After taking a week off after her birth, I went back to work eager to get back into my routine, and having the chance to find a new way of doing things from day-to-day.

It's been grand.

Jodi's home with Norah, Service Canada and the Canadian Revenue Agency aside. I'm at work. The MAN is at work, and the WOMAN is at home with the baby. As it should be. Or, as it can be.

It seems to work for us.

I frequently get up when Norah seems to be stirring in the morning. Pretty much acting as an alarm clock. Whether I have my alarm set for 5:30, or later, I'm usually up at this time to change her overnight diaper. The one that weighs a TON, and is full of urine. I then lay out a towel on my side of the bed, and put Norah there, partially under the covers.

I then do whatever I want/need to do in the morning. Put a load of wash into the machine, transfer a load to the dryer, take dried laundry upstairs, make my coffee, shower, make my lunch....I kiss Jodi and Norah goodbye, and I'm off to work.

I get to work via TTC or the car, or the bike when it's warm enough out (above zero (Celsius - Canada and all) and no ice/snow/crap), and I'm there by about 7:00. I get my day together (I'm a kindergarten teacher) and execute what I didn't do the day/night before, owing to my leaving work shortly after the students leave, minus the days that I'm doing Cooking Club, or end up staying for some other unfortunate problem that may come up. I leave work "early" to get home early so that I can spend time with my wife and daughter.

I got married for a very good reason: I want to spend time with my wife. I enjoy spending time with my wife. Spending time with my wife is fun and not demanding. Spending time with my wife is a good thing. My wife ROCKS!!!

Okay, she doesn't eat fruit. But otherwise, she's pretty super duper.

And, as a mother...WOW!

But, back to my day.

I get home, and usually often a little before her cranky/fussy hour. Which isn't really bad at all. We're lucky that way. Norah's a great baby.

I'll talk with Jodi, talking about my day: pros and cons, and how Jodi's/Norah's day was. Jodi frequently has friends/family come over - to cut down on the sense of isolation, if Norah's having an off/fussy day. But again, she's a really good baby. Jodi also goes out. She goes out easier because she has the regular use of the car. I gave it up since it's not too hard (but longer time-wise) to get to work via public transit, and it makes things easier for Jodi/Norah.

Hey, guess what? You had a child and that means that some sacrifices need to be made. By both of you. Jodi's sacrifice is that she stays at home. She doesn't feel like it's punishment, but she'd much prefer to be at work. Not that she doesn't love being home with Norah.

So, I usually make dinner. I LOVE TO COOK!!! I LOVE TO BE IN THE KITCHEN!!! Not barefoot, since it means that my back is going to be killing me. I make extra dinner so that Jodi and I will both have leftovers for the next few days. Lunch or dinner. There are a ton of easy things to make that don't need much. Just the foresight (shopping) and desire to eat well, and to eat healthy.

Don't want to eat healthy? That's okay, figure out a way to eat and go with it.

So, we'll eat. Well. Either before or after Norah's bedtime routine.

Get a bottle of breast-milk (formula if there's not breast-milk option), and don't kid yourself.....having a breast-milk pump is a good thing. For everyone. Mommy is free to get away for a bit, and Daddy can be a more active/involved part of raising his baby. And all-the-while, bonding with his baby. Aiding in brain growth. Aiding in improving the odds that your baby will grow into a better functioning child, who will grow into a more well-adjusted teen, who will hopefully end up with a job that makes them happy. And might even pay enough that they can do things for you. To say thanks for the great upbringing. And making the small sacrifices that improved their lives immeasurably, but really didn't do much to take away from your quality of life.

Remember, you had a baby for a reason. It wasn't just to say that you were a Baby Daddy. Or was it? If so, then hit the road and give your baby and Baby Mamma a chance to find someone that actually cares about them, their happiness, health and overall well-being.

So, Jodi or I will get the bottle of breast-milk ready.

I'll take Norah upstairs and get her sleeper and new fresh diaper ready, along with baby lotion and diaper rash cream. I'll turn the portable heater on, since our bathroom is cold-like in the Winter. I'll start to run the bath. Not the baby bath, but the bathtub. Why the whole tub for a 14 pound baby? Because she enjoys it, and so do I. It's another Norah/Daddy bonding opportunity. She kicks like crazy, and enjoys the water. Why not do something that she enjoys.

AND I DO TOO!!!

Why not do something that I get pleasure from?

(Oh, and so does Jodi. If Jodi's happy/happier, then I'm happy/happier. It's pretty simple. You have a better chance of doing things you want to do, and with your baby's mom's approval, if you're doing something to make her happy.)

So, after we're done in the tub, I get her out, wrap her in a towel, dry myself (Oh, wait, I pretty much cleaned myself, so that I'll have a fresher bed, and happier wife!!!) and then dry Norah. I'll get the baby lotion on her, so that she's got softer skin (which is one of the greatest things in the world), and less chance of her fussing WHICH EQUALS MORE SLEEP FOR ME!!! and diaper rash cream on her butt and fat folds, so that she's happier. See above reason why.

Get her in the diaper and sleeper, and then into the bedroom and the yoga ball. Bounce her on the ball (I'm on the ball, hugging her - ANOTHER BONDING MOMENT!!!) and then get her swaddled (GREAT WAY TO GET SOME BABIES TO SLEEP AND SLEEP LONGER!!!!!!!!!!). I'll have fed her some of the bottle while she's in my arms on the yoga ball. ANOTHER BONDING MOMENT!!!!!!

I'll see if she wants to finish the bottle once she's been swaddled.

At this stage, I'll either give her to Jodi to breastfeed her, since she's in a growth spurt and therefore eating more, or I'll bounce her on the yoga ball (AGAIN, not bounce her on the ball, but bounce her while hugging/holding her) until she falls asleep. Sometimes, I'll give her a pacifier to aid her falling asleep.

While I'm bouncing her, we have an iPhone white noise app to make: WHITE NOISE!!! Why white noise? It has a little bit in common with the sounds your baby hears FOR 40 WEEKS IN THE WOMB and comforts them. It's something most of them like, and makes them happy. Remember the part that if you're baby momma is happy? Well, if your baby is happy, there's a better chance that their baby momma will be happier, and a better chance that you will be happy.

I think you wanna be happy. Don't ya?

So, put her down to sleep, turn on the baby monitor and then MONITOR what's happening. The white noise continues, and Norah sleeps. Until she's hungry. Then Jodi feeds her.

She's in bed around 8:00/8:30, and I'm going to bed around 10:30. This is earlier then I've typically gone to bed in the last 20 years. Why? So that I can get up earlier and make sure that I'm able to function properly in my job and life. Why? Because it's important that I can lead my life the way I want to, and that means that I need to be able to function at work, and otherwise.

Remember, you had a child and that means you have to make some sacrifices.

Be a man. Be a grown-up.

Sure, I drink. I have a drink or two every night. But, I don't get "intoxicated" unless I have a sense that it's going to work. Meaning, that Jodi's not left to look after Norah. Meaning, that if we're out and I end up having several glasses of wine with friends or family, that she can drive home. But I can still do all the things I need to do, I just can't legally drive a car.

I don't get drunk, since that's just a surefire way to end up with Jodi not being happy. If Jodi's not happy.....well you know how I'm doing.

Be an active part of your baby's care. The more you do to help out your baby, the happier everyone is going to be. If you want to be happy, don't be a dumbass.

Here are some things you can do with your baby. With the use of a baby carrier, you can go out with your baby. Go for lunch or dinner with a friend or friends. Go for a walk. Go grocery shopping. Go visit a friend.

Instead of spending time being pissed off about what you can't do anymore, think about things that you can share with your baby, and the time off you can give your wife....and how that will make her (and you) happier.

So, in closing:

Get your head out of your ass, it's not babysitting, it's being your baby's father.

Second, it's not a woman's job to do anything as it pertains to your child, other than carry them inside of her for approximately 40 weeks, and to hopefully be able to supply breast milk to feed your baby.

Third, the more "stuff" you do with your baby, the more his/her brain is going to grow/expand, and the better chance you'll have of not having to show your name/face in-front of a TV camera, answering questions about your serial killer offspring.

Running out of steam

So, having a newborn isn't easy.

MUCH easier when she's getting good nourishment!

My dad told me today that he's running out of steam. I didn't know what to say. He called me. He NEVER calls me. He called to see how we all were doing.

Running out of steam.

I don't much like the sounds of that.

How The Globe & Mail Caused a Prostitute to Turn Down My Email Address

Yep, the title is for real. But there's a lot of lead-up to the title. As is often the case with stories that I'm telling. Too long to get to the good stuff, and a lot of digressing. Sadly. But all-in-all it's a really good story.

Picture this, Sicily 1929. Or, St. Mike's Hospital in Toronto, Friday October 8th, 2010.

Well, to backtrack further, let's go back to Wednesday night.

Jodi was giving me some grief about the fact that I hadn't planned on what would happen when our daughter was born, as far as work was concerned. The JK/SK team planned on meeting Thursday at lunch, and after school if needed, and I was going to have long-range plans in place and a better sense of what we were going to report on for the first (SK) report cards.

So, I decided instead to work on my Occasional (Supply) Teacher folder.

And it's a good thing I did.

Jodi's waters broke Wednesday at midnight.

I texted my vice-principal, explaining that I had never called in an illness/absence and the system wasn't taking my information, so I couldn't register to do it myself. After going back and forth, and my sincere apologies for inconveniencing him, I was booked off for Thursday and Friday.

Now back to Jodi.

She called our fabulous midwife Jessica, and she told her that if she wasn't in labour, to go back to bed. She may go into labour in the night, and if not, she'd come to see Jodi in the morning.

No labour through the night, so Jessica came and told us that everything seemed fine with the baby, and that we should go for some long walks to possibly trigger labour. The first long walk to La Paloma caused Jodi to tighten up, but not go into labour. The same thing with the second walk.

So, no labout meant a non-stress test with Jessica at St. Mike's Friday morning at 7:45 AM. This was when there was a transfer of care, as it was decided in collaboration with the doctor, Jessica and us, that she would be induced.

So, we were in a delivery room, with Jodi hooked up to a fetal monitor, an IV and Oxytocin/Pitocin, the inducing drug. Labour started, and the surges/contractions were manageable. They then got "hyper", and there wasn't any down-time to relax, so in order to stabilize the situation, Jodi was given an epidural. This calmed down the whole process and it was restarted in essence.

We spent about ten hours with a nursing student (Sarit) who was observing the process, and that was great. She had the chance to learn about midwives and also Jessica showed her a bunch of stuff.

Our doctor, Dr. Robertson, is married to the friend of a dear friend, and he also works in St. Mike's, so he came to visit. The nurses were great, minus the initial visit from the hardcore old-school nurse, who after a stern comment from me and kind words from Jessica outside, came back in and rocked!

With active labour beginning in earnest, again, we had two midwives and a midwifery student, one nurse at all times, Dr. Robertson, her resident, two anaesthetists, a paeditrician and a partridge in a pear tree. GREAT service/experience.

Jodi worked really hard, and with really solid coaching/support from Jessica and I, and fantastic encouragement from Dr. Robertson and Sabrina (the super nurse!), she delivered Norah Inessa Kruger Rice at 11:45 PM on Friday October 8th.

Owing to no beds available, they left us in the delivery room, which was fine for Jodi and Norah, 'cause they were on the bed. The chairs were only so comfortable, so I couldn't sleep. Not to mention that I was pretty damn wired on coffee, sugar, and sugar. Oh, and coffee.

So, I wasn't sleeping.

I decided it might be a good idea to go and get the newspapers from Friday October 8th, 2010, the day my daughter was born.

I got eye and NOW. I got Metro and InToronto. I got the Star and Sun. I walked around for about 15 minutes and found the Post. I could not find the Globe & Mail. Not a chance. It only dawned on me after the fact that the reason why I couldn't find a G&M was because there aren't any boxes. They've changed the format/size and I suspect they've pulled their boxes and will be replacing them with new ones.

So, I said, f**k it. I don't need the Globe. I put the papers in the car and went back to the room. I posted on Facebook that I didn't have the Globe and a friend said that I should get it, lamenting that she didn't do it for her newborn son.

So, I decided I would go north along Yonge Street in search of a place that sells newspapers, that is open 24 hours. I walked up to Yonge/College to a Shoppers Drug Mart.

No Globe.

They suggested trying Hasty Market on Carlton.

No Globe.

I headed east to Church and Carlton.

There are often prostitutes at that corner.

There was only one that night.

And she was being yelled at by a woman who looked to be about 50, and was either drunk, high, medicated, crazy, psychotic or some combination thereof. And not just yelled at, but really being put-down with painfully aggressive language.

Then Crazy Lady slapped the hooker.

Now, I'll be honest and say that you're asking for element of verbal abuse when you're standing on a street corner and it's obvious you're a prostitute. But you don't deserve to slapped, let alone spoken to THAT aggressively. I'll also be honest when I say that I'm the first one to watch a girl-girl fight. That said, the Hooker didn't want anything to do with Crazy Lady.

I was torn.

Walk north along Church in search of the Globe, or do something about it.

She didn't ask to be slapped or threatened. There was no one coming to her aid. I couldn't watch. I knew there was risk involved, but I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I didn't do something.

I walked across the street and stood between the two women. I didn't say anything, nor did I lift my hands in any way. I just slid side-to-side to be in-between the two women. Here is some of the diatribe that venomously spewed out of Crazy Lady's mouth:

"You're a slut."

(pointing to the guy she was with) "If his granddaughter ends up a whore, I'll kill you."

"You suck c**k for a living."

"It's your fault I was raped."

She then ran around me and right at the hooker. She threw her against a fence, that thankfully was only a glancing blow.

Unfortunately, her purse fell and her Blackberry felt out of the purse.

Crazy Lady picked it up, and I said, "Don't. Don't. Don't."

But she threw it. And did the same thing with the purse.

She continued with the verbal abuse, as the hooker tried to get her boots with the 6" heels off. Obviously, intending to have it out with Crazy Lady.

The whole time, the guy that was with Crazy Lady was saying, "Christine, what are you doing? Christine, stop it."

It was during the second round of verbal abuse with me standing between the two women that I said to Cray Lady, "My daughter was born tonight. Please don't do this." To which she replied, "F**K YOU!", grabbed her male friend's glasses and ran away.

Realizing that it was most likely over, or maybe more like HOPING it was over, I headed north on Church. I found the Globe in Reiter's, along with some yummy chocolate. I asked the guy for a pen and piece of paper. I wrote down my name and email address. I'm not about to give a hooker my cell number, but I wanted her to have something to contact me if she needed/wanted a witness.

I took it back to her. By now there were four hookers at the corner, and the assaulted woman was telling the story. I asked her if she was alright. She replied aggressively that she was fine. I asked again if she was okay, and she calmly and nicely said she was fine. I went to give her my email address/name, when she said, and it tore my heart out,

"I don't need a witness." in a way that said, "I will not be going to the police, even though I was physically and verbally assaulted and threatened, and my property was damaged."

That just killed me.

So, I got my papers, sadly had to make a decision about how I felt about something at a time when I shouldn't have had to, and been told by several people that I can't do things like that.

But I can.

I have to, or I won't be able to look at myself in the mirror.

This all happened shortly after a former student of my school was shot and killed because he couldn't and wouldn't change old habits. If I'm going to ask my daughter to be a change-maker and make a difference in the world then I have to do likewise.

I made a decision.

I made the right decision.

Did I get lucky?

Maybe.

Would I do it again?

Yes.

More people need to make a little bit of change in their lives, and we'll all be better off.

Death

Ya, I know ominous.

Our dear friend's mother died recently. She had been ill for some time, and there was some question about her being to be at their wedding two years ago, and she was unable to travel to see their newborn son. So they hustled up a passport and made sure they went to see her.

That adorable little boy will never know his father's mother.

That hit home.

The topic of death is one that we do well to avoid, knowing that at some point we'll have to embrace it. Either through those around us dying, or our own mortality coming to the fore.

Death has been with me for as long as I can remember. I never knew my father's mother, as she died ten years before I was born. Never knowing a grandchild. By all accounts she was a good lady. A mensch. Someone who cared for others, and was viewed highly by all.

Much the same way I've viewed my mother's mother. All I wanted in life was to be taller than Grandma. At 4'11", it wasn't hard to achieve that. Maybe this is when I started to set my goals too low. In this case, it was a literal thing. I loved hanging out with Agnes Aitken (nee McIntyre) Balfour. I miss her more now then I ever have. It bothers me to no end that she never got to meet Jodi, and she'll never see my daughter.

She's the grandparent I always felt most connected to. Her love of Coke (Pepsi when it was on sale), bacon, mac & cheese made from scratch, cigarettes and laughing showed me that older people didn't have to be....old.

She was in-and-out of the hospital frequently in the last 5+ years of her life. As was her husband. My mom's dad. The not-so-incredibly positive guy. The man who told his doctor that he had never had a good day in his life, and he would tell him if he did manage to squeeze one in. Sure, Grandpa loved baseball and hockey, but he wasn't so cheery, and he would overly-protective, which meant being able to do less if he was looking after me.

But, we'd go to McDonald's, or A&W, or the pizza palace in the Eaton Centre, if we were doing banking downtown. Which was pretty cool.

I sent a fair bit of time downtown as a child, either with my grandparents at Yonge & Queen, or with my family in Chinatown/Kensington Market.

So, the grandmothers were positive. The grandfathers, not-so-much. My dad's dad would come for fish dinner (he was Kosher) once a week, I'd get my PJs on, and we'd drive him home. I didn't know my Zaida Joe. He died when I was 7 or 8, and I wasn't allowed to go to the funeral. I did have nightmares about him though. He had his legs amputated and I used to dream that there were snakes coming out of the stumps.

(Better than "Snakes on a Plane"?)

My mom's mom died when I was 21 and my mom's dad died when I was 23.

My mom said to me, when I was 15, that my grandparents were getting older, and that she didn't want to hear any excuses about not knowing them, after they died. That said, I would go and see them at least once a week. Did I really get to know them? Not really. I didn't ask a lot of questions, and subsequently, there are tonnes of things I don't know about them. But I'm okay with that.

I just wish my mom would take her own advice with her grandchildren. But there doesn't seem to be anything I can do about that. I suppose it's always easier to see with greater clarity when you're not looking at your own life.

Do I really know my parents? That's a tough call. I think in some ways I know them better then my siblings, but then I realize that it's really that I know them in a different way. I've said for a long time now that I view my parents, specifically my mom, as friends. In that, I'm 40 and subsequently not a child. I don't hold my parents up on a pedestal. I greatly respect the sacrifices that they made me for me, and some would say continue to make for me, and I like them. They're good people.

I've had some interesting conversations with my parents. Ones that I suspect my siblings have not had. But then again, my siblings have a different relationship with my parents, and they have probably had conversations with them that I never will.

Oh ya, death.

So, I've been reading the obituaries for about 25 years now. Yep. Started around 15. My parents would always read them, and I figured there wasn't any harm in knowing if loved ones of friends and family had died. Not passed on. Not passed away. Died. And they're not lost either!

So, I've been pretty morbid that way. Reading the obits. The good ones. The bad ones. The tacky ones. The ones that lie. The ones that...well, the ones that are just like train wrecks. And the ones that cause me to clip them. There have only been a few. There somewhere in the Man Cave. Currently lost.

My dad almost didn't make it to our wedding. My dad has been in-and-out of hospital once a month on average, for the past year-or-so. My dad in many ways reminds me of my grandfather. Or is that grandfathers?

That said, he's much happier then I remember either grandfather being.

Or is he? I suppose it's about perspective. The unaware child only knows so much. The man in his early 20s is only aware of so much. The soon-to-be 40 year old father is perhaps aware of more, but does he share all that sees and thinks?

Ah...dilemma.

The last time I spoke freely, as a concerned "friend", meant that things got strained between my mom and I. I'd rather that not happen again. So, I bite my tongue. A skill I've managed to learn in mid-life. (Yet another reason I'm glad we're going to have a girl. Boys are stupid.)

I cherish my relationship with my parents.

I've learned so many things from them. I've learned just as many things from friends and other parents over the years. I'm grateful for my ability to observe, process and evaluate, so that I can take the best of all worlds and apply it in life.

My life.

My daughter's life.

My mother's skepticism will serve me well. So will her discriminating eye. Her joy of life, and ability to laugh aloud are something that cannot be learned. It's genetic. A passion of expression, for both loves and hates, are so deeply rooted in my being that they can't be found, or removed. For better or worse. A sense of what's what, and joy of being around intellect of expression, serve of us both well. Always early, and with a few shopping lists. That's me.

My dad's ability to create, no doubt permeates my being. To create trouble, to create in the kitchen, to create mileage on the car - grocery shopping for any manner of delights. Unlike my dad, I don't bring home the cheap cookies. I make the best ones. Which I owe to him. An early exposure to grocery shopping, smells and tastes in markets, going to the farmer for produce, appreciating where he grew up (on Baldwin Street in Kensington Market) in a way that I never could appreciate the suburbs, taking what was in the kitchen and making magic. Or dinner.

I owe calmness (It's there. Honest.) to my dad. My shoulder shrug is straight out of his playbook. Which he got from his dad.

I should also say that in many ways I've patterned myself to be the antithesis of my dad. I didn't want to be complacent, conservative or old.

That's it. My dad has always seemed old. I've said before that I've never played catch with my dad, but did twice with my mom. I got carded buying alcohol recently. I'm 40.

That's flattering.

Now, I wonder where I fit in.

My brother said recently, "Dave, tools and fishing tackle are an extension of a man." Needless to say, I rather emphatically disagreed.

Being able to look at yourself in the mirror and liking what you see is what it's all about. Knowing that you're living your life in the right way for you, is what it's all about. Knowing that if you want to make a difference, that you do it. In your child's life. In your spouse's life. In your friends' lives. In your own little world. In the world at large.

So, I say this.

I've really rambled. I guess this is what happens when you start a blog post at 5:30 AM on a Saturday.

And now back to our regularly scheduled program.

Change is coming.

I'll be a dad before Halloween. Scary hunh?!?!

I've been talking to a lot more people about my Urban Nutrition Education Centre/Community Food Centre/Green Centre idea, and it's growing/evolving and frankly, I'm getting more excited about it.

I want to live my January 14, 1970 - whenever "dash" with vigor. And vim. And grace. And style. Frankly, it's all about passion.

I'm thinking about my friend Paul a lot these days.

Sad and happy thoughts.

I'm thinking about my dad a lot these days.

Sad and happy thoughts.

I'm thinking about my daughter a lot these days.

Happy thoughts.

I'm crying now.

Sad and happy tears.

I think that's healthy.

Chill or Denial?

So, here I am.

Well, we're term.

Full-term.

She's due at some point in the next three weeks.

The crib is not set-up fully.

The car seat is not in the car.

The baby's room is ready, even though she won't be there for somewhere between three and six months.

We have TONNES of clothing, and don't necessarily see a quick end to that, as our friends 'n families have their girls/children get older and not need/want the clothing from that age. Maybe it "pays" to be slow.

Not to mention, that I've been cooking and baking up a storm. Just rediscovered the slow cooker today, so that makes me happy. Made a pot of lobster stock quinoa, put a pork roast in with leftover sauce from a rotisserie chicken and some new add-ins, and started a couple of lamb leg steaks in a marinade that should rock out!

Need to do more baking soon.

Trying to get the wife to make breads while she can, since she's the bread maker.

Doing laundry like a fiend.

Got an area rug for the front room, having paving/waterproofing done around the house, starting to make some headway with the tools from my dad's workroom, trying to keep my head above water at work (with less-than-stellar assistance in the classroom, who are more work than the JK/SKs...sadly.) while enjoying the school and culture (even though it's only 200 metres from my old school), realizing I have a great wife and life....

And the baby's gonna be here in less than a month.

That's real.

I will be a father before Halloween.

Now that's scary.

Or is it?

What do I have to be afraid of?

Nothing.

I'm all good.

What Makes a Father?

I'm going to be a Baby Daddy.

(Yes, I have heard "Baby Daddy" used in proper context, spoken with a single iota of irony. FYI...I would not have been able to write that sentence if I hadn't been around Jodi for the past five years!)

Jodi is due with a girl mid-October.

I am 40.

My father was 40 when I was born.

I have father issues, or so I always thought. Until recently.

I have rejected my father's conservatism (or so-called conservatism), and lived a rather liberal/left-of-centre life as a result. I have come of age seeing my father as a passive man, and perhaps subsequently I'm more aggressive than most. (If you haven't come across that in my personality, it'll show up eventually...)

Then it hit me...

I read the obituaries, look at sales flyers, appreciate fine ethnic cuisine in its "natural" surroundings, know how to grocery shop, have a creative ability in the kitchen, why?

Because of my dad.

Would I have preferred my dad to be more guiding? Sure. Do I feel ripped off because of my parents not doing more? Not a chance. I went to the library with my mom, and learned so much at a young age, from books. My dad taught me how to do mental math/estimating and that helps when I go grocery shopping. My dad and mom taught me how to grocery shop.

Did my dad drive WAY TOO FAR so that we'd have a good hamburger? Yes. Do I do that? Yes. Is it worth it? Yes.

While my dad may not have always been the most passionate and demonstrative, maybe it's better that way. I don't know what he would have been like had he been any different.

I'm the same age as my dad was when I was born. Jodi's due in October. I'm scared to death about what kind of father I'm going to be and how my daughter will look at me.

I've said a lot of things. I've done a lot of things.

I'm going to be a father, but to be a dad is so much different.

My "Pops" is 81. He's not doing well. It meant so much to me that he was able to be at our wedding a year ago. Neither one of us thought he was going to live long enough for us to connect upon our return from the honeymoon in February.

I know I'm not going to be my dad as a dad, but I'm thinking I'm reflective enough to be the father, the dad, I want to be.

Me.

My daughter is going to kick ass and take names later.

Because I wouldn't have it any other way.

My plan is to make the world a better place by the time I check out.

Want to come along for the ride?

What Makes a Man?

What makes a man?

And I don’t mean testosterone, penis, testicles, facial hair, etc.

If one is to be a man, how does he act? How does he look?

I’ve long been fascinated by what makes a man, since I’ve never really had a sense of how I was supposed to look, be or act in order to be a man. I never took any Man 101 classes, and frankly wonder if any men did either.

Let’s see...I maintain my eyebrows, keep hair off my ears, shave my head and most of my face, my armpits and legs and.... I love being in the kitchen, creating. I have definite likes and dislikes when it comes to design, art, “beauty”, and have been known to wear a dress or two in my day. I spend more time in gay bars than any others. I am reflective and aware that my empathic skills are lacking.

I can get by with tools. I’m not handy. I know good wines from bad and not based on cost. I am passionate about social justice, food security/safety and making sure that we’re all being treated equally. Knowing that we’re not, and haven’t been, and that things need to change.

A Canadian does not necessarily have to look like me to be any more or less Canadian.

Tim Hortons’ coffee is not something I like.

I cry.

I hug my friends, male and female.

I feel warm inside when a child smiles because of something I have done or said.

I want to fish, not because it’s what men do, but because I want to catch my dinner, or lunch, and thank it for making the sacrifice, so that we may enjoy it’s deliciousness. I want to slaughter an animal, so that I can say I killed my dinner. So that I can connect to the food chain.

I want to have a garden, not because of what I might grow, but because of how fresh my herbs or vegetables can be. So that I can connect to the food chain, and food supply chain.

I want to be connected.

I don’t want to be off the grid, but I am careful of how resources are used/wasted.

I don’t want to have chemicals around my house, myself or family.

I have a family. Many families. And I feel connected and disconnected to all of them.

What makes a man?

Please, tell me.

Mothers/Mother's/Mothers' Day

Why is it necessary to have these Hallmark Holidays?

Mother's Day. Father's Day. Valentine's Day.

Instead, don't "buy" into the card/present buying B.S., and celebrate those in our lives on a (semi) regular basis.

Being a Man - Part I

I find that I feel best when I've shaved from head-to-toe.

The Shadow

Okay, so The Shadow was an old radio show. Not The White Shadow, the TV show starring Ken Howard, about a basketball coach. The Shadow. Oooooooh. Scary stuff.

Not like life.

Life's not scary.

I like shadows. They follow you everywhere you go. As long as there's light. It's too bad there's no lighting person to follow you/us around, so that we're always lit "just right".

Alas.


For me, The Shadow is something new. Sure, my buddy Saul's dad used to refer to me as The Shadow 'cause I always seemed to be trailing Saul. Then again, he also used to refer to Saul as The Friend of the Friendless. Which was partially true, but that's a different blog post.

Nope, The Shadow is what I see and feel following me. Real or imagined, it's the push and pull of my family. Really, my parents. I'm 40 and just now realizing the affect my parents have had on my life.

I've known all along that I cook the way I do because of my dad. I'm not one for recipes. I like change. I don't tend to get excited about the same thing. This tells me that I don't cook like my mom, who is a recipe follower. So is my mother-in-law. That's just not me.

I've been spending the past few months working on decluttering my parents' house. Decluttering isn't even a word, since it ends up underlined in red when I type it. But it's VERY much a word in my world.

Stuff.

My parents have lots of stuff.

They're all treasures in some ways to them. The stuff that was on sale. The stuff that they like/use/need.

Stuff.

They're complete and utter prisoners to their stuff.

The stuff in the freezer. 44 cups of grated cheese, 12 turkey legs, 9 packages of veal scallopini and 10 bags of "two bite brownies" are the numbers that resonate in my head. They speak to me. They haunt me. Sure, I want to have a freezer in the basement. For storage. But I want to get a stand-up freezer, so that I'm not digging through it, it's easier to rotate stock and things won't get lost.

Stuff.

The bedding. The bedding that is in abundance. That's a good word, abundance. There is an abundance of stuff that I've been coming across.

It wouldn't be right or fair to inventory all the stuff at my parents'.

But my having gone through much of it means that I've had a chance to learn a lesson. I've learned something from my parents.

Not to have too much stuff.

I was once on the track to Stuffdom. Then I made a turn at Jodiville. My wife has been so important in my learning about stuff. Jodi has stuff. Other than books, Jodi doesn't have a lot of stuff.

I've learned another lesson from my parents. Just because there's room/space, doesn't mean you have to fill it.

Another one. Just because it's on sale, doesn't mean you have to buy it, let alone buy a lot of it.

"They" say that we become like our parents. I can't control the way I look (other than plucking/shaving when needed, and accenting the positive) in terms of seeing my mother or father in the mirror as I age.

Getting it out in the open, I have issues. I have issues with my parents. I wouldn't say I have major issues with my parents though. They're good people, who have done good things for their children. There was always a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, food on the table and we knew we were loved.

But since I'm 40 and Jodi's pregnant, AND my father was 40 when I was born.....well, I'm spending a lot of time these days looking at me and my dad and my mom and.....oh, and I'm decluttering my parents' house. And we bought a house.

There are many things running through my mind on a regular basis about me and my parents. But there's The Shadow.

The Shadow of fatherhood. The Shadow of my dad over me. The Shadow of life, of living, of death.

The Shadow.

Here

This blog will be about me.

My fears, thoughts, concerns, musings, random rants, and mainly over-the-top-unabashedly personal.

I hope you enjoy the ride.

First up will be The Shadow.