Ok...so the blogging thing hasn't exactly worked according to plan. I realized that I hadn't made an entry since July and was contemplating giving the whole thing up. But now I'm deciding to give it one last shot. It's not like I haven't been busy. Boss Lady is about 18 months pregnant and my life has become an inimitable series of round-trip journeys to BuyBuyBaby, Ikea & BedBathBeyond. I actually have to set my alarm on weekend mornings so I can "get the day started." Sometimes I wonder if this shit is really happening to me. It seems like just yesterday that my weekend days started off by nursing off the hangover until 1:00 pm, ordering in some steak & eggs, ransacking the apartment to look for a stray cigarette, sitting on the crapper while reading the sports section, getting the blood circulated with a few video games...well, I think you're getting the point. Needless to say, my weekends aren't like that anymore (in fact, they probably won't be like that again until I'm 85 years old, living in a nursing home, and having the aforementioned steak & eggs fed to me through a fucking Krazy Straw or in a sippy cup.)
Because of my past weekend proclivities and the fact that our first baby will be born in less than 2 weeks, I'm getting heat from friends who feel sympathy for me and worry about whether I'll be able to cope with the day-to-day realities of fatherhood; the incessant crying, the lack of sleep, the worrying. However, I don't think I'm blowing smoke up my own ass when I say that I don't think those things will bother me as much as they do other people. The reason is because I've been looking forward to fatherhood almost my entire life. Not only have I always loved kids but also I've always wanted to have the kind of relationship with my child that I don't have with my own parents. We can go into all sorts of psychobabble here about this but let's just say that, for generations of my ancestors, fatherhood didn't exactly run in the family. Was it the Bible or Midnight Oil with the line that "few of the sins of the father are visited upon the child"? Maybe it was Oingo Boingo.
So what does this all mean? In an ideal world, I want to be some sort of Nietzschean Uber-Dad. In fact, when my career's over, I not only want to be a unanimous write-in vote for the Hall of Fame but I also want to be considered the perennial Cy Young Award Winner of Parenting. Like Joe Montana in the '89 Super Bowl, I want to make it look so easy that grown men cry, women swoon and children remember forever. I want people to look at me and say, "damn. that's the smoothest swing I've ever seen." Will it all happen? Who knows? My rookie season is kicking off in about two weeks. I've been pretty good in the pre-season but the action gets a lot quicker when the games start counting. And I keep reminding myself that for every Lou Gehrig in the Hall of Fame, there's a Wally Pipp who never got off the bench.