Poptart saves the day!! Oh and writes a good blog while he’s at it.
I hope you’ll pardon the interruption. I came home from work tonight to find my wife wandering around aimlessly, babbling incoherently about “my blog…my blog…” I decided that she needed a break when I found my daughter outside, scratching to get in, and my dog was on the couch in diapers, watching Dora. So I dug back in the archives to find some blogs that I’d written during Stacy’s pregnancy. Normal programming will resume when my wife’s sanity returns…
May 4, 2006
I’m going to be a father. Sometime in early November, Stacy will pass something the size of a bowling ball through an opening the size of a golf ball, and there will be another Poptart in the world. We’re taking open auditions for names, since Stacy has already shut down any chance of a “Nolan”, “Earl”, or “Vince.” I’m still working on “Hakeem” and “Yao.” Fingers crossed. And yes, all of these names are for a boy or a girl.
We’re both very excited by the idea of having a child, but mostly because we just want to see what it will look like. After that, we’re not really sure what to do with the thing. I’m just praying, and I’m sure I’m not alone on this, that the kid looks like Stacy. We’re trying to keep our minds open to any possibility. I’ve known friends who seem to be rational, intelligent people until they become parents, and then they start setting all these ridiculous standards on their kids. Not me. I’m not going down that path. My expectations for my kid are pretty basic.
If it’s a boy, he’ll letter in four sports in high school while maintaining a 4.0 GPA. He will go to Princeton on a basketball scholarship after being the first person to ever score a 2500 on the SAT. He will go third overall in the 2027 NBA Draft (white dudes never go #1) to the Houston Rockets after he graduates early with a double major in International Finance and Awesomeness. He will spend a small portion of his signing bonus to buy Stacy and me an island in Hawaii. At age 25, he will win the Pulitzer for his best selling novel “My Father, My Hero.” After an astounding basketball career (sportswriters will say Michael Jordan was the only player who came close), my son will retire with 14 consecutive All-Star appearances and 12 NBA Titles (the two off-years are labor-strikes which he will negotiate). At 37, he will have built up an investment portfolio that rivals most major nations. He will fund an “Endless Summer of Golf” where he and I play every major course in the world in one year. He will go into politics, restructure Social Security, and repair our damaged international ties. He will successfully negotiate peace in the Middle East. They will sing his praises in countries great and small. He will write, direct, and star in the film adaptation of his life, which will sweep the Academy Awards. Roger Ebert will have an additional thumb sewn onto each hand in order to give the film the credit it deserves.
If I have a daughter, she will be a nun. And the cutest damn nun you’ve ever seen.
June 1, 2006
I’m having a daughter. Dear God, I’m having a daughter.
I just got the call from Stacy, about an hour ago. I began crying as soon as she said the words, “It’s a girl.” A daughter. A little girl. There are roughly 23 million thoughts spinning through my head right now, and maybe this blog is just a chance to let it all out.
I honestly thought I would be disappointed if it wasn’t a boy. Ever since we began telling people that Stacy was pregnant, they want to know: “What do you want it to be?” I mostly took the politically correct path and said that all I care about is that my child is healthy. Bullshit. I wanted a boy. A little man. I think it’s inborn that men want their first child to be a boy, and women want their first child to be a girl. For me, I wanted someone to carry on the family name. I wanted someone to take to football games and go hunting with. I wanted someone to teach how to fly fish and knock it in from 180 yards out for Eagle. I don’t know how to do either of those things, but I still wanted to learn and pass it on to my son. I wanted someone to call me after Longhorns games and Rockets games so we could go over the play-by-play. I wanted to teach my son how to be a man. I was counting on this, as a matter of fact. In the last 5 generations of Poptarts, there have only been 4 females. The Poptarts are just an XY type of family.
But instead I’m having a daughter. I’m trying to wrap my head around this. It’s not disappointment; I know this because I haven’t been able to wipe this stupid grin off of my face ever since I heard the news. It’s just… different. The last hour has seen my opinion change on several things, not the least of which are gun laws and arranged marriages. I’m terrified. I’m already worried about that first date. About prom. College. Career. Marriage. I’m terrified when I think about how fast girls seem to grow up these days. I’m terrified because I can’t teach her how to be a woman. But Stacy can. And that makes my pulse settle and my breathing slow down. I can’t think of a better woman for the job. Strong, independent, bright, beautiful, Ass-kicker. That’s a resume. While the looks are going to give me an ulcer, I’ll sleep better knowing that my daughter’s not going to take any shit from anybody.
Now that I think about it, I actually feel some pity for that first guy who tries to take things too far. He’ll be walking with a limp for weeks. If he ever walks again. And so what if it’s soccer practice instead of football practice? So what if it’s WNBA season tickets instead of NBA? Those ladies can play. LPGA? I’m there. Plus, she’ll probably be the only girl in her dorm who can appreciate the difference between a Cover-2 and a Zone defense. I can still take her to football games. I can still teach her to shoot. Scratch that: I will teach her to shoot. Keeps the boys honest. The only thing that terrifies me now is the absolute knowledge that this little girl is going to own me. Emotionally, physically, spiritually, I will be powerless to resist her. And she will know this as surely as I do. The good thing is that I’ll be the most important person in her life for her first 13 years. The bad thing is that she won’t speak to me for the following 10 once I impose my “no dating until you’re married” rule. But she’ll get over it when I buy her a pony.
When it comes right down to it, she’s healthy, and she’s mine. And that’s all that really matters.