Tuesday, August 24, 2004
I need this kid to get here sooner than later, but, barring a major evolutionary miracle, the little creation won’t be here for another four months. Until then, I’m left with a level of surrealism permeating though my daily life: there’s a major change on the way, but it’s anything but tangible right now.
Talking to anyone with children will undoubtedly always lead to some acknowledgement of their procreation being the single greatest thing to happen to them. I’ve got no reason to believe otherwise, although there is a part of me that believes this is the mantra all parents adopt; sort of similar to how Nomar claimed he loved playing in Boston. But, I believe it to be true, because with the routine nature of my nine-to-five daily tryst under the fluorescents sucking the creative spirit from me, I need that feeling more than anything. I need something to make everything worthwhile.
There is a portion of my brain telling me this is just another in a long line of my Clark Griswold-esque expectations’; I’m just setting myself up for failure again. But, how can something like bringing a child into the world be anything short of remarkable?
I’m not naïve enough to think this isn’t going to be major work. I understand there will be a astronomical amount of late nights, crying, no sleep, diaper changing, not to mention an that lifelong worry and concern I’ve signed-on for. No, I get all that and have to believe that cleaning up your child’s crap is infinitely better than dealing with co-workers’ sludge.
Truth be told, there was a time I couldn’t fathom the idea of having a child, let alone coming to grips with my current reality of impending fatherhood. But, I’m genuinely excited about things. Sure, there is a very significant frightening aspect to all of this, but the excitement seems to find a way to barely nudge-out the worry, leaving me with this surreal anticipation. And it’s this surrealistic anticipation that has me convinced this baby is exactly what I have always needed in my life.
It has only taken a mere eight years of doing the daily working world grind to sap my spirits and plunge my motivation into uncharted depths. I realize this could very well be the summer malaise sucking my concentration, but whatever the reason, I have not been able to concentrate one iota on any matter related to my job.
This has been a recurring situation for several months now. I have moments of brilliance were I am able to complete a tremendous amount of work, but these tend to occur only when I am forced into situation where issues need to be addressed. These periods are followed by long stretches of time where I sit idly while visions of a perfect life on easy street dance with the conflict of my current job and my contemplation of how I can achieve my dream job. Toss impending fatherhood and summertime laziness into the equation and I’m left with an extremely dangerous career situation that has been extremely taxing on my mental health.
And this is where the baby comes in. The 21-year old version of me is about to spit-up, but, I can not wait to become one of those parents who can talk about nothing more than what is new in their child’s life. I feel that I have been working toward one of life’s true miracles waiting for it to change my entire perspective on reality. I need to life for this because right now, it seems to be the only thing that will make working for a paycheck versus pursuing my dream job an easier pill to swallow.
Talking to anyone with children will undoubtedly always lead to some acknowledgement of their procreation being the single greatest thing to happen to them. I’ve got no reason to believe otherwise, although there is a part of me that believes this is the mantra all parents adopt; sort of similar to how Nomar claimed he loved playing in Boston. But, I believe it to be true, because with the routine nature of my nine-to-five daily tryst under the fluorescents sucking the creative spirit from me, I need that feeling more than anything. I need something to make everything worthwhile.
There is a portion of my brain telling me this is just another in a long line of my Clark Griswold-esque expectations’; I’m just setting myself up for failure again. But, how can something like bringing a child into the world be anything short of remarkable?
I’m not naïve enough to think this isn’t going to be major work. I understand there will be a astronomical amount of late nights, crying, no sleep, diaper changing, not to mention an that lifelong worry and concern I’ve signed-on for. No, I get all that and have to believe that cleaning up your child’s crap is infinitely better than dealing with co-workers’ sludge.
Truth be told, there was a time I couldn’t fathom the idea of having a child, let alone coming to grips with my current reality of impending fatherhood. But, I’m genuinely excited about things. Sure, there is a very significant frightening aspect to all of this, but the excitement seems to find a way to barely nudge-out the worry, leaving me with this surreal anticipation. And it’s this surrealistic anticipation that has me convinced this baby is exactly what I have always needed in my life.
It has only taken a mere eight years of doing the daily working world grind to sap my spirits and plunge my motivation into uncharted depths. I realize this could very well be the summer malaise sucking my concentration, but whatever the reason, I have not been able to concentrate one iota on any matter related to my job.
This has been a recurring situation for several months now. I have moments of brilliance were I am able to complete a tremendous amount of work, but these tend to occur only when I am forced into situation where issues need to be addressed. These periods are followed by long stretches of time where I sit idly while visions of a perfect life on easy street dance with the conflict of my current job and my contemplation of how I can achieve my dream job. Toss impending fatherhood and summertime laziness into the equation and I’m left with an extremely dangerous career situation that has been extremely taxing on my mental health.
And this is where the baby comes in. The 21-year old version of me is about to spit-up, but, I can not wait to become one of those parents who can talk about nothing more than what is new in their child’s life. I feel that I have been working toward one of life’s true miracles waiting for it to change my entire perspective on reality. I need to life for this because right now, it seems to be the only thing that will make working for a paycheck versus pursuing my dream job an easier pill to swallow.
Monday, August 02, 2004
Sometimes there are moments that are just so serene, I don¹t know whether to let exist solely in my memory or to preserve with the written word. This is one of the moments.
The beach is rather desolate for what you would expect on an early August afternoon; the cool temps and winds having succeeded in turning the place 180 degrees from the beach chair to beach chair stacked norm of the three H’s.
The only thing between myself and the crush of high tide is the occasional beach walker and an elderly gentleman scouring for change with a metal detector. It feels a lot like a post-apocalyptic aura you get after Labor Day. I love it.
There has always been something substantially powerful about being at the edge of the shore as the waves of the ocean form a power struggle between myself and what often feels like the mass of an entire country behind me; the seagulls serving as the messangers between the two forces of nature and time. To have it nearly to myself is humbling and empowering. It provides perspective you don’t get from the daily rat race of life where you’re too often caught up in struggling for your own bereavement where every word and interaction potentially impacts your standing on the corporate ladder. It’s that sense of worry about career growth that has taken years off my life; or several hairs off my head at the very least.
As I sit and write, I start to realize why I often have to choose whether or not I want to write about the moments that inspire me to do just that, write. Because, inevitably, my contemplative writing winds around to me thinking about my job and place in life with all the worries that push my closer to needing some time with Zoloft.
But that is also what is so humbling and empowering to me. These real life worries don’t matter here. The feeling of the waves crashing on my feet combined with the infinite horizon in front of me makes me realize just how minuscule a cog I am in the grand scheme. This ocean could swallow me up in seconds without a care about my latest business plan or strategic thoughts on life. A scary thought, but for some reason, it feels incredible. Ashes to ashes, all fall down, there is nothing like an unexpected mid-summer fall day to make you feel so alive.
The beach is rather desolate for what you would expect on an early August afternoon; the cool temps and winds having succeeded in turning the place 180 degrees from the beach chair to beach chair stacked norm of the three H’s.
The only thing between myself and the crush of high tide is the occasional beach walker and an elderly gentleman scouring for change with a metal detector. It feels a lot like a post-apocalyptic aura you get after Labor Day. I love it.
There has always been something substantially powerful about being at the edge of the shore as the waves of the ocean form a power struggle between myself and what often feels like the mass of an entire country behind me; the seagulls serving as the messangers between the two forces of nature and time. To have it nearly to myself is humbling and empowering. It provides perspective you don’t get from the daily rat race of life where you’re too often caught up in struggling for your own bereavement where every word and interaction potentially impacts your standing on the corporate ladder. It’s that sense of worry about career growth that has taken years off my life; or several hairs off my head at the very least.
As I sit and write, I start to realize why I often have to choose whether or not I want to write about the moments that inspire me to do just that, write. Because, inevitably, my contemplative writing winds around to me thinking about my job and place in life with all the worries that push my closer to needing some time with Zoloft.
But that is also what is so humbling and empowering to me. These real life worries don’t matter here. The feeling of the waves crashing on my feet combined with the infinite horizon in front of me makes me realize just how minuscule a cog I am in the grand scheme. This ocean could swallow me up in seconds without a care about my latest business plan or strategic thoughts on life. A scary thought, but for some reason, it feels incredible. Ashes to ashes, all fall down, there is nothing like an unexpected mid-summer fall day to make you feel so alive.
