Ableson Rants

The clock has moved past midnight and I’m suppose I am technically no longer in my 20s. But, since I wasn’t born until sometime after seven in the morning, I’ll still consider myself 29 for the purposes of this.

Birthdays used to always be a big deal for me and I often utilized them to reflect back upon the year that had passed. Given my penchant for over thinking things, this predictably led to some deep and dark moments of introspection. The last few years have been different.

I always thought that turning 30 would be a combined huge occasion and crushing reality check for me. In some ways, I suppose that reality-check began a few years ago when I bought a house and the got married. Reality check is probably the wrong description; it’s been more like, dare I say, growing-up. Either way, the fact I am about to be a father at some point in the next couple of weeks has been the major distraction that has kept me from thinking about turning 30, until today at least.

Change has been something I have been good at and given the massive amount of change that is potentially about to happen in my life, it was only natural that turning 30 would start to sink in.

The baby aside, I have also been dealing with career issues and have been actively looking for another job. Not exactly the best timing to be starting a new job, but when have I ever not taken on huge changes at one time. Not to rehash, but in less than three years time, I have bought house, got married, been laid-off, gotten a new job and am now about to turn 30, become a Dad and potentially leave one job for another. Some people go their entire life without doing as much; but, enough with the self-glorification.

I had a dream last night where my old roommate Piper and I were back in the same dorm room we had junior year in college. In the dream, we were our current age, but we had come back for our senor year. The room was exactly how we left, except for the ton of trash and stuff we left behind in addition to none of the people we lived with being there anymore. I found the timing of the dream to be strangely coincidental.

So many of my past birthdays through my early- to mid- 20s were spent worrying about what I was going to do with my life. Thing is, I still worry about that, but unlike the true worries from the past, these are now unfounded. It’s hard to speculate about what you want to be when you grow-up when you are grown-up. And you know, it’s not a bad thing to have your shit together. It also doesn’t mean I can’t stop being hungry for what I want in life, and that remain to be a writer. But, it now includes being a great husband and an incredible father.

Father, it is still such a weird concept for me to think about; it has remained surreal through out all of this. You know, many jokes have flown form family members about the baby being born on my birthday. I’ve resisted it, but, in truth, I’d welcome it and my only birthday wish would be for the health and safety of both mom and baby.

So, goodbye my dear 20s, you treated me quite well but I’ve got no time for you anymore. We’ll always have the memories though, well, so long as all the partying I did with you didn’t steal too much of my memory.

The reality of it has finally sunk in; this baby is on the way. Amazingly enough it wasn’t the construction we’ve done to build the baby’s room nor all the clothes, toys and stuff that made everything concrete for me. No, it was the all-day, rapid-fire birthing class we took last Saturday that did it.

Most of you with are no doubt familiar with Lamaze and the breathing exercises it teaches you, but unless you’ve had a baby or have one of the way, you probably don’t know what these classes are like. For starters, the Lamaze classes are a bit of the past. The latest craze involves a combination of breathing techniques and labor education. And what education it is. But we’ll get to the scary part of the birthing class in a bit.

My wife and I were both very hesitant to attend any birthing class, even more so when we began looking at the options and duration of some of these classes. The recommendations in many of the books we read said to start looking into birthing classes by the five month of the pregnancy. There were many options and when we finally settled on the one we felt was right for us, Isis, we were then surprised at the duration of these classes. Given our rather urgent need coupled with the fact we had no desire to commit to a half dozen sessions at three hours a clip, we opted for the seven-hour cram session.

So we settled into to our all-day Saturday class a mere six weeks out from our due date. Needless to say we were worried that we would be far and away the furthest along in the class. So, we were pleasantly surprised to find the 11 other couples in our class to all be around the 35 week mark.

The class was as advertised, a cram-session. We spent the early part of the class going over what to expect as we approached labor. The first funny moment came when we hit the relaxation and breathing portion of the program.

The instructor, who was great no doubt because she had six kids of her own, instructed us to grab floor mats and all lay down next to our partners. It was the ultimate icebreaker as trying to fit 24 people on the floor lying down had as al in cramped quarters. I was just thankful nobody had gas, a substantial concern in a room full of pregnant ladies. She shut the lights off and ran as through the typical picture yourself floating on a raft in the ocean type exercise. And it was very relaxing, so much so that I feel asleep. Fortunately, I wasn’t caught.

This all led to her demonstrating a babies birth using a creepy doll for the newborn, a knitted uterus that could have doubled a winter hat and some nylon thing for the placenta. It was a good presentation of the steps, albeit, a rose-colored presentation of the real thing. It was all leading up to the great finale, the video.

Yes, we had the pleasure of ending the day by viewing the video of three different women giving birth. It didn’t pull any punches and was certainly pretty graphic, blood, pain, guts and all. I was fascinated by it more than anything and it served to really get me more excited about the birth of the child. This wasn’t the case for everyone.
I made it a point to see how some of the other couples were reacting to the video and I was surprised to see a couple of moms-to-be actually covering their eyes for the most reveling parts of the births. Made me wonder how they were going to get through he real thing.

I guess my only complaint was, not to be too shallow, I wish they could have found some more attractive couples for the video. But as I overheard one couple saying, would you agree to appear in the video if they asked you? The response: not for a million dollars. Makes sense to me.

The bitching and general cynical attitude I show toward my wrok environment has to really tax people at times. My new boss called me on my negativity the other day and it caught me a bit off-guard. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t realize that I am often negative at work, but I always try and use it as a means of finding humor in things. While my new boss might not quite get this about me yet, it did make me realize that perhaps I’ve been a bit too cocky these days.

I often ridicule the younger generation, being in a academic setting certainly lends itself to this. But, for as much as I get pissed at the ignorance of folks younger than me, I realize that was once me. The problem is that, as I approach 30, I have been looking at myself as a knowledgeable person. This, of course, isn’t true, and it me who needed this recent reality check. I don’t know shit about shit.

I dwell on what is wrong with my work situation all the time, constantly wondering and dreaming about what it would be like if I was only doing what I wanted for living. It’s the same thing I have written about a million times. Yes, I’m doing it again. The problem is, I tend to think it’s my cynical views of the world that inspire my writing. To an extent it does. But do I really need to exhibit this at work?

I guess what it boils down to, again, is that I don't no where to draw the line. And again, it's why I am very much looking forward to becoming a father.

I made the mistake of watching a Dr. Phil special on television the other night. I’m not proud to admit that, but he was doing a show on problem children and I couldn’t help but get sucked in. And it scared the hell out of me.

He paraded-out story after story about problem children with problems ranging from watching too much television to a kid who was exhibiting a nine of the 14 characteristics of a serial killer. I was able to deduce that most of the problems had everything to do with poor parenting, but it got me thinking. Now, I can’t help but wonder what our combined gene pool holds. Could there be something in our lineage that could lead to a terror child?

My wife is 100-percent Italian as far back as she can trace it. Her grandparents came here from Italy and aside from a great-, great-, great-grandfather who they believe was abandoned, she is as full-blooded as they come. Myself on the other hand, I am as American as it gets, that is, I am 100-percent mutt. Of course, none of this has ever mattered to any of us, until we got pregnant. Now, I can’t help but wonder what our combined gene pool holds.

I realize this is silly, but as the anticipated arrival of our first-born creeps closer, my irrational worry is rising. I’m starting to question whether or not I am ready to be a parent. Sure, I’ve read a bunch of the books, but lately, I’ve found myself reading more as quickly as possible. I feel like I am cramming for a last minute exam. Even more troublesome is, the more I read, the more I feel like I don’t know a damn thing. The paradox of knowledge is a bitch.

So, like any true researchers, I'm throwing all the books aside and working on a new theory: instinctual parenting. I know, all you parents are thinking I’m in for the biggest surprise of my life. But, let’s think about this for a second.

Humans have been having children since the dawn of time. Captain Caveman certainly didn’t have to worry about whether or not the wrong colored stuffed animal or too much watching of a purple dinosaur was going to damage his kid. No, his lot was easy; keep the kid away from the fire and watch-up for big bad T-Rex.

Maybe I’m naïve, but I consider myself a well-raised individual and I have to think that is due to the wisdom that was imparted upon my parents from their parents. I have a good foundation and I know enough that you can’t plop your kid in front of the television for hours a day and hope the kid grows up adjusted to the real world.

It’s not that I don’t see how it is easy to use the idiot box to raise your kid though. While the glowing box is raising your kid, it frees-up your time to get things done. It allows you to be selfish and in this world that values career first, family second, it’s the perfect tool for many. But that is not going to be me.

Too often I drive through my old neighborhood when visiting my parents and realize there is a severe lack of children out playing. The same ball field on the way to their house where I spent so many summers playing wiffleball is always empty. I can only speculate these kids are in playing videogames and it just tears me up inside. You want to know what’s wrong with kids these days, start at the local playground.

So, I vow that I will not let this happen. My child is going to learn to be creative and find ways to manufacture their own fun. Sure, I loved videogames growing-up, still do. But I’m going to do my best to reverse that trend. The kid goes to the ball field or plays house, the videogames will remain Daddy’s.

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.

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 responsibilities of impending fatherhood are daunting, sometimes downright frightening, which lead to a myriad of questions and even more worry. It’s really just one big cycle of worry after worry. Will I be a good dad? Can we afford this? What if something goes wrong? Is the baby healthy? Will I have to go to water park?

Few things repulse me more than a water park. Actually, pretty much anything that attracts people for good old fashioned manufactured corporate fun disgusts me? But I could always avoid these with ease when I was single. Marriage certainly didn’t bring me into contact with these places, unless you count the Home Depot. But being a parent? I feel I may be doomed to episode of screaming kids, exposed bear bellies and chlorine soaked nachos. It’s a fate I’m not sure I’m ready to come to grips with yet.

But I’m going to have to because, well, kids love this shit. I know I did.

During on many trips to Cape Cod in my youthful years we would always pass this water park on our way to and from the Cape. My brother and I would always beg my parents to go there and they always said no. They give us a “maybe on the way home” and the subsequent “we’re too tired” when we headed home.

Year after to year it was the same thing until one year they finally gave in. And that must have been enough. But like time has a way of doing, I finally was able to gain some perspective. Why would any parent want to go to a water park other than to please their kid? I’m going to have to this some day.

Parenthood is definitely a weird cult. This much I’m already starting to realize. Kids love to have fun, at your expense. I guess this is what my parents always meant when they said they “sacrificed a lot for us kids.” As a parent, you have to subject yourself to the very happiest places on earth that marketing gurus drill into your kids heads. Am I ready for this?

I know it sounds stupid, but seriously, after watching family for years now, I vowed this would never be me. I always said I never wanted to have kids. That, of course, has changed, much to the chagrin of the 21-year-old version of me. But like the true PR professional I am, I’m trying to put a positive spin on this before my house becomes overrun with toys and I find myself in the same 15-year-old bathing suit with a plastic floatation device in on hand an a soggy corn dog in the other.

One of my best memories from my childhood was when my dad would get down in the dirt with my Tonka trucks and me. We would sit in the backyard and build roads and dams in the mud for hours. I remember my dad seeming like he was having the time of his life. I don’t doubt that he was. Because somehow, I think having a kid really allows you to get back in touch with your own childhood. I’m looking forward to that.

Those Tonka trucks are still in my parent’s basement and I am looking forward to dragging those out and reliving my childhood memories. If my child is anything like me, he or she will love those moments the most. That one on one time with your parent that will forever be engrained in their head. It’s obvious I need to not only live for those moments, but to utilize them to talk about the evil creatures that lurk in water parks around the world. I figure they’ll but this for at least seven year or so. By then, I should have done enough research to find the water parks that have an on-site bar.