Hope

Hope is not a necessarily a good word. You can hope, in a passive manner, for many things. And in that, it's even more passive than "wish" and in some ways, probably less likely to be achieved. Yet, it is powerful. It can enable us to withstand assaults against our dignity and body. It can make us stronger than without, but why?

I am still not sure but I think I am beginning to understand. Last week, America elected her first black President. I am told that he represents Hope for all people, not just blacks. And I look over at my daughter who does not care at this moment who the President is, or what his race is. But all the same, I look to her and wonder... Will she be the President of the United States some day? I admit, it is not impossible. I can hope, if I would hope for such a thankless job for my daughter.

I would not even have thought of it before last November 4th. Without even thinking about it, I had excluded it from things my daughter, a natural born American citizen of two naturalized Asians, could one day be.

Hope represents possibilities. It unlocks doors that you had not known were existed. And even if you do not eventually walk through them, the fact that you can, if you wish, if you want, if you try, is liberating. It gives such vibrancy and color to the word I had previously considered ambivalent. I hope now. More for my daughter than for myself, and I love that I can.

A whole year!

It's been an entire year since I last blogged.

Hmm, let me spit that word out one more time. Blog... Blog... Blog...

I never did liked the word. I know it's short for "web log" and I guess it is clever in some pedestrian, opening-child-proof-bottle-on-first-try way. But I guess I never could understand how it became a phenomenon. I've been ranting on the internet for years, ever since I discovered it in college in 1989. But we always sent away out posts, in my case, to the ugly depth of alt.* hierarchy. It was in a way a tempest in a teacup. A raging argument for the eyes of a few who bothered to follow alt.binaries.pattern.argyle.pictures.discussion. And for all the passion and dedication, none of it mattered.

But blogs... Provided that you blog about a topic of interest to some people, they come to you, and your site is propagated through search engines and aggregators. It's a more efficient process, leading directly to popularity and way. too. many. mediocre. blogs. Such as this one.

Anyway, on to my kid.

Annabelle turned one this past May and she is growing like a weed. My wife can hardly hide her glee at the rate of her growth, as she is 5' 2" and she wished for a tall child. I remind her that it's way too early to tell and Annabelle could hit a brick wall (that is somehow suspended horizontally) any moment now.

But it's interesting how you wish for your kids some things that you did not have. For my wife, it's height. Not that 5' 2" is Oompa Loompa (those illegal immigrants who are slaving away for less than minimum wage for the fat cat industrialist Wonka) but it was apparently something she wanted.

For me, I'm not sure. We didn't grow up rich, but we weren't poor. We were loved, but also had stern discipline. I wasn't really popular but I had good diverse (if not always intersecting) group of friends. I'm not sure if I had an ideal childhood, but it certainly wasn't bad. I guess it was... mediocre?

So what do you wish for your kid that is different from what you had if what you had was... fine. Sure, I want my daughter to have a great childhood, want for nothing and enjoying every day, but if the drive for that "better" life is driven by the delta between what you had and what the "better" life is, then maybe it's a rather weak propulsion. But the alternative does not bear a thought.

Ah well. I wander.

Sugar and spice and...

Everything nice, are the things that girls are made of. Allegedly.

Heaven must have run out of sugar and pretty much everything else nice, and had only east Asia's most pungent spices left over when my baby girl's gastrointestinal system was made.

No other explanation is possible for the concentrated evil that Annabelle expels every couple of days or so.

Sleep

Dear Sleep,

I miss you. You were easy, maybe not for everyone, but for me, you were easy like a slightly dumpy, insecure teenage girl with daddy issues. You laid down so easily, eagerly for me for as long as I could remember. But now you visit but seldom and never for long, for you know I have another mistress, one who tolerates no rival.

One day you will return to me, but never for as long, as completely as before. Even as I lie wrapped in your clutching embrace, my mind will wander, from time to time, to my other love. Now, and forward. As she grows, starts to crawl, learns to walk and run. As she skins her knees, swoons for her first crush, as she drives for the first time. As she leaves for college, meets her love, and herself begins a family.

It won't ever be the same again.

Clear!

It's kind of weird. I went from never having changed a diaper in my life before to being able to change a poopy, runny diaper in the middle of the night, by a nightlight, half-asleep, in 30 seconds, or less. This stunning emergence of modest parenting competence really sneaked up on me. As milestones go in the parenting hall of fame, I'm sure a deft hand at diaper change impresses no one over much, especially other parents. But it is one of the first few objective, tangible accomplishments I can point my finger to. But probably not in a polite company...

I find myself wanting to yell, "Clear!" when I am done changing the diaper, as if some unseen hand is holding a stop watch. As if I am being judged. It's quite strange, actually. I feel like a cowboy in a calf roping contest, working quickly but efficiently, tying three legs together and then thrusting my hands in the air exuberantly as if I have actually accomplished something significant. Something worthwhile. Something that did not involve a domesticated animal and a bondage gear.

Maybe some fathers with affinity to NASCAR feel like pit crews, doing whatever they do to let the driver speed his way to yet more sweeping left turns. But I don't even like rodeo. Or watch it. Closest I came to watching rodeo was a random "King of the Hill" episode where Bobby couldn't tie up his calf and then wanted to be a rodeo clown. So I am quite at a loss to figure out why I feel like a damn cowboy.

Ah. Well.

Little did they know...

They let us take Annabelle home. Once the little tyke cleared the jaundice test, they literally pushed us out the door. Not that we were complaining, mind you. Two days in the hospital was enough, especially for me. Northside hospital allows for one person, not necessarily the father or a family member, to stay with the mom overnight. This generous gesture however failed to go so far as to actually securing a reasonably comfortable over night resting accommodation for the extra guest, in that the "bed" was a narrow ledge carved under the window thinly padded by a conspicuously stained piece of mattress. I've lived in dorms. I've lived in a house with 6 house mates. I've even lived in a fraternity house with 50 other brothers, so stains do not faze me much. Except these stains... Only a day ago, I assisted in my wife's delivery. I've seen... stains that happen in this kind of hospitals...

I'm not going to dwell on that, so moving forward...

So they let us take out little baby home. First, they asked us a few questions. Plan to breast-feed or formula? Pediatrician's name and number? Rear facing car seat in the car? And so on. We answered appropriately, apparently, since they waved us away.

All through the process I was dreading what I believed would be the inevitable, absolutely necessary and vital question. I imagined the nurse would glower manacingly, untrustingly, and ask:

"Do you guys have any idea what the fuck you are doing?"

The question never came. So we couldn't answer, "No." And so, 10:30 PM, May 17, 2007, we took Annabelle home. While the drive home, it occurred to me that Atlanta Humane Society asked us more questions when we adopted our two dogs from them.

It's been a week since Annabelle came home. She just had her second sponge bath today. She's eating and sleeping well. Maybe we do know something after all. Not sure what it is exactly that we know, but apparently we do in sufficient degree to keep going. And we will. Until our girl pushes off on her own away from us. And even then.

So I became a daddy...

And it's grand. It's almost like bluffing into a plum, juicy job that you are entirely unqualified for, and seeing your giant, plush corner office and a hot secretary who brazenly drops hints. Only thing ruining it is your boss aruptly coming by to tell you of this huge complicated project that must be finished by next week and how everyone is counting on you based on how impressive your -- monumentally massaged -- resume was...

Oh. Shit.

My boss coming by unannounced moment came around 4 AM last night when my infant daughter refused to settle down and cried and cried and I had no idea what to do. Hungry? No, she was just fed. Wet diaper? No, checked twice. Gas? No, she was burped. Some big ol'rat gnawing on her ankle? No, this is 21st century, and this is Northside, the baby factory of Atlanta.

In the end, she kept crying and I slept for about two hours total. There may be some dads reading this who may be thinking, "Ha, two hours sleep on your first night with the baby. That's a vacation compared to what I went through!" Perhaps, maybe, but perspective requires sample of more than one, and one was all I had last night. So yeah, I was bewildered and miserable. But I have not experienced a more powerful life-affirming moment than the dawning hour when I gazed upon the sleeping -- finally! -- face of my daughter.

A new day brought more peaceful moments, and finally, a visit by a lactation expert got my wife on the right road to gush like some Mideastern oil well. Well, hopefully. And no, my wife would not appreciate the simile.

So I walk down the path of fatherhood, or rather, parenthood beucase it is a partnership. And though it be a path crowded and worn with like-situated travelers past, present and future, my wife and I travel alone for now, mindful of advice being shouted from the sides, of hustling hawkers pushing their books and guides, of well-intended yet often dubious anecdotes. What a journey.