The New and Improved Cynical Idealist

Godspeed

In the beginning, someone cursed me with a daughter.

Alright, it's not really so much a curse as it is a blessing, but I have to say that girls are complex from the moment they show up until their last day.

Growing up, I was surrounded by girls. I have a little sister, two aunts, and eight cousins, and all of them were girls. Granted I was lucky to have another two cousins my age that were boys, but trust me, we were outnumbered. We always had a difficult time trying to understand why girls would want to play with barbies and ponies rather than go outside and catch bugs. They all shared a collective disdain for us. Maybe it was the morbid fascination we had in burning ants with a magnifying glass or watching a slug melt under a few grains of salt. Maybe it was because we liked to sling mud around in a makeshift battlefield. Perhaps we were a bit rough, but that is beside the point, the point I'm trying to make is we were friggin fun! The girls... they didn't think so.

Now that I have myself a little girl, I think about that stuff all the time. We've yet to learn the sex of our next baby that's now halfway done being a burden to its mother. Well, a burden in terms of giving her odd cravings and wrecking her emotions in to trees. After those nine months, they're still a burden but in a good way.

At two they're not so much a burden as they are this unbearable load that rests on your shoulders from the moment you wake to the moment you fall back to sleep. You're eyes are ever darting back to them as they play with blocks or explore the shelf of DVDs. The shelf has since moved. I grew tired of picking up thousands of DVDs off the floor. Now that doesn't sound too difficult to the normal person, but I'm hardly normal. My DVDs have a specific arrangement, and though it may not make sense to my fiancé, it makes perfect sense to me and well... that's the way it is. These movies are arranged in genre, then alphabetical order. Naturally the first movies on the shelf are my sword and shield, big battle movies like Troy, Robin Hood, Lord of the Rings, Excalibur, and so on. I follow this arrangement with War movies, then action, and so and so forth until we get to the stuff I just can't watch... you know, like Rent, Steel Magnolias, P.S. I Love You... girl flicks. I just can't do them. They go on the bottom.

Honestly though, we have thousands, it was a daily occurrence having to pick the pile up and place them in their right spots... it was a very tedious job. We have now moved them to a wall, and thank god she can't reach them because that would open up a whole new world of opportunistic catastrophe. At any rate, she's now taken an interest in my book collection which is displayed proudly at the bottom of my stairs, tucked against the wall in the Foyer. I don't have thousands of books, but I do have hundreds, most of them are Fantasy novels. Yeah... I just have a thing for swords. I'm extremely particular how my books are arranged. They are placed just as they would be in a big book store, organized alphabetically according to Author, and Series. Now, I was for the most part, fine with picking up DVDs and placing them back where they go, but DON'T TOUCH MY BOOKS! I've never in my life hit a kid, but I tell you, I often think to myself:

"If you were an adult, I'd have definitely smacked you in the back of the head for this."

Now keep in mind, whilst this destructive force moves about the first floor of our house, I'm working either on my renovation of the dining room, laying out my floor and spackling small holes and cracks in the plaster. This as you might guess is really hard to do while watching a two year old, but I've acquired spidey sense. Truly, I have that itching that just screams when I need to get up and see what is going on. Now, trust me, our house is pretty child proof, but there's only so much you can do. At two, this kid's brain is like a sponge. She can critically think through most of those gates, safety plugs, and latches. Seriously, I wish I could use that much of my brain all the time.

Generally, if she's making noise, that means all is well. It's when she's quiet that I sense a disturbance in the force and go running. Silence is not at all golden, ever. Silence means doom; doom for Tolkein, Hobb, Rowling, Eddings, Jordan, Goodkind, and whatever else she gets her hands on before I get there... and I must say, there's nothing I hate more than a creased page in a book. It just bothers me.

Now having said all that, I ask myself the question, why is my kid not like the girls I grew up with? She has no interest in ponies, barbies, or any other girly thing other than Frozen. She's more interested in moving, breaking things, and getting dirty, which believe me, I'm completely fine with this, but I wanted a girl first because I thought I had them figured out... God I was mistaken. I will say this though, she's figured me out. Of course, this isn't that hard of a task for a girl. I'm pretty transparent for the most part. I'm a man after all. We're not all that complicated in general, and I tend to follow the concept of the classic depiction of what defines a man.

I own tools, I fix things, I yell during a Steelers game, I appreciate a well brewed Porter, I enjoy the occasional cigar, and I hold the door open for a lady. I think that sums me up pretty well. But there's one thing that my daughter has figured out, that I try so hard to hide. You know what it is? The one thing I just can't for the life of me do like a proper man... I cry when the dog dies at the end. Seriously, it gets me every time. I cry when William Wallace is beheaded, I cry when Charlie Bucket lives happily ever after, and I cry when the two dogs and the cat are reunited with their owners after braving the chaos of the wilderness and the city. Yep, I'm a crier when it comes to that sappy stuff, and you know what? My daughter likes to remind me of it... and her mother. Now, her mother has seen my cry one time in the five years we've shared, and that was the night my daughter was born. Seriously, I cried my eyes dry, even after resolving that I would be that hard-ass dad. I just couldn't do it. I just couldn't. I balled for hours. Now in a situation like that, I think it is excusable, but crying at the end of Willy Wonka? Really?

I noticed this affliction following the great scene with the Wonkavator... and yes, my daughter finally let me watch something other than Frozen. Well at any rate, it was roughly around my Fiancés lunch hour, and she calls during this time. After exchanging our daily, 'How is your day?' 'What are you thinking for dinner?' 'How's pregnancy treating you today?' I put her on the phone with our daughter.

At first, my daughter is always shy on the phone, until she hears who it is. Without even saying "Hi Mommy" or something like that she get's right into it with, "Daddy's Cwying!" All I can do is roll my eyes and facepalm myself a few times until she gingerly gives me back my phone.

There's a moment of silence at that point, followed by, why are you upset? Explain yourself out of that, I dare you! You can't. I bit the bullet and admitted to her that I cried at the end of Willy Wonka...

This has led me to realize something. Children have this absolute and glorious gift of profound honesty. Even if you don't want honesty, they are still happy to deliver it. You know what I mean. You get comments like,

"Daddy, you're sweaty."

"Mommy's belly is big,"

and of course, "I pooped."

Particularly, I don't mind being told that I'm sweaty, or that she pooped, but Mommy isn't a fan of the big belly comments. Mommy isn't usually a fan of anything that might suggest that her body has changed at all during this pregnancy. Now, she's more than aware of it, but its just not something you bring up. Naturally, she can't just unleash that maelstrom of emotional chaos on a two year old, but do you know who she can unload on? Me. Yep. Everytime. I understand, truly I do. I can only imagine the turmoil of hormones blasting through a pregnant woman, and that "What to Expect When You're Expecting," tells the man to support her with her emotions. You know how hard it is for an Irish, Scorpio to support the emotions of a woman who is currently pissed, and yelling at him? It's as hard as eating spaghetti with a spoon, but I do it, if anything its because I love her. It's a good thing she hasn't tried to stab me or anything though. I don't think I could support her emotions if she tried to stab me...

But at the end of the day, all I can do is plop my head on the only pillow that isn't claimed by my fiancé. Keep in mind this is the one pillow that does your body no good at all, I honestly don't even know why we have it, or the twenty two other pillows on the bed that are square, round, and frilly. Really, who has a need for decorative pillows? You know what though? She uses every one of them... I can kiss her good night, and plug my phone in, take off my watch and wish myself godspeed for whatever chaos awaits me in the morning. Really, if you're a dad and a husband in training, that's all you can do, because in the world of Dadhood and Fiancéhood, there's little to no similar days. There may be similar events, but every day is something different. Really, that sun has risen too many times to be surprised that often, but every once in a while, I'll awake to the sound of my kid who somehow managed to escape that "Childproof" lock on her crib, running about as she chases the cats from room to room on our second floor, but really, there's no surprises except for that thought that somehow my fiancé tolerates my compulsive habits. That will never not surprise me.

To you Dad's, and Husbands in training I wish you godspeed!