Universal Daughter

The bed is too small for all three of us now.
Mum sits on the floor while I read.
You love your stories, "Daddy!  Not like that!"
Except when I try a little voice acting.

The bed is warm but the wall chills my spine.
Mum's toasty in front of the heater.
You look at me, nose inches from mine.
Except for misty eyes no one would know:

I gaze upon a universe of potential and it fills me utterly.

Joy is too small a word.

Silly

My daughter likes to smile, squint one eye in an attempt at a wink, hold out a big thumbs up and roll her stomach muscles.  Seriously.  Picture a four year old girl with pig tails, a dimple and this expression:

Subtract the pointing and add some seriously flexible stomach contortions.

She taught herself the tummy roll after watching Sesame Street where apparently some guest did it, the rest is a bit of a mystery.  She always asks "Why are you laughing Daddy?"  Which of course makes me laugh more.  How the hell can I answer that question?

I've made an effort to always be as complete and honest with her as I can when she asks me questions.  She has a basic understanding of sex for instance.  Not the act, but only because it hasn't come up yet.  It might never, we do live on a farm after all.  But she does know that she grew in Mummy's tummy and that she started out as an egg from Mummy combined with a seed from Daddy.  She also knows when our rooster is doing that to a hen he's trying to give his seed to her.  I guess we will have to have a sex talk at some point, just to make sure that she understands that human sex isn't usually that quick, violent or one sided.  :)

When she asks what things are called I also strive to use the real word even if it's polysyllabic.  You'd be surprised at how fast she picks up even the most complex words.  A four year old's brain has huge portions of it dedicated to language acquisition, might as well take advantage of that while it lasts.

But I am at a loss to explain to her why I find that particular performance so hilarious.  I mean it just IS.  Sometimes the only honest answer is "I don't know."  Of course, it's tricky getting that out when you're snorting soy milk out your nose.

Fears

If I could name them, my fears would fill whole books. Great dusty tomes smelling of sweaty hands and dry rot. I try not to think about them in quantitative terms lest I be overwhelmed by the shear weight of those volumes. Two years and ten months ago a new set of fears came into my life, almost identical to those old familiar ones. For every fear I have for myself, I have one for Emlyn. Even in those moments where the joy crushes my lungs until all I can do is laugh those fears sit waiting. This too is parenting.

My fears for myself once threatened to bury me. No single one was enough to do it, but the weight of them all together was almost too much. I can't think why I never gave up. Perhaps, deep down, I really am an optimist. Whatever, the why of it doesn't matter anymore.

My fears for Emlyn are fundamentally different. They cannot overwhelm me, because if they did, if I succumbed, Em would be damaged. This is not an irrational fear like so many I have, this is a simple fact. A fact borne out by the damage I got from my father succumbing to his demons.

I can't prevent some of the things I worry about from coming to pass. Em will get her heart broken, it is even healthy that she do so. One can learn so much from such things. But I will be there to wipe her tears and say, "This too shall pass." I will be there to hold her and say "I love you."

I will be there.

Fuck all my fears. They have less worth than the tiniest part of the most insignificant moment in my daughter's life. They're dusty words in dusty books, and even if I can't be rid of them entirely they shall never threaten me again.

This is what joy looks like:

Lift Your Head

We had guests over for dinner last night, nice folk and gracious too. They were quite understanding of the gong show that is meal time with a toddler. They also knew to beat a hasty retreat before the bedtime meltdown. Despite their social graces they did distract us from a few of our nightly routines.

It was already dark when I realized that the chooks* hadn't been shut away for the night. Its best to do it just on dusk because that's when the foxes come out looking for an easy meal. Em wanted to come with me. She snuggled in on my shoulder with both her pink blankets tucked up around her. She insisted on carrying the torch which made or progress a little slower as the notion that torches are for lighting your way hasn't really sunk in yet. She wished Bart, Barney and Beebee "Good night." and "Sleep well." each in their turn as I pushed the door shut, fastened the chain and blocked the bottom with its brick.

As we were walking back to the house she lifted her head and said "Look. Stars. Pretty." Indeed they were. There's nothing quite like a southern hemisphere night sky seen from outside a city. The crescent moon was up, it's light hiding much of the Milky Way, but there were still uncountable shimmering lights to be seen. We stopped just back of the bungalow where the house lights are hidden and looked to the sky.

I pointed out the moon peeking through the trees. Em insisted that it was a half moon even though it was more like a quarter. Ah well, fractions can come later. I also pointed out what I'm pretty sure was Mars. It was definitely a planet and was obviously red so Mars seemed the logical choice. It took a couple of minutes to explain where it was but once Em got it she was quite taken with how red it was.

We talked about that a while and I explained what planets were, at two and half she didn't get it. That's okay, it's never too soon to start practicing not talking down to your child. We stood and quietly looked at the stars for awhile too. Then she said softly: "That's my moon, my stars."

I had to think about that for a second. In the end I said "Yes Em, they are yours." Of course they're not, at least not in the sense she meant it. But that's a lesson for later.

The light of stars is ancient, it's been traveling for tens, hundreds and even thousands of years before it falls on our eyes. To look to the night sky is to look back in time, this fills me full of wonder and awe.

We know so much about our universe and yet we've barely left our planet. Quasars, pulsars, black holes: no one has ever been anywhere near any of these phenomenon but still we understand a great deal about them and are learning more all the time. Our ability to explore, study and learn the true nature of our ancient and huge universe despite the handicap of the immense distances involved makes me proud to be human.

Ancient and huge, those words don't do justice to the scope of our universe. It's 13.7 billion (billion!) years old. The edge of the observable universe is 46.5 billion light years away and a light year is 10 trillion kilometers. It contains approximately 70 sextillion (7 x 10^22) stars. I'm incapable of understanding just how large these numbers are. Every time I try and grasp them they just slip away and leave me feeling oh so tiny and humble, and yet they also fill me with a profound sense of peace.

With so much room, so many stars and planets and so much time for it to happen in, well, it seems all but inevitable that life would come into existence. That thought when it first occurred to me was profoundly liberating. I never again needed to wonder why I'm here: I just am. And that means I'm free to live my life, cherish my family and friends, and help make our unimaginably tiny little portion of the universe as safe and as joyful as it can be. It means there are no arbitrary cosmic rules that I need to fear breaking by doing so. It means I can be joyful, humble, proud, peaceful, loving, awe-struck and filled with wonder as needed, the universe is more than big enough to accommodate them all.

All of these things, in all of their immensity belong to all of humanity. But explaining that to Em can wait until she's old enough to reason for herself. For now it is enough for her to know that the pretty stars belong to her.

*Chickens. I'm getting to the point where some Aussie terms are becoming second nature to say. It still feels awkward when I write them though. I paused after writing 'chook' and wondered if I should change it to 'chicken'. One thing won't change though: tomato going to be a toe-MAY-toe until I die!

Photo by Larry Landolfi

Dancing in the Dark

Our little girl just turned two years old.  For the longest time the hierarchy was Baby (Supreme Ruler of the Universe), Mum (Center of Said Universe) and Dad (That Guy Who Hangs Around a Lot).  This applied to all facets of our life as a family.  If Mum was available then Dad really had to work to get any facetime with The Ruler.  It's been getting much better of late, occasionally Em will even remember her Noblise Oblige and grant me the briefest of unsolicited cuddles.  A boon for which I will cheerfully commit any number of diplomatic faux pas, up to and including "accidently" backing a ute into the leader of a G8 country.  Seriously, you'd better hope Em doesn't take a dislike to you.  I'm wrapped so far around her little finger that if she were to point at you as say "Daddy, kill." you'd be meat so fast your head would spin, literally.  You can't imagine how much cleaning up that entails, so for sake of my soft pink hands, please be nice to my daughter.

Of course this attachment to Mummy isn't always a great thing and we're actively trying to get her to chill about being without the maternal security blanket.  Bed time has been especially difficult.  For the longest time Em would not go to sleep unless Mummy was there in the room with her.  Months ago we started putting her to bed together.  The idea being that she should get used to me being there at bed time to the point where I'll be able to put her down solo.  A few days ago I managed it, not without some fussing and carrying on mind you.  But she did go to sleep with just me present.  Progress.

The next night we both ended up staying.  We were late getting her to bed and she was fussy and insistent that Mummy be there.  Claire perched on the end of the bed and I stood in the center of the dark room.  Claire made her escape early and successfully but I stayed for a few minutes, just in case.

I stood still in the dark for several minutes, silent and a little uncomfortable.  I found myself swaying gently, it seemed to help make the standing easier.  So I closed my eyes and played a song in my head, dancing more in thought than in fact.  As I did so I remembered times on the dancefloor those 20 or so years ago.

I remembered the time I twisted my ankle so badly during Love and Rockets' "Ying and Yang and the Flowerpot Man" that I couldn't stand on it.  One of the staff asked, well, yelled over the music actually, if I needed ice.  I said "Oh God, yes!"  Off they went and a bad French farce ensued. One with repeated misunderstandings over just what had been asked for, ice or an ambulance?

I remembered the time at a Jerry, Jerry and the Sons of Rhythm Orchestra gig where someone came down on my foot just as I was going up.  Spiral fracture out of that one.  I did get two shots of Tequila for the price of one though.  I'd hobbled to the bar and asked the bartender what he had for pain, then laced my boot up tight and dived back in.  One of the best gigs I've ever been to and I was right not to miss a second of it.

Funny how most of those memories involve getting hurt.  I am not by even stretchiest of imaginations what anyone would call a graceful person.  I've scars on all of my extremities to stand in witness to this fact.  I do however dance reasonably well.  Or I do when I'm given my head and room to move.  I suck at anything that requires knowledge and coordination with anyone else.  My method was to shut my eyes, always circle counter clockwise and always have at least one part of my body moving with the beat.  Well, to be really honest I did dance reasonably well back when I danced at all.

There in Em's room I also remembered the time that the almost supernaturally beautiful East Indian girl told me: "You dance pretty good for a white guy."  I was taken aback, first that she'd even spoken to me and second that what she'd said was something resembling a compliment.  Of course at that time my self esteem was measured in parts per million.  I muttered "Thanks", shut my eyes and sank back into the beat.  At the next break between songs she leaned over and said: "You look like Jesus."  Now that?...that really rattled me.  Okay, I did look like Jesus at the time, or at least the Western world's myth of Jesus as a long haired, bearded white guy.  Although I'm pretty sure there isn't too many official portraits of Jesus wearing combat boots and torn black jeans.

I had no idea what to make of this comment.*  Was she coming on to me?  It didn't seem likely.  I mean Jesus isn't exactly know for his sex appeal.  Nor for his suitability as a life partner come to that.  I danced out the next song and slipped away before another could start.  I suspect that I ended up convincing myself that the whole thing was some sort of veiled insult. But I'm not sure, the rest of the evening is blurry from deliberately applied self medication of the malted sort.  Hmm, perhaps my self esteem at that time was measured in parts per billion.

So there I was, two decades and half a world away from that silly young man, standing in the dark, swaying in place, remembering, wondering:  what had changed, am I the same person?

Once upon a time I danced in a crowded room with my eyes closed because I hadn't yet learned that I was worthy of love.  Today I sway in the dark for an audience of one: a bundle of strong-willed toddler proof of how so very wrong I was for such a very long time.  One who's image stands next to every definition I have for love.  One whose eyes had better be closed.

"Lie down sweetie, it's okay, Daddy's here.  Thatsa girl, now close your eyes my love, it's time to sleep..."

*That Jesus comment still puzzles me.  I wish I could go back and ask her what she meant.  Any ideas?  

The State O'Things

Well, thanks to Fritz I've got a lot more traffic here than I usually do.  Thank you sir, you're a gentleman and a scholar.  I don't feel like I'm back as such, but I certainly haven't been posting for the last little while.  Being a new father will do that. Mind you, I've never been particularly consistent about posting.

I'm a little at sea about what to do about this blog.  It started as a motivational tool to keep me practicing guitar and soon developed into an exploration of just why I spent so much time playing music when I never got paid, recorded or even played more than two gigs a year.  I found an answer to that question and my motivation to write ebbed, as did my desire to play.

I can't really call myself a musician anymore.  The band has folded and even if it hadn't I'm on the other side of the world.  I don't practice as such, my only playing is strumming for my daughter, singing her #1 favourite: "Yummy Yellow Strap".  Our routine is for me to play some simple changes she can shriek along with.  Then I tune the guitar to a chord and she has a bash until the yellow strap on the guitar become more interesting, and tasty apparently, than the music.  I then sing a couple of rounds of  YYS and we move onto something equally fascinating, like chewing on junkmail or bashing empty boxes.

So what do I write about?  I'm reluctant to become a daddy blog although that's a subject I have very strong feelings about.  I'm not likely to become a cycling blog although that's a passion of mine for the last 20 years.  I've never really felt the need to be exclusive in content, to the detriment of my hit count.  I guess I'll just carry on as I have been, writing about the things that move me and things that I need to figure out.

In honour of Fritz's kind link here's the state of my cycling life.

I mentioned my dilemma about what I'm going to do for work in this dry, dry land.  Since I wrote that post we went to the Victorian government department of small business.  They were very encouraging about starting a cycling business.  I got a bunch of handouts and have started reading them with an eye to compiling a list of questions for a professional to answer about owning and operating a small business. It's been pretty straightforward so far.

I'm uncharacteristically optimistic about this endeavour.  During the day I'd have to describe my mood about it as positively cheery.  At 3 in the morning whilst cradling a screaming Em, pacing the hall in a soothing march my doubts gnaw away, digesting all that yummy positivism.   "What if I can't get financing?"  "What if I get financing and can't make a go of it?"  "Will I have to flee back to Canada or will I end up in debtor's prison?"  "Will getting the LUC to smuggle me dope and cigarettes keep me from becoming some hairless felon's special friend?" "Will I ever get a decent night's sleep?" and so on.

I've also been wondering if my optimism is coming from somewhere else.  You see, the light here is different.  It's somehow cleaner, purer, like it's fallen straight from heaven unsullied by common air.  I'm not the only one to notice this; I first read about it in Bill Bryson's book "In a Sunburnt Country."  Mind you I didn't give it much credence, Bryson's book is as much a love letter to Australia as it is a travelogue, and those in love aren't the best of witnesses.  Is this light illuminating things as really are, a celestial arc-lamp of truth?  Can it be as easy as making the decision and putting in the work?  Or am I being fooled, being sun-addled into risking money that I don't have, risking my daughter's future?

Ah well, self-doubt is a comforter I've had since my bike had 3 wheels and no brakes.  Nevermind that it's ragged, faded and in bad need of washing.  It's mine, and I won't be parted from it without throwing myself down and screaming until I turn blue.

As to actual cycling, I haven't done much since last September.  Let's not talk about how large my waist has become.  We brought our Brompton folders but the nearest town is 20k away, not too far to ride but too far to tote a 7 month old baby to.  Everytime we go to Melbourne if find myself oggling the cyclists passing by to the point were I feel just a little dirty about it.  I've taken to wearing sunglasses all the time and hoping that people assume I'm perving on all the pretty young things walking around.  Speaking of which, unless something has changed drastically at home the girls here wear a lot less clothes than I'm used to.  I'm terrified of Emlyn's teenage years, terrified.

Now, just in case I actually go through with this mad idea to start my own store I have some questions for you my gentle readers.

What was the worst experience you've had at a local bike store and what's the best?

I have my own ideas about what cycling retailers do right and wrong but a sample of one is pretty paltry.

Thanks.

Forgiving

She has my father's eyes.

She's only 6 months old so there's still the possibility that they'll change to a shade of green like mine or her mother's.

Until now the only things that I've had to remind me of my father are his watch and a profound distrust of alcohol. Now every time I look into my daughter's eyes I see him. I see him and I'm reminded of the time he stood in the door of my bedroom and stated that I didn't love him. What could I, all of 9 years old, say to that? I'm reminded of how I dreaded weekends and holidays. I'm reminded of all the times I crept out of my bedroom as he snored his drunken snore on the couch, crawling on hands and knees behind the planter to turn on the porch light. It shone in my bedroom window and made my room feel safe. Those few meters made my heart race, sweating and praying that he wouldn't wake up. Praying too that he wouldn't get up and turn it off after I made it back to bed so I'd have to do it all over again: Sisyphus in flannel pajamas. I don't want to be reminded of any of this.

And yet...and yet I don't really want Emlyn's eyes to change. Somehow I think he would be proud of his granddaughter. Maybe it's just the blinders of new-parenthood that makes me feel this way but I can't imagine my father not loving her. I see him picking her up and tossing her in the way that makes her laugh her little baby laugh and he's smitten just like I am. He looks in her eyes and sees the best of himself looking back.

I want her eyes to stay that particular shade of blue-gray; I want my love for her to spill over into my memories of him. It's the least I can do. Because without my father she wouldn't exist, and for that I can forgive him everything.

A Fear-Full Man

Claire and Em are back at the house, hopefully napping soundly. I feel a pull from them that's hard to explain. How is it that you can spend half a lifetime trying to separate yourself from the world, to make yourself safe? Then you find yourself sitting in a food-court, separated from those you love by less than a kilometer, less than an hour, and you're all but weeping because they aren't near enough.

How does this happen, this unasked-for connection to the world? Did I carelessly leave the key where it could be found, or has time and age undercut all my carefully plumbed and trued defenses? And if so, what else is out there waiting to tiptoe in through that heart shaped hole?

It's getting full in here, I'll have to make some room.

Introducing Emlyn

Born July 28, 6 pound 7 onces and a full head of hair.

When last we left our intrepid blogger he was waiting for his wife to start having real contractions. Waiting in a wilderness of anticipation and anxiety. Unfortunately my anxiety turned out to be warranted. The baby was breach and Claire's waters broke long before she started having contractions. There was no way to turn the baby and the hospital wouldn't even consider trying to deliver breach. We ended up having to have a Caesarean delivery. And for the record, I will hunt down and put the boots to anyone who citizens that decision. It was hard enough to go through without being second guessed.

It was 20 minutes from the time they took Claire into the operating room until they let me come in. Those were some pretty long minutes. I've never consciously tried so hard to not think as I did at that time. I counted the holes on the edge of the mask I'd been given. I wondered how many fathers-to-be had sat in that seat and took a picture of the sign that said "No photography." I did everything I could to not let what was about to happen enter my mind. They were about to cut open the first person in the world for which I'd gladly sacrifice myself to stop such a thing from happening. Cut her open in order to retrieve the second person for which I felt that way.

No matter how hard it was for me, it was harder still for Claire.

Enough about that. In the end the method her birth is one tiny detail compared to the rest of her life. One she won't even remember.

As you can see, she's pretty much the most beautiful baby ever. What? You think I'm biased? Well, 5 out of her 6 grandparents agree and you can't get a more significant sample than that.

Learning how to be a father has been a challenge. My previous experience with children consisted primarily of avoidance. But I'm getting the hang of diapers and the lack of sleep.

There's been so much that's happened since last I wrote, it's hard to find a place to start.

The summer job helping people fix their bikes was the best job I've ever had. It was almost a daily occurrence where someone would thank me sincerely for my help; such is the nature of empowering people.

Right now we're in Sydney Australia. We spent almost a month in Colorado Springs in the USA while I attended Barnett's Bicycle Institute. It was a great experience, I learned a great deal including just how little I actually knew. Unfortunately I got sick in the last few days of the course, a minor cold with a sore throat. After we were done in Colorado we went to Sechelt BC (just up the coast from Vancouver) to introduce the little one to her Canadian Grandma. It was nice to be there but I spent the whole time being miserable with the cold.

We had a bunch of fun with my Australian visa and my passport. I had to send it off to Ottawa in order to get the visa. Twice. It literally came within 10 minutes of not being returned in time. The one-day service courier we'd chosen to get it back to us in Sechelt actually takes two days to get there because of the ferry connection. I called the Australian High Commission 10 minutes before it's scheduled courier pick up and changed the service. We stopped on the way to the airport in Vancouver to pick up my passport. We also stopped so I could go to the doctor. My cold had turned into a lung infection. The doctor took a look at me and said "You're not doing anything this weekend, right." It wasn't a question. I had to admit that I was actually getting on a 16-hour flight as soon as I was done there. The doctor paused, sighed and reached for his prescription pad.

But now we're in Sydney and I can sit on our balcony looking out over a banana tree and scary the parrots with my hacking cough. Ya, life's not so bad. We're here for a couple of more days then off for a drive to Wilby (good luck finding that on a map of Australia) to stay with the mother-in-law.

So much for the reportage, hopefully soon I'll have the time and energy to think about what any of all this means.