I say yes when asked. It;s just too cool to turn down.
This was my reading for First Time; First Child in January of 2013. Rubin, your momma shot the video that's linked below.
Some of the following has appeared in this blog previously. But here it is, archived in full, for Rubin to read someday. If the internet exists. He can just link to it via his mandatory brain implant he gets at 18 from THEM.
Here's the full video on YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_qJ0dKdJ5LQ
And here's the story of Rubin Ford Spiegel.
I’m the
youngest of five. I always thought I
wanted to replicate the gaggle. In fact,
in things like bands and radio shows, I have replicated that gaggle of five,
with my role playing out about the same.
But in terms
of the spawn gaggle, well life, it took over.
Life just wasn’t that interested in fulfilling the long term vision of
teenage Spiegel. It decided I should be,
in loose order, sexually awkward, financially chaotic, ambitiously selfish, and
romantically visionless. So, the dream
of a gaggle was lost to the ether.
I thought the
concept of a child at all was gone too.
But something wonderful happened.
I lost some weight, found my balls, metaphorically, moved
west and back, disentangling from all sorts of things. Suddenly I was free to find and be found. And
so was she.
Our timing was
perfect. Older, smarter, mostly
unencumbered, and emotionally open.
One day, she happened to leave some information from a sperm
bank lying around on the coffee table.
“Oh, that?” she said…”just something I’ve been thinking about. Clever girl.
“You know, I have some sperm right here.”
So, we decided
to talk about possibly collaborating to create a short person. We set a date for “the talk.” We sat down at Rootstock on California, with wine,
charcuterie, and our notes. In my little
blue pad were the pros and cons of procreation.
The stats and reasoning added up to hell yes.
I loved being pregnant. My role was
fun. Admire her transformation. She’d occasionally give me a Proud Belly Walk
By. Help to ensure a warm, safe host for
our little parasite. Fetch
milkshakes. Read weekly from a
scientific bible about the progress of our project. I mean, we were building a
human…from…nothing. From pre-existing parts. From stuff we just had floating
around, genetics we’d traveled with for decades.
Our fetus was courageous.
In utero, there was
an Amniocentesis. It had to be
done. So there is our boy on the screen,
impossibly small at 20 weeks, clearly living, pulsating. And as the enormous needle suddenly inhabits
his sensory radius, he lunges for it.
And again, reaches for it aggressively, directly. We do something between squeal and shriek.
My boy doesn’t cower in the
corner. He doesn’t freeze with
concern. He looks like a bear swiping at
salmon a foot below the surface. He is
dominant, and determined.
His pure instinct towards
that needle has progressively been interpolated by me to read as “Hey! What are
you!? You’re new! Can I use you? What
can you teach me? What are you doing here?”
I
hope he’s always that unafraid of strange interlopers.
I can say with
assurance that poker, at a casino just out of state, late in a woman’s third
trimester, is the equivalent of lighting a cigarette while standing on the El
tracks.
The train comes.
She texted me
at 10:07. "You need to cash out and start coming home. Now." I jumped
up, sat down, called her from the table, and heard tell of step 1. I thought of
Cat Stevens. "Water has Bro-ken..." The scraggly fellow degenerate to
my right said "Dude, are you having a baby right now?" Why yes,
shiftless punk, yes I am. Cheers, good wishes all around. I walked/ran to the car, blurting out to
everyone and no one what the moment was.
I loved
giving birth.
Our little
grumptastic Yoda of a newborn came out as the old Jewish man he was destined to
be. “Hello…..I’m here!” “Oy….I vouldn’t do dat again.”
Then, and now, his
face changes every time I look at him. Emotions in the post-partum room flow
freely, massively. His skin is unlike any texture imaginable. This fatherhood
thing is better than any drug conceivable. Our friend Ray called it “the
ultimate human trip.” Perfect.
I’ll
forever remember the moment when Matt LeBlanc won a Golden Globe for his acting
on the cable series “Episodes.” Never saw the show, don’t care. But at the moment he won that award, I was
changing the first black tar meconium diaper of young Rubin’s life. The shiny,
thick substance just kept oozing as I cycled through somewhere between 8 to 14
baby wipes, with homegirl laughing wildly from the bed. It was a lot like the
Exxon Valdez disaster, but more disgusting.
And, I’m pretty sure the same amount of wildlife was damaged in the
process. Seagulls drowned, seals gasped for air, and the news media shook their
heads disapprovingly.
Here's the
deal: I had always been the guy growing up who wanted to, and perhaps could do,
about 7 different things. And I’d be the
same proportions of happy and a little regretful while doing them.
There are
now 2 times in my life that this sometimes conflicted, okay often conflicted
man knew with certainty that he was in exactly the right place, doing exactly
the right thing. One was sitting shiva after my mother's death, a stretch of 8
days in which she was honored and celebrated as deserved. And the second was
those first few weeks of parenthood. 13 days of paternity leave. There's no place in the universe, with no
social or professional opportunity, that merits my time and attention more. I
found that extremely comforting.
But eventually I had to leave the cave, go kill a wild boar,
and drag it back home. I have to do that most days, in efforts to maintain high
cave quality. And as you begin to add
the rest of your life back in, the challenge emerges. How quickly, efficiently, can I race back
home?
I am deeply
grateful for the demeanor of our son. He's fascinating, almost unerringly
sweet, and curious. What an incredibly healthy person to be around. Many
many times, he has served as perspective renewal for me in times of
stress. Therapists call it "cognitive restructuring." How
can I possibly worry about insignificant neuroses while hanging out with
him?
That dude…that perfect little boy, is the one I’m
supposed to make smile and giggle. I
spend my life, thankfully, working to entertain. But he’s the one that deserves the songs and
schtick, both impromptu and prepared.
Scratchy throat? Tough shit,
Spiegel, you have to gut your way through Hendrix’ May This Be Love at bath
time. “Waterfall….nothing can harm you
at all…” And don’t skimp on the vocal
slide guitar solo. Wahhh, wahhhhh.
Tired of
talking and using your voice at the end of the day? Suck it up pops, and remind
yourself why the 59th Street Bridge Song is a surprisingly good
lullaby. Make that kid dappled and
drowsy and ready to sleep.
He
deserves my best energy.
Some of the
most purely happy minutes of my life are sitting with him on the couch,
speaking pure gibberish. He has this
perfect, precise way of moving his fingers through his lips as he buzzes
them. It's a sound made for the first time about two months ago, and I
still can't get enough of it. He’s
telling me stuff.
There’s a beautiful
intuitive theory behind fostering a child’s imagination and growth. Dr. Sears says we are to acknowledge his
efforts and achievements, and praise his speech. Go that extra step with him, and help him
think he’s gotten his message across. He
should feel good about speaking, and feel the joy of communicating, even if his
skillset isn’t up to task just yet.
I
love this. You know what it is? It’s improvisational comedy theory. “Yes, And.”
In an improv scene, if you pretend we’re at a doctor’s office, I don’t
say we’re not. I talk about how sickly
the receptionist is, or wonder why they have Penthouse in the waiting
room. Or something funnier than that,
theoretically. I acknowledge what you’ve
set up, and further the narrative. Same
with Rubin. Keep his adventure going.
He’s 1 now. The matriarch got promoted, daddy works a lot,
and so it’s time for daycare a couple times a week. Terrifying.
But by day 2, he was fine when we left him there. “Okay dad, see ya. I got shit to do.”
The night before day
1, I found myself sitting up in bed, glasses on, filling out the necessary
paperwork for the first time. My parents
did this for roughly 28 years over the course of five kids. Ridiculous.
One of the pages
asked “what are Rubin’s favorite activities?” Well, let’s see. He’s 1.
Activities. He likes to turn book
pages. Um…he enjoys splashing. Crapping his pants…very good at that. He likes to take things out of containers,
occasionally, probably luckily, putting them back. Activities.
He’s working on it.
He makes me want to
be a better man. He makes me want to
live a long time. I still have my
challenges, face my demons, find myself sleepless and embattled like we all do
every once in a while. But I have to be
strong, for him. I want to deserve
him. I have to earn him.
I’m sappy these
days. I’m thankful for the joy he
brings. Thankful for the health he’s
been granted. Thankful for the partner I
lucked into. And thankful for his
existence, bringing levels of meaning I’d heard about, wanted, but still didn’t
really believe.
I want to go
wake him up.
