Nick's Skids

So lately I've been feeling a tiny bit guilty because Nick's friends have been reading my blog and subsequently bombarding him with phone calls asking how I have room in my purse for both my wallet and his balls.

Admittedly, perusing back through my posts I realize that I maybe painted an unfair picture of the Force that is Nicholas, so today I am graciously stepping aside and offering him the stage to issue a rebuttal.

Before I hand over the mic, though, I would like to say just one thing to hopefully redeem myself as I dust off his testicles and attempt to sew them back on.

While he certainly has his quirks that I have no problem exploiting for your entertainment, Nick inspires me every day to see the world through a lens of kindness and compassion, and not a day has gone by in the last 6 years that my stomach has not hurt as a result of the contagious laughter that follows him everywhere. He has also held on tight and ridden the rails of this crazy train o' hormones that I've been driving for the past two years.

Choo choo!

So, here it is, unedited and unadulterated... Nick.

Recently, I had been told by some of our friends that Hannah is a very good writer, and that her blog can be “so funny.” The statement is always followed immediately by provocative questions about what I did in bed the other night. Whatʼs worse, is that they all have this sh+t-@#ting grin on their faces, like they know how dependent I am on the motion of the ocean. Of course, we are always out at a bar, or a party, where I have no access to the Internet to look into this sudden mass-opinion that I am some kind of callous, color-blind, selfish masochist. So, I smile and take it; like a color-blind heel.

I was pleased that Hannah decided to do this whole web-site, blogging thing. She enjoys writing, babies, and has a masters in marketing, so this was like a perfect marriage of all her hobbies and skills. Most of all, it keeps her busy. The busier she is, the less likely she is to take Elliot to the emergency room for every cough, and the more likely I am to get though the door after work without being assaulted for news from the outside world. I did like the attention, but she would tear at my clothes. The desperation was scary, and a little contagious. Now she barely notices that I walked in the door; there is no enormous guilt trip waiting at home for me every time Iʼm 5 minutes late from work. The problem was solved. Until I read what she has been writing.

I would describe myself to be a cross between Pierce Brosnan and Omar Epps. This, however, is not the online persona I am projecting. She had asked if she could put some of the stuff I have said before in the blog, and I have nothing to hide, so I said “Sure, no problem whatsoever. Tell the world the story of me so they may be jealous.” What she has done is to twist the facts to improve her role as the selfless and devoted heroin. Yes, I am color-blind. And yes, I did dress our child to look like a Saint Charles Hoosier; however, I did dress her. How many dads out there can say they did that? And I did consider coercing her to walk at 14 months with some aggressive maneuvers; but I was interested in her development.

This whole parenting thing wasnʼt supposed to be easy. When Elliot was born, I was told by every single dad out there, all of whom could probably care less if their daughter walked or wore clothes, that “your life will never be the same.” It wasnʼt what they said, but how they said it, as if they knew how important it is to me that the size of the wand matters far less than the magician who makes the magic. Well, it turns out that life actually has changed.

I just think of every way that we had spent our free-time prior to having children. We would go to the pool, lounge in a chair for hours, maybe have some beer. Weʼd meet friends for dinner, stay for drinks at the next place afterward. Maybe Iʼd sleep in tomorrow. Now, we can still go to the pool, but after just 2 minutes the first visit I discovered with horror that the toddler wants off the lounge chair, and I had to go with her. An hour later, I was in the pool longer than I have been in the past ten years. I can also go out for dinner and a drink, but my priority moves from trading jokes and insults, to steadily shoveling food into Elliotʼs bottomless mouth to avoid the impatience alarm from sounding. Occasionally, I can move my gaze up to see if my friend is still there. If they havenʼt left, the look of shock tells me they are unable to create a decent excuse to leave yet. I havenʼt figured out if that appalling shock is related to the amount of food something so small is capable of eating, or if they cannot believe what I have been reduced to. A manservant for an infant, who will have me cleaning all of this food out of her diaper in 4 hours.

So, I guess I live in a glass house now, which is acceptable if we all agree that it has been a rather ungraceful and sorry exercise in parenting because my skills were sharpened to be sophisticated and charming in a world of lounge chairs and penthouse parties, not as a manservant.