Thursday, May 31, 2012

The Picture

The picture above means absolutely nothing.

Unless you're a radiology tech and you've spent your best years slipping out of study groups at Miami Dade College to catch Heat games.

Or you have a fetish for cute button noses.

That's one there. At the top. And yes, those are lips.   He'll grow into them.

You are looking at my son.

Or at least, that's what we thought he was a few days ago, before the doctor peered at the ultrasound screen during a routine check up and said, "Huh."

Previous to that, the glow on our faces when we proudly shared our offspring's gender was evident.

"We're having a boy."

Still pondering this, I wheeled my wife into the ER (Ok, we walked in. My swollen companion eased into a wheelchair. A pink lady whisked us off like Greased Lightnin' in a somewhat erratic scamper I can only describe as how a fed up Sandy would finally stop wondering "what he's doing now" and try to pin down an aging Danny Zuko at a Rydell High fifty year reunion).

We were on our way to the exciting stress test.

Having the presence of mind to both dart and maintain casual conversation, the friendly old gal asked what we were having.

To which my wife responded, "A boy," and then slower, "apparently."

Apparently. My son's Jewel of the Riviera had been reduced to apparently. Ugh.

I was duly worried. If not for the hundreds of little johnny monkey onesies and overalls or the prince charming monikers, then for the massive blog project I had just aptly, geniusly, titled "My Son's First Bible."

We were only there for the stress test, but I'll admit it:  I had already written half of the conciliatory blog post in my mind. It was as though I could see the writing on the wall. I would self-dub it as the most epic turnaround in the history of the internet. I would announce that, after a second ultrasound, we have discovered my boy conclusively produces far more estrogen than testosterone. He has an affinity for chocolate and synchronized swimming. And he has no willy.

The next day we found ourselves sitting in front of a screen, observing the real thing. The second ultrasound. With the radiology tech.

I readied myself to welcome my little "it" into the world.

After a routine check of all the extraneous parts, ie. kidneys, stomach, brain, and heart, the tech got down to business.

She waved her slightly gooey magic wand and peered at the screen.

Then, for what could only be the purpose of exacting excruciating cruelty on me, she called for a bathroom break.

I waited helplessly as the love of my life waddled away.

My wife and I love this process. It's crazy and hectic. It's unreal and surreal and at times a little nightmarish.

And on just the other side of it, I see our family.

The picture above means absolutely nothing.

Unless you're a radiology tech.

But it means the world to a father who can breathe a little easier about monkey pajamas.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

The First

My son is now negative six days old. Ish.

According to the man with the stethoscope and a lounge chair with paper that sticks to people's butts and frighteningly awkward stirrups.

The preparations are being made. His first Bible is on the way. Apparently, though, my son does not
yet have a first name. This is a problem his mother is most keenly aware of.

She has made me aware of it, as well.

I vaguely recall hearing mention of this at times before. Now, in a strange twist, it is being repeated again and with a frenzy.

It has even been circulated that it would be in the best interest of the parties involved to see that he has a name before he reaches zero.

I don't quite know what that means.
But the dull glaze over her eyes when I refer to Boy Demsick could be a clue.

I, myself, am wholly excited about the world of possibility that is within her.

My boy is inside.

An adventure lies on each side of his walls. One out here, I can't wait to show him, of cowboys and tents and living room forts. Trails through forests and sunsets and sails.

On the other, a person is quietly growing, with a glow in his eyes uniquely his own. A passion that will someday become a man's, who will set his own sail to the oceans that rise and fall in his eyes. And the compass in his heart.

These things call to me. They beckon who I am. They bring me to my son.

Who will he be? Will he someday look forward, as I am, immersed in his own self-awareness of what it means to be a Demsick, yet captivated in wonder at the next generation? Will his heart draw him back to the one that came before?

Father. Son. Demsicks. Men.

This legacy of wonder we pass along to our sons.

Though I know but little, I am certain of one thing. This boy is my son. When he grows into a man he will be a fearsome thing.

And he will have a name.

Whether this is the product of a dull glaze over the eyes or frightening stirrups remains to be seen.

In the meantime, I'll go back to preparing his sails and try to ignore the frenzy when it returns.

It is possible that it may pass over in time.