Christmas 2010: Truman’s Traumatic Travel Diary

 

Hey y’all, it’s Truman. I had the day off from school Thursday, so I was going through my Dad’s bookmarks and stumbled onto this blog. I can’t believe Dad is exploiting me for a few cheap laughs. Actually, yeah, I can totally believe that. Never mind.

Anyway, I thought this would be the best place to share the travel diary I kept during our trip to the Midwest for Christmas. It was quite a journey. Sorry for the delay in getting it posted. I’m a baby, so I don’t type very fast.

The times they are a-changin’

Cleaning out the ol’ inbox this morning and ran across a BabyCenter newsletter about the things that change when you have a baby. Pretty good list, but it’s sort of the Disney version, if you will, so I decided to add some levity — and a dose of reality. Enjoy. Or recoil in horror. Whatevs.

‘Long time, no blog’ or ‘Four months of figuring out fatherhood’

So…long time, no blog. As you might imagine, I’ve been kind of busy for the past four months or so with this whole being a parent thing.

And that’s exactly what brought me back to this little corner of the interwebs. I wanted to tell y’all that we’re actually doing it — we’re parents.

I know that sounds ridiculous. Of course we’re parents. We had a kid, right?

But I mean, we’re really parents. Like, I’m pretty sure we more or less know what we’re doing and everything. This wasn’t always the case, and I wasn’t sure it would ever be the case.

Beyond the call of (diaper) duty

I can’t count the number of times I’ve thought about sitting down to write this post, only to be pulled away by one thing or another, usually the persistent call of diaper duty.

I’m not gonna lie, I had some major anxiety about the whole diaper thing, never having changed one, unless you count the ones we changed on that doll in Baby Basics class. It turns out changing a diaper on a baby doll is to changing a diaper on a real baby as putting into a cup on your living room carpet is to trying to make a hole-in-one on the most diabolical miniature golf hole imaginable. Think of the winning putt at the end of “Happy Gilmore,” only with a windmill, a fire-breathing dragon and the potential to be squirted with various bodily fluids constantly hovering in the back of your mind.

Searching for the right words …

Ever since Truman arrived a little more than two weeks ago, I’ve been contemplating my next blog post, but it has been extremely difficult to find the time to write it and even more challenging to find the words to do it justice.

A friend once told me the greatest writer in the world could not put into words the feeling that washes over a new parent when they first meet their child. That’s the absolute truth, and I’m nowhere near the world’s greatest writer, so I almost feel insignificant even thinking about trying to write about that moment.

It was truly indescribable and unlike anything I’ve experienced.

Inching (but not yet centimeter-ing) toward go-time

For the first time since the make-sure-he-is-still-there ultrasound in what seems like a previous lifetime, my stomach was churning on the drive to the doctor’s office this morning.

Even though our last visit just nine days ago yielded little or no progress toward Baby O’Clock, there was this strange feeling in my gut as it dawned on me that the doctor very well could examine Megan and transform from her usual cool-as-the-other-side-of-the-pillow self into some frantic TV stereotype.

A non-update update

A non-update update from the 38-week doctor’s appointment Wednesday:

Effacement? Nope.

Dilation? Nada.