The Pieces of the Puzzle Go Like This...

It takes years to understand the bits and pieces of our lives that make us complete, a completeness only imagined because this understanding of how the pieces fit together is only individual perception, isn’t it? Sure, there’s a collective consciousness, but each one of us could have approached the puzzle differently. But I guess this is the catch-22; we all arrive at the completed puzzle no matter how we choose to get there. 

Once the pieces have been jumbled together, not fitting into pre-cut curves and angles, but mushed together like playdough or dough dough (like bread, y’know?,) we realize we have just spent years creating new boxes of pieces that hopefully, hopefully, our experience with the first pieces will help us sort out and mash together. With less struggle, with more cohesion and fewer cracked and dried bits around the edges. Good God. Did I just write that?

Ok then, whatwhat? We’re all looking for cohesion, a flow in our lives. We want things to make sense. The puzzle box is my favored analogy (today.) You have this beautiful picture on the front of the box of a mystical unicorn, a big strapping, er, horn, on it’s head, riding a vividly-hued rainbow bridge into a warm tropical ocean, or what the fuck, a Siamese cat licking it’s paws, the picture isn’t what matters, only that there is one.

Anyway, here’s this picture of what the puzzle should be, but when we dive into the box we are stuck with all of these pieces. Where do we start? Which ones go where? What is the optimum strategy for maximum time efficiency with minimal labor output? And of course, is this puzzle piece more important than the other one?

No, they are all puzzle pieces. They will all contribute to materializing the indifferent Siamese cat licking itself when you finally figure out how they go together. The pretty pieces, the ugly pieces, the blocks of bland and vivid color, the incomplete pieces. They all count.

If I were to use this analogy to describe parenthood, especially being a stay-at-home Dad with former/better than they were/it comes and goes insecurity issues, I might say that the box is ever full of new pieces and the picture continues to change. OR, I might say that the puzzle represents so many years of fatherhood, say 0-5.

BAM! You’ve finished it, but a new one is ready for you, this time with a picture of your own precocious, mischievous, curious 6-9 year old child on the front; or Pikachu, it could be that little yellow lightning bolt throwing pen splotch, or God help us, Dora or Barbie.

You’ve faced down the early years and with them, self-doubts about surviving parenthood (the first year,) concerns about creating a future for your child, a child without anger/biting/sharing/inappropriate touching/constant tantrum issues (and who also doesn’t like to hurt small animals and dismember Barbie dolls. That’s important too.) A WELL-ADJUSTED CHILD DEVELOPING APPROPRIATELY FOR THEIR AGE.

Right. Now, after five years, you’re gaining confidence, and if you’re like me, far too many glances into the dark pit of your soul that gapes wide open and shows you just what a monster you can be.

But back to the puzzle. You’ve made it through the first five years. Now that they’re starting to comprehend shit, how are you going to start explaining your actions? Past Present and Future? I started by first explaining my actions to myself, then, like tossing the meaty carcass of yesterday’s roast chicken, I stopped trying to get any meat off those bones and moved on. It’s a nice illusion, anyway.

Love is Not What I Expected

I didn't think it would amount to anything, this giant leap into the world of parenting. Two babies, born in-vitro, 22 months apart. We were starting a family, but I didn't think it would amount to much. Or maybe I just couldn't fathom what we would become.

Sleep was a dream, those first three months a blur. Hey, some people function better on a fucked up sleep schedule than others.

I remember soothing my little girl to sleep to the sounds of The Grateful Dead. "It Hurts Me Too."

Our anthem, the only song that would put her back to sleep, or was it because we danced?

I rocked, I soothed, I spun a graceful waltz across the carpet in a darkened bedroom.

And my son! The first child. The experiment. Because let's face it, I hadn't done this before. Not really. My older daughter visited; stayed for extended periods of time, but I didn't raise her, not really. His first months were truly a blur. A wonder.

His first moments out of the womb: Wide-eyed, bright and examining everything in the nursery. Recognizing my voice? My presence? I remember:

The first time he fell asleep on my chest. Nothing would calm him. I laid on the couch with a fussy bundle in a royal blue footed onesy; a Gap beanie on his head. A bundle that once fit on my chest and slept as I slept.

And I remember Striped Jumper Photograph day. The window light perfect, the eyes reflecting just so. A peaceful moment to hold onto.

But I never thought it would come to so much. That I would get past my own demons to guide this ship through rough and calm seas, damn the metaphor.

I remind myself through these memories, through the photographs we took, that this family has become a vital entity, and also that moments weren't so important, awful or absolute in their power to affect as they once seemed. These memories change as time moves on, but we have made love a constant.

I don't mean it in the fluffy pink teddy bear red valentine's box of chocolates sense. Real love can be a four letter word sometimes. Hard won, fought for over days, months, years, and often gratuitous.

But it's the last thing I expected when we started our family. I didn't really know what it meant.