I wanted to make you a man Jamie, instead you made me a woman

I have a confession. 

In the lead up to, and aftermath of, Jamie's birth, I didn't read much parenting material. I am sure this makes me a bad parent in some respects (ignorance is bliss?), but my general approach has been that there are so many conflicting opinions on how to raise a baby, I just try to do what feels natural. 

I didn't read much, but I did read a little. And the one nugget that managed to stick with me had more to do with the changes we go through as parents than anything I gleaned about raising a child.

I read somewhere that post-pregnancy, the mother tends to experience many changes in hormone levels*. This I knew. What I didn't know is that studies have shown that fathers undergo hormonal changes as well, including a drop in testosterone levels.

* You. Don't. Say.

Less testosterone? I did not like the sound of that. I am a man. I want to remain that way. So ever since Jamie was born, I have tried to pay attention to my hormones to see if I could tell a difference. 

Sports? That's a manly pursuit. Still love 'em. Check. 

Sex? Yeah, still want it. Check.

Fistfights? Well, maybe I'm not quite as manly as I like to think.

The point is, in the six months since Jamie joined the family, I'd never seen any evidence of a decline in masculinity.

Until recently, that is.

With Jamie down for a nap this past Sunday, Hilary and I took the opportunity to play a little DVR catch up. I'd heard good things about the season finale of Saturday Night Live, so we put it on.

For those that didn't see, the episode ended with a tribute to Kristen Wiig, who is leaving the show after seven pretty spectacular seasons. Check it out:

Watching her say goodbye to her fellow castmembers, my eyes started to well, and soon enough, I was experiencing a salty discharge -- I was crying**.

** much to Hilary's delight, I might add.

Typically speaking, I am not a man giving to great expressions of emotion. I didn't cry when we got married, I didn't cry when Jamie was born, and I didn't cry at his naming -- things I've seen several of my male friends do.

By my count I have cried exactly one time in the last decade, and that was when my grandfather died.

So pre-Jamie, it took a death in the family -- the first close family member of mine to pass away, in fact -- to get the waterworks flowing inside me.

Now that Jamie is here? Apparently all I need is the Target Lady saying goodbye to late night television to turn me into a blubbering mess.

Goodbye testosterone. It was nice knowing you.

It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel ...

Hilary at 39 weeks

Today is November 4. Hilary's due date is the 11th, which, if my math is correct, means we only have four days until this baby arrives.

We are in the home stretch. Hilary could go into labor at any moment, and it wouldn't be the least bit troubling -- at least not to the medical personnel.

People ask me how I am feeling, and I feel like I should be honest. So here is what is going through my mind, for the record.

I am excited. My sister lives five minutes away from me, and her daughter is nearly a year old. Every time I go over to visit her she gives me this big gap-toothy grin, and I melt. And my niece does it too! But I only see her once a week or so, so the thought of getting that kind of reaction on a daily basis brings a smile to my face.

I am intrigued. I've heard it said that having a child is the most selfish thing a person can do. It's our own little experiment, conducted in our private little home laboratory. Our child is a lump of clay, and we get to try to shape him into what we think the modern person is supposed to be like. We are God, creating a little man in our own image. At least until McDonalds and Disney take over in a few years.

I am intent. My parents have given me and my siblings everything we could want over the course of our lives. Love, affection, support. I always said to myself that the way to pay them back is to do the same for my children.

I am arrogant. Anyone who knows me knows I am not shy about voicing my opinions, and that I have pretty strong convictions in a lot of areas. I believe we will be able to teach our child exactly what is the correct behavior in every situation.

I am humbled. I am smart enough to realize that I don't know shit, and I'll probably learn over and over and over and over and over that I have no idea what I'm talking about, and our child will forge his own way no matter what we do.

I am mourning. My life, as I know it, is basically over. Yesterday I played Baseball Stars on my old-school Nintendo for four hours in the afternoon, mostly because I knew that four free hours to do as I please will be damn hard to come by pretty soon. Pretty fucking soon.

I am nostalgic. I feel the way I did during the final few weeks of my senior year of college. Even as I enjoyed myself and lived it up the best I could, I felt a giant countdown clock following me around at all times reminding me the party was coming to a close. Responsibility lurked around the corner.

I am optimistic. When I was a camp counselor in college, I routinely slept 3-4 hours a night for 10 straight weeks. I know what it means to function with little to no rest. Surely caring for an infant will be a similar experience, right? RIGHT?

I am unprepared. Yes, the baby's room is in order and the car seats are installed, but those are just materials. Emotionally, I cannot fathom what is about to happen. Even having watched my siblings and close friends do this from a short distance, I feel as unaware of what is coming as the child resting snugly in Hilary's belly.

Finally, I am accepting. No matter how anxious or nervous I get, I can do nothing to alter reality. This is happening. Can we do this? Can we handle it? It doesn't matter. We are doing, we will handle. I know this to be true, even as my brain tries to convince me otherwise.

I keep telling myself things will get back to normal eventually. I just have no idea what that normal will look like.