Among the few things that I afford myself to indulge in on my birthdays is that I often feel like writing something, if for anything at all, the fact that it is my birthday.  Otherwise, I make little deal about it, I rarely talk about it, and almost nobody at work knows it’s my birthday, nor do I have any real intention to bring it up.

Usually, around this time of year, I have this ironic sense of dread of something bad somewhere in the world occurring, like a bombing, a fire, or some sort of massive loss of human life, that has so often times taken place around my birthday every single year.  But over the last few years, and especially this one, there seems to be a massive shooting that occurs somewhere in the United States on a weekly basis, to where all the shooting incidents that have happened within the past week alone seems to overshadow the notion that anything turrible happening is limited to just the radius of days surrounding my birthday.

Needless to say, expecting something turrible to happen around my birthday has kind of lost its meaning over the last few years, because turrible shit seems to happen all the time throughout this god-forsaken country.

Narrowing down the world to just my own little concentrated space, things are certainly brighter and more positive, in spite of the fact that I loathe my job, and feel a little bit trapped and held hostage by the fact that no matter how much I want out, they still hold the ultimate trump card solely because of the paternity time that I am entitled to, and plan on utilizing when my second child is born later in the summer.

But speaking of children, I can’t really complain.  My first daughter is still basically everything I could have ever wanted in my offspring, and it’s a daily joy to spend time with her and watch her grow, develop, learn and become increasingly mobile and intelligent on a regular basis.

Life as a father and a husband is about everything I could have imagined it to be, and sometimes I still bring myself to a point of disbelief when I’m spending time with mythical wife and my child to know that this is where I am in life, and as much as my sister gives me grief about it, having taken so long, I am here at least now, and I take a little bit of comfort in knowing that I’ll have both of my kids before the age of 40, and knowing that my life will be mostly complete in that regard, is a pleasant thought.

New Father Brogging, #006

One of the most important things that I’ve learned as a first-time dad is that whenever you feel like you’re getting a grasp of raising a baby, behaviors will inevitably change and then you’re back into a position of knowing nothing all over again, and feeling helpless when your baby is reduced to crying and finding great difficulty at what may be causing your child distress.

When my baby is crying, it could be a variety of things that could be causing it; might be hunger, even if it might be improbably because she ate a full feed just 80 minutes ago, but a growth spurt could be in play, meaning she’ll want to eat pretty much every single hour.  Maybe it’s indigestion, to which there are only a few things that can actually bring her relief, like pressing her up against the warm body of a parent, or medicinally with gripe water or newborn anti-gas drops.  Maybe she needs to be burped more.  Maybe she’s cranky because she needs to take a nap.  Lately, she’s become cognizant to the discomfort of having a soiled diaper, something that hadn’t been the case in the first five weeks.  And sometimes, she just wants to be held by mom or dad.

The point is, there have been numerous times where I feel like I’ve identified a behavioral pattern, only to rely upon the knowledge of yesterday for today’s problems, and find out that everything has changed all over again, and then I’m left feeling dumbfounded and useless that I can’t figure out how to bring comfort to my own child.

I never once discounted the difficulty of parenting, for the first time much less, but as I expected it would be, parenting is not easy.  This does not deter me in the least bit, but I am just confirming that it’s about as difficult, and occasionally frustrating as I imagined it would be.  There’s nothing like changing a diaper, only for the kid to rip a wet fart and soil it seconds after being put on, only for an after shock to hit two minutes later, and make me throw my hands up at the frustrating of changing three diapers in the span of 120 seconds.

Ultimately I wouldn’t change a thing, and I’ll change a trillion diapers if I have to in order to raise my little girl right, but damn can I at least say there are times when I just have to say, what the fuck man?

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I feel like a lack of time is all part of being adults

Whenever I take the time to write, it’s usually because I’ve built myself a nice little cushion of time to where I can write, fairly uninterrupted, for anywhere from 45-90 minutes.  That, has not happened in quite some time, and therefore I have not really taken the time to write, which in itself gives me a little bit of anxiety, because I don’t ever want to fall out of the habit of writing, because writing is important to me, and it makes me anxious when I haven’t done it in a while.

It’s literally been two weeks since the last time I sat down and did any sort of writing.  This isn’t to say that there’s been nothing interesting or worth writing about, although I will say that the usual bullshit that occurs in Atlanta and/or Georgia itself has been a little on the dull side or a little too darkly serious side, like the prehistoric anti-abortion laws they’re pushing, which are things that I don’t really feel remotely capable of speaking about.  I ran in my first-ever official half marathon, the Star Wars half at Disney World.  UVA won a national championship in an actual sport (basketball).  Women, main evented Wrestlemania, with Becky Lynch winning both women’s championships from Charlotte and Ronda Rousey.  Tiger Woods won the Masters and proved that winning shit in sports absolves anyone of their personal indiscretions because they’re totally related.  Game of Thrones embarked on their final season, and the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris almost burned down, because bad shit always tends to happen this time of year.

Things, have most definitely been happening all around the world; it’s just that I really haven’t been able to build that cushion that I always tend to want in order to do some writing, because it never seems like there’s ever any time in the day for me do such.  Whether it’s the increased responsibilities and the seemingly endless parade of little and large tasks that I have at work, meetings after meetings, I barely have the time to have proper lunches on a daily basis, much less be able to eat food and type words at the same time. 

And then when I get home, whether or not I have to cook dinner or an endless litany of small tasks and daily chores that I feel the need to do in order to have a somewhat kept house, that by the time I’m done with everything, I’m at that awkward point of the day in which I don’t feel like I have enough time to write, or watch anything other than a 30-minute program on Netflix, because I should probably start considering going to bed in order to be a responsible adult and not be tired during work.

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Doesn’t feel any different than how thirty-five was.  I have the same mundane grown-up responsibilities as I did the year prior, I still feel like time is flying faster and faster the older I become, and physically I don’t really feel much different than I did when I was twenty-six.  I still feel pretty out-of-touch with the trends of the world, I’m quick to find popular trends obnoxious, and I often feel like nothing today stacks up to how things were in the past. 

The only slightly noticeable difference is that I think I’m approaching the age in which unfortunately, death is emerging as a more prevalent presence in the lives of everyone around me, and with the ever-present presence of social media, it’s so quick and easy to spread the bad news of whenever anyone passes.

My brog is still down, but if all goes according to plan, maybe by the summer, I’ll have taken the necessary steps and effort in order to get it back up on the internets for the forseeable future.

I don’t really know why I’m writing all of this; despite the fact that I’m pretty low-key and reluctant to speak about my birthday to my peers and acquaintances, I still feel some sort of necessity to write something on my birthday, as if it’s some sort of slate cleaning and arrival of a fresh canvas to decorate with the happenings of another year of life.

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Photos: Mythical GF’s Jazzy 20’s Murder Mystery Birthday Party

[2020 note] This was unposted content back from 2017, mythical (then)-gf’s 25th birthday party; but not just any old birthday party, it was a murder mystery party, where everyone was assigned a role, and played a part throughout the evening, as the story of the Grand Gatsby’s speakeasy unfolded.

Looking back through these photos, it was a wonderful party, where everyone participated to the nines, and it was a fantastic way to break in our new home with a big party that was part-housewarming, part-birthday, and part-murder mystery costume party.

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The birthday post

There are times in which I want to be spoiled and lavished upon from the time I wake up to the time I go to bed.  A Baz Luhrmann party, all my friends having the time of their lives, good times and great memories made to be remembered and reminisced upon until the following year.  I get all the material crap that I’ve ever said I’ve wanted throughout the last year, whether it was legitimate want or I was simply being ironic, for good laughs.  Everyone remembers the date, nothing bad occurs on the day, I don’t get upset, disappointed or frustrated by anything, and I’m left with a feeling that I simply do not deserve any of this.

It’s just an arbitrary day of the year that happens to coincide with the anniversary in which I was born.

The reality is that I have very low and tempered expectations for my birthdays in general, and frankly I’m kind of uncomfortable with any sort of efforts made to draw attention to myself, whether by myself or by anyone else.  I appreciate any and all efforts anyone makes to acknowledge or do nice things for me, but when the day is over, I don’t really expect much, and tend to go through my birthdays with a sense of carefulness and hope that nothing goes wrong.

I guess a lifetime of birthdays being treated like no big deal within my family has engrained this sense that birthdays are truly no big deal to me.  It’s like I feel like they’re not that important, but everyone else seems to treat their birthdays with a little more importance than I would, that I feel like I’m caught in the middle of how I feel like a birthday should be.  But out of fear of being disappointed, I think I have a tendency to downplay and deflect much of the acknowledgment and attention that I get in regards to my own birthday.

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Ramblings of a now 32-year old child

So over the weekend, my birthday came and went, and now I’m 32 years old, and really don’t feel that much different.  There’s still the same general concerns about life, and how it occasionally feels like I have no general direction, which admittedly makes me feel a little blue, but when the day is over, I’ve still got it going fairly adequate as far as life’s necessities go.

In regards to my birthday party itself, I actually celebrated it a day earlier, due to the fact that something else came up on my actual birthday itself, and as far as I was concerned, it kind of took a little bit of a load off my back in trying to figure out something to do on my actual birthday.  However, I ended up getting stupid sloppy drunk because I’m clearly very dumb, and when people kept buying me shots, I kept drinking them, but worse off, continuing to drink beer after beer on my own tab.

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