A lot of folks think it’s been a terrible year. The world has lost many worldwide famous entertainers as well as close, personal loved ones. Even now, as the clock ticks down to midnight on the east coast, I’m seeing new Facebook posts pop up from folks whose relatives or family members have passed on to the next life.
I’m not going to say how people should grieve or handle loss, but for me 2016 wasn’t a terrible year, though it certainly hasn’t been without its fair share of new challenges and hard lessons.
I’d say the most significant event for me was Stormy’s birth back in April. He came a couple weeks ahead of schedule and has changed everything, and I’d change nothing back.
The second most significant event for me was transitioning out of the military and back into being a full-time student, this time in my dream major: filmmaking.
Losing that job security has had its share of stressors, but Jenn, Stormy and I are doing okay so far, and the future’s looking good so long as we’ve got each other.
I’ve learned that there’s a difference between knowing the world isn’t black and white and viewing it as such and acting accordingly.
I’ve learned that if I truly believe I am as worthy of respect as the next guy, I need to stand up for myself and understand that sometimes people will be upset when I do that.
I’ve also learned that standing up for myself doesn’t mean I get to or have to be a dick about it ( – baby steps – ).
I’ve learned and experienced a newer, deeper level of selfless love since Jenn and I became parents.
I’ve learned that though I may have missed out on friendships available over 18 years ago, under the right circumstances it’s never too late to reconnect and enjoy the good old time now rather than lamenting the previously missed opportunities.
I guess I’ve learned that redemption is divine and the mundane is sacredly profound.
I’ve learned that I have a whole lot more to learn before it’s my time to go.
Here’s to another 365ish days hurtling through the frigid vacuum of space in solar orbit on our homey pale blue dot.
The short film is a goofy little comedy I wrote, directed, and am still producing. It’s these three guys playing D&D who then accidentally summon an actual golem when using what they think is a crazy rare edition of the Monster Manual.
My original goal for it was to enter it into the MyRodeReel online film contest, but that fell through when I couldn’t get it done in enough time. That’s fine, because the main stipulation for the contest was to enter a film which would be under three minutes in length. The material I’m working with is going to be a bit longer than that…
It was a lot of fun to shoot. I got the cast and crew together for one afternoon/night of shooting. I do wish I’d taken a little more time, but the location was only available for a very limited time…though reshoots aren’t totally out of the question…I dunno; I’m just ready to have it done. We’ll see what the story requires.
13-part novel series – The Baker’s Dozen! If you know me at all outside of this blog you know I’ve been working at working on this thing for a while now. It’s still hot in my brain and I’ve started gathering all my notes and whatnot and trying to organize it. I’m also trying to get all this other stuff done so I can attack it as unfettered as possible.
Father’s Day was nice. Being a father to an almost-two-month-old makes me feel as though I barely qualify (especially considering how grumpy I can be at 2AM changing a diaper) but, still. Jenn okayed the purchase of a 48” TV that was on sale at the BX and got me a bottle of my (and hers) favorite wine (which we thought was discontinued but miraculously reappeared at the Diamondhead Market) as well as some delicious gourmet chocolates.
This morning I slept through my alarm and missed my new workout time with my good buddy Josh (who also stars as the titular character in The Golem’s Curse) but managed to eventually make it out to the gym on my own and now here I am at Starbucks blogging my eyes out.
I had in mind to try and talk about some heavy spiritual or social issue stuff, but I don’t really feel like it right now. However, I am a little overdue for a blog posting, so I guess this is just one of those “day-in-the-life” posts, or a “here’s what’s up with me” thing.
Just trying to carve out time for stuff like this is a challenge, but I’m getting there.
*NOT AN OFFICIAL SPOKESPERSON FOR THE DOD, DON, OR ANYONE EXCEPT THE STAFF OF THECLIFFBAILEY.COM WHICH IS THE CLIFF BAILEY OF HONOLULU
Today (Tuesday) we hit the two week mark and we still have a baby.
I realize that may sound silly, but really, this whole ordeal is still quite surreal. We were basically sequestered in small rooms at the hospital those first few days then released to our home with a new roommate. The only thing is, this roommate doesn’t do (anything but) shit [and] take, take, take and really, that’s okay because Jenn and I just want to give, give, give…until we don’t.
Don’t misunderstand: we love our li’l Nightstorm to the moons of Uranus and back. It’s just the sudden inclusion of someone else to love as intensely as we love each other continues to throw us for a loop.
And what it takes to make sure this li’l adorable snugglebug has everything he needs…
…for example: after I typed the word “needs” just then, Stormy started crying and needed tending to. Now it’s the morning after.
Anyway, what I was getting around to saying is that giving love to a newborn is a vastly different dynamic than giving love to another adult. Sounds like a given, I know, but you don’t really know until you’re in it eyeballs deep.
This whole experience is really making us define new limits of what we’re capable of. For example:
Your whole day can go off the rails because maybe the baby*starts fussing for no determinable reason. All your methods of soothing fail and then at the next diaper change you discover a crucial bit of diaper rash that seemingly sprang up out of nowhere (because you make damn sure to take every single precaution to prevent diaper rash) and then start noticing your kid really seems to hate pooping because of the pain involved and you start getting anxiety because pooping is an essential function for daily living and if you train your kid (inadvertently or otherwise) from week 2 out of a possible 70 years that pooping is something to be afraid of, you realize you’ve really screwed your kid over.
Or maybe you get worried about overfeeding the kid because the doctor made such and such recommendation at the last appointment but the baby keeps wailing and eating his mittens and apparently contradicting the recommendation there’s always the mandate to “feed on demand” and googling every 5 minutes about overfeeding a newborn brings a little comfort until he has to poop again and you see the face scrunch up, the skin go purple, and the wails go nuclear and you’re back to the aforementioned problem.
So yeah; it takes a lot.
One of the more frustrating aspects is the inability to communicate efficiently. Jenn and I say all kinds of things to him in all manner of voices and tones, and he doesn’t really respond.
He can’t tell us what he wants or needs except through a very primitive system of body language and sounds based not on clearly defined thoughts but only exclusively motive and instinct.
And again – another 30-40 minutes just went by for diapers, feeding, and burping.
Saying all that to say in terms of defining new limits for ourselves: we’re learning the value of sleep in a whole new way and we’re not superhumans. Sleep/rest is what fuels the patience reserves. Shoots, sleep is what fuels the energy reserves. It’s real easy to get caught up in trying to do stuff, and once Stormy’s down for a nap, not even considering napping ourselves. Rather, the idea is, “He’s down! Quick – to the activity list!!” And when you’re giving 110% to your kid for any amount of time, it’s difficult to switch gears and redirect whatever energy is left from that expenditure to something else.
Bleh…I’ve lost where exactly I was going with this…
Anywho, we’ve made it to the two-week mark and crises still turn out to be common issues easily dealt with (when of sound body and mind). In the midst of all this, Jenn and I are miraculously somehow rekindling our romance. I reckon it has to do with us being united by a common challenge: raising our son. It could slip into an us vs. him situation, but I think that’s why God makes babies so goshdarn adorable, to make it more difficult to get/stay mad at them. And Stormy is a freakin’ cutie pie.
Rather than us vs. him, it’s us for him vs. the challenges of life and forces of evil that conspire against life.
And I guess that’s about it for now.
THINGS I’VE LEARNED ABOUT STORMY SO FAR:
– he loves his mother’s touch
– he gets the hiccups a lot – he seems to like the ambient works of Aphex Twin
– he can pound a 2oz milk like a thirsty man pounds a pint
– he has about an 80% complicit response rate to my Dr. Claw voice
*speaking in general terms to try and make it universally applicable
Conrad Nightstorm Won Bailey was born last Tuesday just before noon.
We call him Stormy.
His projected due date was May 10.
The docs decided it would be best to induce May 3 due to some health concerns for mother and baby.
The morning of the 25th, my wife, Jenny, and I went in for her weekly morning appointment to measure her amniotic fluids, Stormy’s heartbeat, etc. Ever since she had the flu a few weeks back her blood pressure had been slightly elevated. Her baseline is ridiculously low (compared to mine, anyway) so “slightly elevated” actually means “normal” for others. My dear wife is extraordinary in so many ways.
Anyway, there’s been a running fear of preeclampsia. Jenn never exhibited any other symptoms except for her slightly elevated BP, so we never worried. However, there was something different about that morning.
After the appointment, we drove home and I was getting ready to suit up for work. Jenn got a call from her OBGYN and then another from the lady who helps her at her weekly appointments. It was recommended she go into the hospital for observation. We were told it could only be a couple hours or much more, depending on what they’d find.
One pee and one blood test later, findings urged the docs to decide to proceed with induction.
Stormy was coming a week earlier than planned and two full weeks earlier than initially projected – I’ve since learned that’s fairly common among mothers in my varying social circles.
We were moved from the triage level to the maternity ward. Jenn and I each texted our respective friends and families that we should be expecting a new Bailey within 24 hours or so.
Now, not trying to get too far into the weeds here, but pregnancy, birth, etc – holy shit, it’s a messy, traumatic business.
A woman’s body goes through many, many changes as it prepares to deliver a baby. Over the millennia, as women have given birth to propagate our species, the smarties in scrubs have been able to document and analyze birth activity so well that they basically know what’s going to be happening each week leading up to term.
So, since Jenny wasn’t experiencing anything but Higgs-Boson contractions up to that point, her cervix had only dilated a little bit. The docs were going to need to try and manually jimmy that hatch open so the fetal soul who would be our son could escape his amniotic prison.
They used a, uh…balloon. Not the kind you get at a circus or the State Fair, but you know; one of those medical balloon thingies. Maybe it had a smiley face on it, I’ll never know.
The experts predicted it’d take all night for it to do its job. It took only a few hours, well before midnight Monday.
And so the IV drip of…not Percocet…whatever the induction drug is; that began. And then the REAL contractions started coming and it was killing me watching Jenn in such pain.
She’s also had a lingering cough since her bout with the flu a while back and during the last few weeks of pregnancy had developed this crazy itch which the nurses said would be cured by delivery (not DiGiorno, sadly (pregnancy pizza party with pizzazz!).
Close to midnight she called in the epidural and before too long she was sitting pretty as ever, with a ghastly needle deftly jammed into her spine dripping in sweet, sweet painkilling medication. She and I both were finally able to get a little bit of sleep when the faulty epi-alarm wasn’t going off.
Before we knew it morning had broken and so had her water, some time during the night.
At 0900 it was decided it was time to start pushing, and it actually started about 5 after.
Dawn, our nurse, assigned me the task of counting Jenn through the contractions. Since she was numb from the waist down, they needed to monitor the contractions on some birth computer thing. Not too long into the process Jenn could begin to feel the pressure of the contraptions (ed. note: Contractions…there were no contraptions to speak of.) – not the pain, but the pressure, which, ironically, could be painful to a point in and of itself.
With each contraction I held on tightly to Jenn’s hand and counted like a motherfucker. We had music playing from her phone – a Mozart-inspired list she had found. After looping a few times I recommended The Piano Guys. She had forgotten about them – she wanted soothing music…so I pulled up a couple of their albums on my phone and started playing them.
Before we knew it, Stormy’s hairy little head was visible just within the…uh…flaps? He wasn’t crowning quite yet, but the docs would part something down there and say, “He’s a hairy little guy!” or something to that effect.
More pushing, more counting and breathing, more Piano Guys starting to loop, and then Dawn suggested the Rocky soundtrack. Jenn said it’d be fine (she had more important things to worry about than the soundtrack of her delivery (again, not DiGiorno; sigh)) and so I quickly spun up The Rocky Story album and Eye of the Tiger kicked in.
After coursing through that song, There’s No Easy Way Out and Hearts On Fire, I was hoping he’d come out to the tune of Gonna Fly Now.
Li’l sucker took his sweet time getting out though.
One or two album loops later, though, he finally emerged to the tune of motherfuckin’ EYE OF THE TIGER. Damn straight! Winning!
But damn…oh my Jesus…first seeing his hoary cranium crown…THAT was weird…and it slowly, slowly emerging…I was back by Jenn’s side so I didn’t get…everything (and I’m okay with that). But wow. With every push session, with every sequence of counting that eventually turned into just, “Holy cow, babe! You got this! You got this! Holy shit, he’s coming! YOU’VE GOT THISSSSSS!!!”
And then…out he came, into this broken, sad, but still functioning world. As hairy as a model and as loud as a banshee. I seriously thought I was watching an alien autopsy, first impression.
But no…it was our son.
Stormy had arrived.
And I’m tearing up like a little baby myself as I type these very words.
He’s our little miracle.
Why, with all the other couples out there, should we have a fully functioning human baby with no grave or ill concerns?
And yet his breathing was a little labored and grunty, as one of the nurses put it. His air sacs were having a little trouble developing, but dang, he could wail.
I cut the cord, they cleaned him up and gave him to Jenny.
I’ll never forget how that precious little soul cried from the shock of transitioning from somewhere so safe, warm, and secure as my wife’s womb to this cruel, yet wonderful realm of existence we call earth.
His chin quivered with the intensity of each declaration of, “I’M HERE AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON, BUT LET’S GET ON WITH IT ALREADY!!”
A week and some change later he still quivers that chin when he’s getting real.
He…that seven pound little human…he has changed everything.
The first couple of nights were the worst.
The whole feeding thing; why is he crying?; oh my god, did I just kill him? All this and much, much more was running through our heads – still is to a point.
They – whoever they are (some who know, some who don’t) – said everything would change.
But geez. I mean, wow.
Sleep? Yeah, when you can – when he is and when you’re not paranoid about whether or not SIDS will take him.
Did you read my last post? How it’s all poignant and trying to sound enlightened and whatnot? Bruh – it’s…it contains truth, but when you defenestrate the textbook – so to speak – and are suddenly hands-on with a precious little fussy, waily, dude who farts like a man and pees like a sprinkler at all hours…it’s different.
I don’t want to say it all goes out the window, per se. A lot of it does, but not everything.
The core knowings versus the pervasive feelings.
The main thing that keeps us alive is that we know neither of us are in this alone. Stormy is both our responsibility.
And what helps cement that is putting each other’s needs above that of our newborn.
That’s not to say I’m advocating any kind of neglect or anything; but let the kid wail just a second longer so you can give your spouse an extra squeeze or kiss and let her know everything will be fine.
A few weeks back, I can’t remember who the guest was, but whoever he was on Pete Holmes’ You Made It Weird podcast (I think it was Tom Papa or Adam Conover), when Pete asks him the greatest lesson you’ve learned from family, the guest’s answer is:
“Kiss your wife before you kiss your kids.”
I’ve taken that to ever-lovin’ heart.
I think I’ve missed it only once, but otherwise whenever I return from running errands, I make it a point to hug and kiss my good lovin’ mama before acknowledging our firstborn. He can’t comprehend anything yet; it’s fine and once he can I’ll adapt accordingly to help him preserve his own self-worth. Just don’t mess with mom and dad, kid. We’re your secure relationship. Mess with that you’re only screwing yourself.
…geez…they’re all blending together.
After the weekend, I think, one night I was about 20 hours deep with only 2-3 hours of sleep powering me and I found myself thinking nefarious things when Stormy was fussing during his myriad diaper changes: kicking the bandage off his recovering weenie; squirming away from the diaper; pulling himself away from the diaper; just being a real grade-A a-hole.
Now, don’t get me wrong: rationally I know the poor little guy is just acting on instinct and I have little clue as to how I’m affecting him, what he’s feeling on the inside (turns out a fair amount of gas pain, poor kid), and how that all mishmashes up within causing him such apparent turmoil.
But when you’re running on fumes and your emotions are raw, rationality has no place in such circumstances.
Thing is, I’m blessed/cursed with such self-awareness that I knew exactly what was happening, but I didn’t have the energy to act on it, save from actually acting on the frustration and annoyance consuming me.
Bless her dear sweet heart, Jenn could see I was cranky and told me to take five…hours. I crashed and she watched dear li’l Nightstorm.
Shoot…even now, I can still feel his wee li’l head snuggling up under my chin when I’m burping him and my crusty heart goes all aflutter. I can feel him grasping, hear him crying, me trying to reassure and soothe him with words and noises that the paste I’m dabbing on his wee heinie is for his own good; that alcohol wipes around his wormwoody umbilical cord remnant are to help him and that it really isn’t a big deal, but like I said…he can literally barely comprehend shit itself.
And then my graceful, gracious wife nearly lost her cool with our precious bundle of potential menace today. I told her to take five and she finally did.
And like, this is great; we’re both really seeing each other pull through for each other in what feels like impossible binds. When she allows me some extra sleep or vice versa, upon waking from that sleep we’re so grateful that we express it in such a way we’re reduced to tears.
I like to think that such visceral reactions to what should be common displays of affection and love mean we’re all three going to make it; and how.
Then again, with love, displays are never common; if it’s true.
At this point we’re just starting to find our groove.
Tonight a handful of her closest friends who happen to also be mothers are visiting.
I drove out to my dayjob office to pick up a couple things and to take the time to catch up on my writing/blogging.
Ha! Silly me thought that while I’m on paternity leave I’d have time to work on The Golem’s Curse. Turns out, it’s looking like I’m not going to make the deadline for the contest for MyRodeReel2016.
This year I’m transitioning out of the Navy, into the Air Guard, into school with the post-9/11 GI Bill, editing a film I shot in February, trying to kickstart my local commercial production business, and support my wife and now-child.
[I don’t even know if I’m using proper capitalizAtion in the post titles…]
At the end of a long day you’re ready to just crash; but you really ought to take that shower…just one more thing and then – oh, wait. After the shower you have to still floss and brush.
Shower. Floss. Brush.
During the quiet, peaceful tones of night and sleep wind currents, air pressures, moisture levels and the like have all been conspiring, colluding, and colliding to create a thunderstorm.
With the rapid expansion of super-heated air, you’re jolted awake.
I can’t quite put my finger on it, but somewhere early on in my life I got it in my head that I’m not worthy of good things. Anything I’ve ever wanted, loved, enjoyed, appreciated is always taken away from me long before I’ve had a chance to really experience it.
At some point later I learned that if I do enough, that if I work hard enough I will be able to earn the right to possess good things. However, with the ability to earn comes the propensity to lose. And so, I would, at times, earn these good things. Not too long after, I would ultimately slip up and then lose that which I understood I had earned.
Entering my 30s, a few years back, I started to finally really get it.
Shit just happens. Good and bad.
The only thing we have even a measure of control over is how we respond to shit, great and small, good and bad, wonderful and terrible.
How we respond to it on one level corresponds to how we respond on a different one. Usually good to great and bad to worse.
It’s taken some monumental disillusionment to destroy that way of thinking – that is, that one must earn the gifts life brings.
And yet, such ways of thinking are so scorched and enmeshed within my soul, scarred into my spirit, wrinkled into my brain that as the clock of life clicks ever closer to the birth of my first son, an irrational yet palpable fear, at times, consumes me.
Some complication will arise claiming the life of my wife, my son, or both.
What have I done to warrant having such a joyful relationship these last two years? What labor have I performed to earn such a great marriage this last year and a quarter? And now a child? And now a son??
Surely every terrible lapse in judgment I’ve committed will catch up with me in mere moments…no, me suddenly dying would be too merciful.
There’s a place in my heart from which a voice declares, “You must live long and in misery for the crimes against reality you’ve committed!” That voice reverberates in my head and I have daymares; it echoes in my lungs and my chest grows tight; it resonates in my gut and everything is awful.
But in the smile of my wife, in the kindness of a stranger, in the misfortune of a colleague, in the wetness of the rain I am reminded for the umpteenth time that there are forces much greater than my will at work in the world.
In the grand scheme of things I’ve not done a damn thing to earn a damned – or blessed – thing.
Jenny loves me freely. Regardless of what I do, li’l ol’ what’s-his-name continues to grow within her body.
God is just and merciful; the universe is fair and gracious; petty things have no place in the dispensation of circumstance.
With the rapid expansion of super-heated air, I’m jolted awake.
History is but a vivid dream.
In the waking world, life is what I make of it, depending on how I play the hands I’m dealt.
I’m grateful for the night storm, waking me from my nightmares.