Your ‘You’

“Here are some shows I watched as a child: The Jerry Springer Show, The Simpsons, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, Martin, and a certain Monday night wrestling program (until ten o’ clock, when the curse of bedtime ruined my chance at watching the closing segment). I loved watching TV with my parents, but I especially enjoyed watching wrestling with my dad.

“Football was, as my kid-self would say, boring. Guys running around and nothing exciting happening. No flips, suplexes, or chokeslams? I’m supposed to sit here for eternity (what felt like an eternity to my kid-self) watching this? Pass. I knew nothing about football. An electronic pin gifted to me by my grandfather granted me legacy membership into Alabama fandom; it chimed the fight song of which, to this day, I have no lyrical knowledge. It would take years for my love of the sport to fully develop. Wrestling was it for me. Weekly show or PPV, it was our thing. As I grew into my own person my mother’s love of reading books blossomed inside me, but I still caught my weekly episodes. My dad stopped watching the PPVs as often, but the weekly shows kept me entertained. By the time I was in the fifth grade I was timing his ETA from work by the closing segments. Mom in bed asleep, dad on the way home. I (dodging bedtime) was locked in on all the action that somehow always ended five minutes after ten.

“My list of kid-appropriate shows included Ren and Stimpy (toxic for kids), Rocko’s Modern Life (toxic-adjacent) and Aaahh!!! Real Monsters, brought to you by the good folks at Nickelodeon. There was also Dexter’s Laboratory, Powerpuff Girls, and Johnny Bravo, courtesy of Cartoon Network. I could go into my love for Power Rangers, but by the time I stopped typing this would be a long love letter to everyone involved in its making and run (but only my generation’s Power Rangers. Y’all can have this new generation. Except the movies. They’re damn good).

“I hope you’re not getting the impression that I was a brain-drained TV zombie. Do you know how much free time you have as a child once you’ve completed all your homework?”

The first TV show my little goblin watched was Grey’s Anatomy. Her mother started her binge while pregnant and was in the thick of it by the time Ellie was born. I didn’t like the show; I thought it was a poor man’s version of E.R. (my mother’s generation’s Grey’s); I didn’t see how anyone could find a show about doctors, already ten-plus seasons deep and still running, interesting.

Then I caught glimpses of it.

I saw enough unbelievable scenes that I fell in love. By the time Shai, Ellie’s mom, returned to work and I was on daytime baby care duty, I decided to watch, starting from the beginning. Some parents turn on cartoon nursery rhymes to keep their kid quiet. Ellie had open-heart surgery, mother-daughter issues with a sprinkle of Alzheimer’s, and gross injuries, all while lying in her Mamaroo.

For the record, I consider myself a combination of all the original interns. I’m an asshole, like Alex; I’m socially awkward, like George (my favorite character, by the way); I do my best to do good while not spiraling out of control, like Izzie; I’m dedicated to my work (and cold, I’ll admit), like Christina; and I’m dark… like Meredith.

“It wasn’t all about me. It wasn’t all about her, either.

Yes, you read that correctly. It was and still is not all about my daughter. I love her; I’d lay down and die for her. But just like her, I have a life I enjoy living (no, this is not your happy-go-lucky, sunshine and rainbows parenting blog. And if you’re reading this, thinking you’ve never felt, or never will feel, wanting at least one moment out of the day to be about what you want to do, you’re lying to yourself). I started watching Dragon Ball from the beginning while Shai was pregnant. During daytime baby care duty, after she was off to work and Ellie was down for her morning nap, I ran in place while watching.

Minus commercials, an episode of Dragon Ball has a runtime of twenty-four minutes. I’d watch two, maybe three episodes, giving me at least fifty minutes of exercise time. If the math isn’t mathing in your head right now, it’s because I would stop for water, bathroom, and baby breaks. Grey’s calmed Ellie down in the beginning, but the effect wore off. She’d cry and fuss, ready to get out and move around. I think every baby gets to the point where being stationery is as close to their version of Hell as you can get.”

Months go by and we still can’t find a suitable daycare. On days she’d sleep for ten, twenty minutes, and I hadn’t gotten my morning exercise in, we watched Dragon Ball. Ellie’s deep in the crawling stage now; if I kept her in the corner of my eyes, I’m good to go. During the opening credits Ellie would stop what she was doing, turn, watch, and listen. Crying, crawling, playing; it didn’t matter. Turn on Dragon Ball — Japanese Dub, English Sub version — and we’re good to go.

No, my daughter isn’t some brain-drained TV zombie. Sometimes she watches it while eating in her highchair (after she’s put a dent in her meal). It’s mainly background noise when she’s crawling around or playing. There was Blue’s Clues in the beginning, now there’s Bluey (her favorite and mine). She adores Tab Time, and Ms. Rachel.

When she isn’t tossing toys around the house, she’s flipping page after page in her books and reading aloud (baby talk, but my heart warms still). I love watching her flip pages. It has nothing to do with my childhood love of Goosebumps books. Absolutely nothing about her mini library reminds me of my Goosebumps collection taking up shelf space.

“It’s just one thing… and that thing is Ignorant Optimism.”

When Ellie was born, I was told by a staff member of the publishing company I’m signed under to take a month off from writing so I wouldn’t stress over not getting a good day’s work in. I took several. After the first month, when I found that magic hour during her morning nap, I made the mistake of believing she’d sleep a solid hour every day.

We all have hobbies, things we enjoy doing to unwind. Maybe yours is cycling, or swimming; painting, or sculpting; building Lego figurines… I’m willing to bet at least one person reading this is, has, or is about to smoke. Mine include going to the movies, writing, and… well, that’s it, I guess. Before becoming a dad, my main concerns when going to the movies was finding out if I needed a single ticket or two, how many people were sitting around me, and making sure I arrived in enough time to go to the bathroom before the trailers started. Spending a day writing (assuming I’m off work that day) my main concerns are one cup of coffee or two, and what I’m listening to during my work session. Every day was mine. I did what was needed, and a little of what I wanted.

Enter Parenthood…

I thought I had this shit down. I wouldn’t be able to do everything I was doing before — not how or when I wanted — but I’d have the want to, the chances; I wouldn’t care about the changes to my routines or the scarcity of opportunities for doing things I enjoy doing.

Wrong. A thousand times wrong. Use common core; use PEMDAS; close your eyes and take a piece of chalk across the blackboard. No matter how you work it, you always end up being wrong in thinking you’ll have time, you won’t care, and that you’ll even feel like doing all the things you love doing. I have enough unwatched shows and movies to take up a month of couch time (or exercise time). Where I once had at least a solid morning hour to write (I’m a morning writer. Any time past noon and my creative push has gone home for the day), I now have maybe a solid forty-five minutes on a good day, unless I have a late scheduling in work.

I love my daughter. I love being a dad. But I get why parents drop their kids off at the grandparents’ house.

Keeping your ‘You’ is hard work. This little goblin moved in, changed schedules, created new ones, and didn’t think to ask our opinion on any of what she was doing. You know what happens on days where she sleeps for ten to fifteen minutes and is up for the rest of it? TV. TV and crawling and holding her and walking around holding her because she’s tired of sitting or she wants to walk around because she wants… I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW!

Here he goes again, complaining about being a parent —

Nope. My life was changing into something unfamiliar but fun. I was becoming a new person and needed a new routine.

One of the great things about my village of writers is having fellow parents in it. My boss — the greatest boss ever — informed me that days with no writing time are Break Time days. These are days when you do the things you need to, like take care of your newborn, and things you want to, like catching up on all your shows while taking care of your newborn. Well, that’s what I took it to mean. I belong to a specific group of parents — the stay-at-home, gig economy, work-for-yourself parents (like Power Rangers, a subject worthy of its own blog post), but no matter your profession, there should be a new ‘You’ once you become a parent.

I still want to go to the movies, but not wanting to be the parent everyone rolls their eyes at, I don’t mind waiting for a movie to hit streaming (plus the sound in a theatre could scare Ellie half to death). I could smoke at home, but it isn’t the worst thing in the world to take a tolerance break and wait for a night over a friend’s house. I found my writing is better when I have breaks. I don’t overwork or stress myself (as much as before), and I have more time with my characters, their stories, and overall development of the story. I can research on a slow workday, or when I have a few minutes at home.

Some days I only have a few minutes of relaxation. They come at the end of my day when I’m sitting on the couch, empty Canada Dry Ginger Ale can in the cupholder, and King of Queens or All Elite Wrestling watching me doze off. One thing I miss about Ellie’s newborn days was us watching wrestling together, even though she slept through most of it. Yes, I watch wrestling with my daughter. She likes it. Well, I think she does. It isn’t Grey’s Anatomy, but it keeps her calm a good bit. Football does, too. Maybe when she’s older she’ll still enjoy watching them both, maybe not. For now, I’m happy spending time with her, doing something I enjoy, and having her, at least for the moment, enjoy doing those things with me.

One more thing. The shelves above my Goosebumps collection displayed my Power Rangers action figures, the electronic fight song playing pin, a few other toys not worth remembering, and any video-cassette tapes that didn’t fit in my tv stand. The shelves below it stored some of my Megazords. The rest of the zords sat on top of my dresser. I also had Power Rangers bedsheets, clothes, Tommy’s karate tutorial tape… I’ll leave it there for another post to pick up. Told you this could become a love letter to everyone — even the Red Ranger no one liked. You know the one.

Okay, one more thing. My mother had a wooden dresser bookcase she packed with romance novels and Reader’s Digest. I always wondered if she read them all. I’ll ask her one day.

Okay… one more thing and I’m done. I’m not holding Ellie to a football team fandom or wrestler fandom. She could grow to lose interest in both sports (yes, wrestling is a sport). But, if she doesn’t, my only hopes are that she watches football wishing for every player to walk on and off the field the same way, and that she DOES NOT watch that god-awful “wrestling” company’s programming — the one I watched as a child, before I knew what real wrestling was.

I’m done. Until next time…