Add it up any way you like: twelve months, three hundred and sixty-five days, four doctor well-visits, five diaper sizes, eight hundred fifty-two million three hundred seventy-seven thousand nine hundred and ten worried thoughts. From size
0-3 months to size
2T. From
70 and sunny, to 95 and humid, to
60 and breezy, to
20 and slushy, then back again to
70 and sunny. From swaddling as-tight-as-can-be, to pulling-off socks. Breast milk to cows milk. Prostrate to walking (almost).
Benjamin - The Legend. . . The Child.
The beginning of another spring in Des Plaines, IL, and this time we know where we’re going.
From a clue-less, confused newbie barely able to see past arm’s length,
The Ben has evolved into a constant laugh-track in our living room. Or maybe more accurately,
Anna and I have become the live audience in
his sitcom studio. I’ve written here at great length about his amusing character, and of all the things I could have wished for as I watched our little
bean being delivered on that scary night last April, persistent laughter was pretty far down the list. The list - a make-shift register I hastily compiled while the doctor positioned my trembling hands beneath my soon-to-be son’s emerging shoulders - was topped by items such as “alive”, “healthy”, “fully-formed”, “mentally-capable” and “male”. While Anna and I (two people who could take a joke) never doubted that the newly-minted Benjamin Phillip would have a decent sense of humor, we could never have imagined that by the end of his first winter he’d be filling up our hard-drive with giggly pictures and America's funniest videos.
And who’d have guessed he’d grow so darn big? The nurse at Ben’s 12-month checkup yesterday (two injections the day after his b-day, poor guy) made up a dandy little chart showing the progression of his height and weight in comparison to all of the other 12-month olds out there, and I had to wonder if she got her control information from China.
Ben currently weighs 28.5 lbs and is 32” tall. About the size of a newborn tyrannosaurus. If you plot this on the chart, Ben fits somewhere around. . . well, shit, he doesn’t even fit on the chart! His height is around the
97-100th percentile, and his weight is somewhere between the
100th and 105th. The average kid born the same week as Ben won’t be Ben’s size for another
14 months. If you stacked up cheesy bunny crackers (his favorite) on a scale opposite Benjamin, you’d have a stack
1.79 miles high before Ben’s end of the scale started to rise. Benjamin is
fourth-and-inches (meaning he's just shy of a yard, for those of you who are NOT football fans, or are European). He’s a head taller than the bottom of my strike-zone and two inches shy of my preferred bat-length. He’s only a half-inch shorter than your average Mexican. Okay, I’m stopping now.
One of the many good and unexpected things to come out of this first year has been visiting with my parents. Ben and I have made the 35-mile trek down south almost every single Saturday morning since he was 2-1/2 months old, giving his grandpa-pa and grandma-ma time with their youngest grandchild before he gets too old and becomes their terrible-two-child. And at the same time we're giving mommy her much needed rest, and daddy some help, guidance, and perhaps most importantly, a glimpse of what life will be like when my kids are fully grown and for the most part physically (if not financially) independent. I like the tradition, and I hope it stays that way.
So as long as this is sounding like an Oscar acceptance speech, let’s make it more official. First off I would like to thank my mom and dad for all of their help – it’s crazy how much you pick up from your parents. And Anna’s mom – she’s the only one who ever reads this bleh-g anyway. My cat and my Xbox - much needed distractions. Mike G – fatherly wisdom and baseball wit, and taking such good care of my wife. KGH Architects and Lake Forest Hospital – for financing this whole operation. My older brothers and their sig. others for all the cool toys (you're weak! keep trying guys). My little siblings – to see how I DON’T want Ben to grow up (I keed)! Our great friends the Cosenzas, the Lateks, the Apes, the Delis, the Woltmans, the Holtons – for their understanding of our predicament and not holding it against us. All of our great new friends – for keeping my wife feeling like she’s not alone with her new, heavy baby. Our neighbors for cutting our grass and pulling our weeds. Mugavero’s Pizza, El Famous, McDonald’s, Panera and Gerber. The White Sox and the Illini. Feather mattress pad. Tylenol. Room-darkening shades. Wine and contraceptives. Nighttime. Our Father Who Art in Heaven.
And of course, I have to thank the one who has made this all possible: Don Mattingly of the NY Yankees. Without him I don’t know if I’d ever have been a happy-enough person to attract the likes of my future bride, who, as some of you might have heard, berthed me my first throwing partner, my beer retriever, my grass-cutter, and someday my bodyguard. I know women are having babies everyday, and many of them don’t have the material privileges that we do, or the family and friend support, but for what you went through both during and after the birth, including the pain, the depression, the uncertainty, the learning and the worrying, I can’t express enough to you how proud I am. You’re stronger than I ever would have thought, and not just because you lug around an XXL sack of potatoes all day. You’re strong because you do it, you put a smile on your face, and you do it some more. And I applaud you because you care so much. Ben is luckier than so many children who don’t get any attention from one or both of their parents. . . Without you I know –
I KNOW – I couldn’t be the father that I have learned to become. Your enthusiasm is infectious, and that is why my baby boy’s grin is never-ending. It’s you. It’s why I can say that this first year has been a
great one and it’s why I can smile walking into the next.
The sun is going down, the hill is so, so high, but I can’t help laughing.
Thank you, God.
I don’t know. . . sometimes you just remember how damned blessed you are, and you just have to get it off your chest. Thanks for listening (grateful for that too).
