Tag: Living

A Few Resolutions

It’s sad but I tend to be more consistent in making resolutions than in actually following through with them. As a quick recap from last year, I accomplished a meager 6 of the 14 goals I set last January:

Wins: 1) confirmed in the Episcopal Church, 2) memorized the Nicene Creed, 3) finished Ten Book Reviews, 4) finished my dissertation, 5) moved back to Oklahoma, 6) found gainful employment – more on this later.

Losses: 1) failed to read the Bible in one year, 2) failed to blog four times per week, 3) failed to ride my bike twice per week, 4) failed to drink less alcohol, 5) failed to reclaim my high school weight, 6) failed to finish War and Peace, 7) failed to finish The Brothers Karamazov, 8) failed to take a celebratory vacation – but for a good reason.

Naturally, the tally isn’t exactly an inspiring reason to set goals for the new year. But they say misery loves company and, indeed, research shows that my failure puts me in the good company of four-fifths of all people who make resolutions.

For 2013, my list and motivations are a little different. Most of my resolutions are fairly specific but I feel what was lacking this year was an aspirational goal to motivate me at points in the year when life seemed flat. To correct this, I’ve added a theme for the year summarized by the phrase, “Do good. Keep it simple.”

What makes this year’s theme exciting to me is that it combines service aspects of my faith that are important to me with the zen concept of living minimalism. Life is challenging enough without my adding any unnecessary complications to the mix and I feel this theme is already reflected in a number of the goals I’ve set for this year:

1. Faith. Get back to the basics. Focus less on theological problems and look for ways to obey God by serving others. Application not theory.

2. Drink less alcohol. This is starting to sound like a broken record. I managed to cut back since Clark was born, so really I just need to carry this momentum into 2013.

3. Fitness. My goal is to lose 30lbs. No excuses. Play like a champion.

4. Kindness. Surprise. I’m an extremely sarcastic person. I think I could be a lot kinder to people if I weren’t such a smartass all the time.

5. Writing. I am the biggest obstacle to my creative writing outlet. My creative writing goal is to write one page per day.

6. Bible. My goal is to read the Book of Common Prayer’s Daily Office readings each day.

7. Blogging. As my grandfather might say, my goal of four posts per week went over like a lead balloon. I’m reducing that wayward aim to twice per week with hope for more.

8. Time. For reasons associated with my new position, a point requiring its own post, time management is going to be crucial skill for me to continue to develop. I’d like to set aside at least one hour per day for family time every day. I realize this number sounds slight and I expect the balance to be much larger, but for those days where time is scarce, this will be a fine goal to keep in mind.

9. Cycling. I plan to ride my bike regularly as circumstances allow.

10. Finances. My goal for the year, in keeping with the idea of minimalism, is to purchase less things and to spend my money on memories and things of lasting value. I do not know how this will work out in practice, but God knows we don’t need any more ‘stuff’.

And that, friends and fiends, is my list of new year’s resolutions. May the worst of your 2013 be better than the best of your 2012.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

December 31, 2012
The Ghosts Of Christmas Past

Christmas has come and gone here in the ‘ole Fodder Family boarding house. The home place was filled with presents and people, making it difficult to imagine that not so very long ago we celebrated with only six members in our immediate family (In order of age: Grandpa, Dad, Mom, Me, Andrea and Chelsey). This year our ranks ballooned to ten (Grandpa, Dad, Mom, my wife Gwyn, Me, Andrea’s husband Jacob, Andrea, Chelsey, our nephew Garrett, and our son Clark).

Despite the blessing, in the weeks preceding Christmas, I found myself more disposed to reside on Mt. Crumpit than Whoville. For those who know me, this is an odd departure from the natural state of things. I wouldn’t fancy myself a Buddy the Elf. But insofar as elves have counterparts in their human cousins, well, I’m at least a George Bailey after his brush with Clarence the Angel.

I think what changed for me this year, aside from the obvious pitfalls of relocating to a new state and welcoming a newborn into the world, was the added pressure I felt to make Christmas as idyllic for Baby Clark as I remembered it being as a child. I realize now how irrational this was. Even if all were calm and bright, Clark wouldn’t have remembered it anyway. He snoozed soundly through most of our gift giving.

Still, as a new father, I thought a lot about what I needed to do to make Clark’s Christmas extra special. From balancing our finances, to selecting the perfect Christmas music (Bing Crosby and Michael Bublé), to purchasing the appropriate “Baby’s First Christmas” ornament (Baby Block ornament), I tried and failed to plan every detail of the holiday. And when plans went awry, as they inevitably do with my family, my nerves quickly followed suit.

I think my efforts to micromanage Christmas stemmed from an idealized memory of Christmases past – a strange specter of all of the best Christmases lumped into one. The result was that I tried to impose a litany of unrealistic expectations on my son and everyone else. See below:

As the unfortunate photo above shows, no self-respecting dog should ever have to wear a Santa hat. And no one should have Christmas dictated to them.

In retrospect, my shenanigans aside, we had a grand Christmas.

Our family was together. We are all in good health. We celebrated the Lord’s birth with our perfect baby boy and my rambunctious, smiling nephew. Even materially, I can’t complain about my new Keurig Coffee Maker.

Next year, I will aim to put the Ghosts of Christmas Past to rest.

December 27, 2012
Tales from the Road

Today finds me encamped at the local Denny’s here in Joplin, MO. My wife and I are en route to Bloomington, IN for Thanksgiving with her family. The place is filled with travelers taking a break from the grind along I-44, hailing from all walks of life.

Our waitress is a friendly sort, coming from good, Midwestern stock. She’s friendly but not overly so and seems to execute her job with a refreshing efficiency.

There’s an interesting gaggle of locals perched at the bar watching TV, sipping coffee without a care in the world. It’s a bit like a throwback to the cafes of old, when the coffee was strong and the people were stronger. The men wear blue jeans and baseball caps while the lone woman dons a Sons of Anarchy t-shirt. I can’t comment on their sartorial choices but the camaraderie is impressive. They clearly all know each other and the scene I am witnessing has repeated itself numerous times before.

Our son Clark was hungry and angry a bit earlier. As my wife rose to make a hasty retreat for the baby changing station in the adjacent Flying J Truck stop, we received a number of sympathetic nods from our fellow customers. We replied with appreciative smiles.

When I looked at Clark’s empty carseat, I couldn’t help but appreciate such a place that brings so many disparate people together. How strange to find community while randomly traveling down the road.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

November 20, 2012
Fatherhood: First Impressions

This past Monday, on October 15, 2012, after a protracted, thirty-hour labor, Gwyn and I welcomed our first-born son into the world. Clark William Fodder was born at 9:52 AM here in Tucson, weighing in at 7 lbs on the nose. It’s strange to think of instantly loving a child, but the parenting instincts really kicked in without a problem. A few years ago, I called children parasites, as of Monday I called this one my “little buddy” and my Son. Naturally, much has changed in the past week.

As a quick example, it’s about 12:30AM on Sunday night as I sit down to write this. Clark is snoozing in his bassinet, a structure I am very much tempted to call a crate à la our Pooch Alexas. Though the hour draws late, it’s really only the beginning of my night. In a surprise to no one but me, late nights over the past week have delayed my ability to do much of anything. So many friends and family had warned us about the coming dearth of sleep but I stubbornly assumed that any spawn of mine would prove the exception rather than the rule. The result of tempting these fates is that Baby Clark seems to have inherited, in manifold, my penchant for late nights. This party is just getting started.

Clark’s typical “night” includes waking up around 11PM/12AM for dinner. After 10 to 15 minutes of feeding, he falls back asleep for an hour or so, before waking up for yet another meal. The scenario repeats itself until around 7AM when he finally drifts off for good until breakfast around 10AM. Sleep for me and Gwyn occurs between feedings, leaving us in a zomboid trance most of the day, mindlessly wandering between Clark’s crate and the kitchen in search of coffee (brains!).

The Mayo Clinic actually offers a number of helpful tips to soothe the disconsolate newborn, but at 4AM our ability to think rationally is usually fairly well gone. I find that I’ve developed a number of superstitions to help me cope with the uncertainty. My ritual when putting Clark to bed includes gently placing him in the bassinet and gingerly walking backwards as if the slightest wrong move might trigger the baby bomb’s explosive mechanism. And when Clark successfully remains asleep, James Bond has nothing on this sleep deprived father.

I’m not sure that my rituals help but like so many tricks of parenting, they impose a bit of order on what is in reality a muddled process, adding structure to something that is utterly beyond my control anyway. This is the hardest part of being a parent really. Nothing and everything is simultaneously within my control. As first-time parents, there are any number of things that could go wrong at any point and none of these exigencies are within my ambit of control (illness, acts of god, diapers that don’t quite keeping exterior clothing dry, etc.). And yet all of the choices related to Clark’s rearing are within my control (selecting a pediatrician, purchasing a safe car seat, buying a different brand of diaper, etc.). It’s really a maddening dichotomy when you think about it.

The crux of what I’ve learned in the past week is that the only way to navigate the contrariety of Fatherhood is give it the old college try. Do the best you can. Give it a go. “Keep Calm and Carry On” as the meme says. But don’t get caught in the lie of believing that there’s a best or even better way of doing things. For every opinion given, there are completely different schools of thought that say the opposite. So, just pick one. Everyone who has ever parented a kid and whole segments of the population who haven’t, seem to have theories about the best way to swaddle a newborn. Accordingly, there are no less than ten different websites selling wares meant for swaddling newborns, with each company claiming to sell the best product for swaddling (and let’s be honest, the Miracle Blanket is really the best product on the market). Yet, the same act can be accomplished by a bit of folding trickery with a receiving blanket, $10 for a pack of 4 at Target. There’s no right way. Just your way.

Anyway, in case you missed the lead I just buried, the point is just that there’s really no right, better or best way to rear a kid. This realization makes me appreciate the decisions that my own parents faced when I was a child. And in retrospect, I have to say that most parents (mine included) end up doing a pretty good job – even when they’ve had to turn chicken shit into chicken salad.

And so, with already 6 days on the job and roughly 6,564 days until Clark turns 18, as the hymn says, time is now fleeting, the moments are passing. Here’s hoping that when the bell tolls, we’ll have done a pretty good job too.

October 21, 2012
Thoughts of an Anxious Father

“The people of long ago are not remembered, nor will there be any remembrance of people yet to come by those who come after them.”

– Ecclesiastes 1.11

We had our weekly doctor’s appointment today. I’ll do my best not to reveal too much information although this is surprisingly difficult to do when discussing a pregnancy. In brief, Gwyn is progressing quite well and is nearing the stages of early delivery. In terms of timeframe, Baby Clark could arrive any day now.

Being the eternal ray of sunshine that I am, his birth triggers a lot of conflicting thoughts for me. Naturally, I’ll start with the more melancholic.

I suppose I turned to the passage above from Ecclesiastes because it reminds me of our collective lot, set amid the vast pantheon of begins who have lived and died on this terrestrial plane, and are now forgotten. Thinking of my son, I want him to exceed this very low bar set by Ecclesiastes. I want his life to have meaning. I don’t want his name relegated to the dusty annals of history. I want him to be…great!

Of course, greatness, by definition, is rare. When I think of the great men of history, I think of Jesus. Thomas Jefferson. John Locke. Bing Crosby. William F. Buckley. Henry Ford. Steve Jobs and even Ernest Hemingway. Just a few names. But all men who lived lives of consequence. Hoping that Clark will assume a post among the great men of time is surely the blind ambitions of a joyful father. Yes, I know that the humble, appropriate thing to do is to pray that he lives a life of character – and I will pray for that. But just for good measure, I’ll tack on a prayer that he live a life of consequence. However that is defined.

I suspect such prayers are what most parents want for their children. Given my present station in life, I feel that this is a bit like the blind leading the blind. But the arrival of children does a strange thing to us parents to be. My life has become less important to me than the reality of my child having a better future. This sentiment so often struck me as a cliché. I’m amazed to know this is what parents really feel. For myself, I merely pray for the vision to help make these things a reality for Clark, even as he charts his own course.

Not all of my thoughts are so morose. The second section of Ecclesiastes takes what has become a circumspect, existential view of life. For me, this means that the best I can do is live in the present – not in hopes of what things might come. The present reality is that my son will be here very, very soon.

As the sun streams through my kitchen window, I have to smile when I think about his tiny feet. Feet that have yet to set foot on this ancient sphere. I think of his tiny fists – fists not clenched in anger but in warmth and love. I can imagine his tiny eyes, not yet fully able to take in his surroundings. Sleepy eyes that have never seen the evil and sorrows of this world.

Simply put, he is pure. Pure in every conceivable, normative sense of the word. An angel. Better still, a son.

One day, we will throw passes in the yard, just as my Father and Grandfather did with me. Perhaps when he’s able to, we’ll read a book together, or settle in for a game of Call of Duty. Maybe when he’s much older we’ll have cigars and scotch on the porch. I hope he likes that sort of thing. For that matter, I hope he will like our pooch, Alexas. She can be rambunctious. Unrelated, I also hope he is a Republican so that we can complain to one another between election cycles. And I hope that I don’t drive him away. But when I do, because it’s inevitable that I will, I hope that he will come back.

So many hopes. So many joys. So many worries.

But for now, we wait.

Take your time, Dear Son. Enjoy the love of your Mother’s belly. We’ll be waiting to care for you when you come into our World.

October 12, 2012