Great Sleeps of the Past

Copyright 2007 by Valentine J. Brkich (First printed in the Nov. 2007 edition of The Point Magazine, Wexford, PA)

Some people fantasize about hitting it rich. Others fantasize about being famous or falling in love or going on a trip to some exotic, far-off destination. I fantasize about sleeping—long, uninterrupted, sleeping-for-more-than-two-hours-in-a-row sleeping.

Since my daughter was born in September, the longest I’ve slept in one continuous stretch is two and a half, maybe three hours, max. Sometimes it’s even less than that. Have you ever tried to function on two hours’ sleep? Your brain knows it needs more sleep to function and, therefore, it rebels against you. This can make it difficult to perform even the simplest of tasks like dressing yourself or remembering your wife’s name.

Recently I’ve found myself remembering “great sleeps” of my past. I didn’t even know it was possible to recall a particular “sleep” before my baby was born. Now these vivid memories of splendid slumber are coming back to me in waves. It’s like I was in some accident and suffered Great Sleeps Amnesia (GSA), only to recall these memorable siestas many years later.

For example, the other night I was rocking my daughter while watching TV when something sparked an old childhood memory. One time when I was at my friend Donnie’s house during the winter we were supposed to sleep on the pullout couch in the living room. It was chilly that night, however, and we decided it would be much more comfortable to sleep in the heated twin waterbeds up in his bedroom.

So we went upstairs and kicked his little brother out of his own bed, sending him to sleep on the floor in his sister’s room (sorry Tim). We then enjoyed a blissful night’s sleep, each one of us snug in the comfort of our very own heated waterbed.

That was twenty-some years ago and I had never really given much thought to it since. But this is the kind of stuff you daydream about when you’re a new parent—prolonged, satisfying, uninterrupted slumber. As I sat there holding my daughter the other night, I could almost feel the comforting warmth of that waterbed and it made me smile.

I was suddenly brought back to reality, however, as my daughter projectile-vomited in my eye.

My older sister has two kids—one four years old, the other almost two. As she held my daughter for the first time, she said she didn’t remember her kids ever being “so tiny.” It wasn’t the first time I’ve heard a parent say this. The reason you don’t remember your kids ever being “so tiny” is because, due to sleep deprivation, your brain was only functioning at maybe 25-percent capacity at the time and your long-term memory was temporarily shut down. Basically, you were a zombie.

I’d love to share more “great sleeps” stories with you; however, my daughter just dozed off and they say that when your baby sleeps, you should try to catch a few winks yourself. So if you’ll excuse me, I must take advantage of this brief respite to…Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Welcome to Fatherhood — Beware of the Purple Slime

Copyright 2007 by Valentine J. Brkich (First printed in the Oct. 2007 edition of The Point Magazine, Wexford, PA)

Nothing can prepare you for childbirth. No birthing book, no birthing class, no birthing veteran can accurately depict the chaos you will encounter when your female counterpart finally goes into labor. Believe me; I’m speaking from experience.

For months now my wife and I have been making preparations for the arrival of our first child. We’ve read all the best books on pregnancy and delivery, especially those focusing on natural childbirth. We’ve been exercising and watching videos and listening to experts and practicing relaxation techniques, all so that when the moment finally arrived we’d be ready for anything. How naïve of us.

My wife went into labor at 1:30 a.m. on September 20—her actual due date. This, of course, took us by surprise because nobody actually gives birth on their due date. At first, since her contractions were mild, she allowed me to continue to sleep so that I could save up my energy. You see, I was the “coach,” and it would be my job to support her throughout the whole process. We would soon discover, however, that my coaching skills would amount to diddly-squat once the real contractions began. Then I would change from coach to horrified spectator.

By 6:30 a.m. the contractions had become much stronger and closer together, so we packed up the Sorento and took off for the hospital. At this time my wife was in major discomfort, but nothing she couldn’t handle. This was going to be a piece of cake. After all, we had read a lot of books.

By 8:00 a.m. my wife was 6-7 cm dilated and progressing rapidly. Apparently we had purchased the Express Delivery Package. This is when the contractions ceased being mildly uncomfortable and suddenly became excruciating. I could tell this by my wife’s bone-crushing grasp of my hand, her bloodcurdling screams and the fact that her eyeballs were now protruding from their sockets. For a moment I questioned the decision not to use drugs. But then I decided to just tough it out.

By 9:00 a.m. my wife was fully dilated, i.e., she wanted me dead. It was at this time when I sensed she was ready to push. I knew this because I had read a lot about the delivery process, and also because she kept screaming, “I FEEL LIKE I HAVE TO PUSH!” Moments later the doctor entered the room, looked down at my wife, and in a very nonchalant way said, “Oh look, there’s the head.” Two pushes later and my daughter’s head—all purple and slimy—popped out into the world. Fortunately her body followed shortly thereafter.

It was the most frightening, exhausting, confusing and amazing experience of my life. I imagine it was somewhat taxing on my wife as well. Finally, after months and months of waiting, here was our new baby daughter, Antonella. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, purple slime and all.

Now we enter the new and exciting world of parenthood—a world of poopie diapers, disappearing binkies and long, sleepless nights. Some would say the hard part is just beginning. I’m not worried, however. Remember, I’ve read a lot of books.

Life on 24-Hour Baby Watch

Copyright 2007 by Valentine J. Brkich (First printed in the Sept. 2007 edition of The Point Magazine, Wexford, PA)

We’re in the final days now. My wife and I have made it through 38 long weeks of pregnancy, and they tell me it can happen any time now. It’s nerve-racking, to say the least. It’s like I’m an inmate on Baby Row, and there’s no chance the governor will call to commute my sentence. I have nothing to do now but sit and wait for the inevitable.

Over the past few weeks my wife and I have been making all the necessary preparations for our new roommate. I’ve been putting the finishing touches on the nursery; she’s been putting together our Hospital Supply Kit, which is comprised of a suitcase filled with clothing and toiletries, a backpack filled with various games and reading materials, and a small cooler to be packed with ice chips and energy drinks. All of these have been strategically placed in the living room where they can be picked up and loaded into the car in a minute’s notice. It’s kind of like we’re packing for vacation, only this time we’ll be bringing back a brand new human being instead of a box of saltwater taffy.

Over the past several weeks we’ve also been attending a weekly labor and delivery class so that we’ll know what to expect when the time comes. This is where I saw my first labor video. If you’ve never had the pleasure, let me just say that nothing can prepare you for this. The hardest part is sitting there with the teacher and the other couple while you pretend like what you’re watching is no big deal. On the outside I tried to appear calm yet awestruck; on the inside, however, I was having the same reaction that I had the first time I watched the movie “Aliens.” Fortunately it was a baby that emerged from the pregnant woman and not some bloodthirsty space creature with razor-sharp teeth and acid for blood.

Throughout this time of preparation we’ve been gathering dozens of baby-related gifts from our friends and relatives. Our house is now an obstacle course of car seats, bassinets, diapers, baby toys, baby clothes and other random piles of baby-related, Chinese-made, hopefully-not-lead-based-painted items. Right now as I’m sitting in my office, I’m looking at a Diaper Champ™, a Bumbo™ (whatever the heck that is) and a portable stroller called an “umbrella chair,” which, strangely enough, provides no protection from the rain. Right before my eyes my office is slowly morphing into a Babies “R” Us.

The next time you hear from me I’ll be a father. (Frightening, isn’t it?) Hopefully, after this life-changing experience, I’ll still manage to hang onto my dry wit and sarcasm, but I’m not making any promises. I’m told that a new baby changes “everything.” And from the looks of my office, I’m starting to believe this. Let’s just hope I don’t confuse my paper shredder for the diaper can. That would be ugly.

Valentine J. Brkich is a freelance writer and soon-to-be daddy. If you have any advice to offer him, he'd be glad to hear it. (And so would his wife.) Drop him a line at Val@BrkichWriting.com.

Countdown to Fatherhood, Part II — The Baby Registry

Copyright 2007 by Valentine J. Brkich (First printed in the August 2007 edition of The Point Magazine, Wexford, PA)

When I last left you, my wife had just entered her third trimester of pregnancy. So, for all you mathematically impaired out there, that puts us at just about two months until The Big Day. There have been some noticeable physical changes in both my wife and me over this past month. She continues to glow and grow more beautiful with each passing day; I, on the other hand, continue to grow more panicked and frazzled, while my ulcer gradually increases in size.

Recently, we went to the local baby-stuff superstore to complete our baby registry. Five years ago, before our wedding, we had a great time running around the department store zapping our favorite house wares with those super cool bar-code-reader guns that they give you. I figured the baby registry would be just as enjoyable. I was mistaken.

Don’t get me wrong, I was excited to pick out all the cute stuff we’ll need for our little bundle of joy; I was just unprepared for the massive amount of equipment that’s necessary to raise a baby nowadays. Columbus required fewer supplies when he sailed to the New World.

For all you guys out there, if you’ve never stepped inside one of these baby superstores, you’re in for a real treat. Imagine going shopping on Mars. Imagine entering a store filled with thousands of items, all of which are completely foreign to you. (Much like when I go to the hardware store.) It’s really hard to prepare yourself for this experience. Also, you may want to wear sunglasses in order to shade your eyes from the complete color overload as you enter the store. It’s like a Crayola box has vomited over the place.

Everywhere you look, shell-shocked men wander aimlessly around the aisles, pushing shopping carts, looking forlorn, the ghosts of long-lost frat parties haunting their every step. Meanwhile, their wives debate whether to get the mauve breast milk tote or the sage one. It’s a disheartening scene.

At one point we were confronted by Mr. Stroller Guy who, sounding much like a used-car salesman, showed us the various strollers. “Now this one here is the Mercedes of strollers,” he said, demonstrating the many features of the overpriced conveyance. As he rambled on about shocks, wheel-base and horsepower, I noticed other strollers made by Eddie Bauer and Jeep. I suppose these are for when you get the urge to take your newborn baby on a jungle safari.

Now that our registry is complete, my father-in-law and I have to build a nursery so we’ll have somewhere to put all this baby stuff. He’s hoping to create a cozy little nest for our new addition; I’m just trying not to maim myself in the process. Wish me luck.

Countdown to Fatherhood

Copyright 2007 by Valentine J. Brkich (First printed in the July 2007 edition of The Point Magazine, Wexford, PA)


Well, it's official. The final countdown has begun. My wife just entered her third trimester of pregnancy, which means I only have three more months of somewhat acceptable irresponsibility remaining. After our first child is born, the stupid little things I do will cease to be cute and will suddenly become moronic.

For instance, last week I left the outside faucet on. As a result my new garden hose burst from the pressure, spraying water everywhere for about 20 minutes before I discovered it. By then the water had leaked into my basement and left a large puddle in the middle of the floor. I did this not once, mind you, but twice in a period of a couple weeks, ruining two completely good hoses and bruising my fragile male ego to boot. My wife, although annoyed with my absentmindedness, was somewhat amused by my inexplicable yet endearing dopiness.

Fast forward to this fall when our house will be filled with binkies, Boppies™, Bumbos™ and all things "baby." I can tell you right now that my innate dopiness will no longer be acceptable. Breaking a couple garden hoses is one thing; breaking a newborn baby is a completely different story. You can't just go to the local hardware store and pick up another one. ("Ah…yes, I need some 3/4-inch screws, a couple washers and a brand new baby, please.")

When I'm a daddy, I'll really have to be on my game. I'm actually going to have to think about every decision I make before I make it. This is a lot of pressure for someone who's been winging it for the past 32 years. And if I'm nervous about all this, imagine how my wife must feel. How is she supposed to trust giving a baby to someone who falls up the stairs on a daily basis?

My father-in-law has told me many, many times about one time when he and his friend were watching their kids while the women were out shopping. Seems simple enough, right? Well, when the women returned just two short hours later, they found the men drinking beer and the two infants right where they had left them—in the playpen. Only now the infants' diapers were dangerously close to bursting. I have to admit, at first I didn't see the big deal in all this. But then my wife explained how a playpen and a babysitter are actually two completely different things. Who knew?

This is how men think. It's frightening but true. Heck, I'm still not convinced that greasing the bathtub is such a bad babysitting option.

So I guess I only have a couple of months to get my act together and become a responsible, selfless caregiver. I know this may sound impossible, but don't worry. If all else fails, I'll just consider my first instinct and then I’ll do the opposite. It should work like a charm.

A Crash Course in Fatherhood

Copyright 2007 by Valentine J. Brkich (First printed in The Point Magazine, Wexford, PA)

My wife and I have been together for almost eight years. When you’ve been together with someone for this long, inevitably the question comes up: So when are you guys gonna have kids? Someday soon, I say. Little did I know that I’d be thrust into fatherhood a lot earlier than I thought.

A couple weeks ago my wife agreed to baby-sit three children for a friend while she and her husband went to the Caribbean for their anniversary. Just to repeat: my wife agreed to baby-sit THREE CHILDREN. And this wasn’t for a day or two; it was for FOUR DAYS! Why she agreed to this I’ll never know. I can only assume that she had a bad reaction to some medication.

The kids arrived on Sunday afternoon. There was a boy, age 7, and two girls, ages 8 and 4. Within minutes of entering the house, they began to do all the things that kids do: bounce off of the walls, spill things, create messes, etc. For me it was instant anxiety. It was the fatherhood equivalent of going from zero to 60 in 4.2 seconds. I thought about escaping, but I knew I’d never make it out without my wife seeing me.

Life is different when you have children. For example, you can forget about “alone time.” The only “alone time” you have when you have kids is when you’re asleep, which is not very often. Every other waking hour is spent teaching, playing, correcting, disciplining, dressing, cleaning, feeding, cleaning some more, explaining, explaining some more, dropping off, picking up, and probably cleaning some more. Basically you’re a human verb.

Your television viewing habits completely change, too. When kids are running around, you have to be very careful what you watch because kids pick up everything. In other words, your list of Approved Channels goes from 150 stations down to two: Nickelodeon and The Disney Channel. And let me tell you, there’s only so much “Pokemon” and “Dora the Explorer” a man can take before his brain starts to turn to mush.

The scary thing is these are good kids—really good kids. By the time their parents came to pick them up on Wednesday night, however, I felt like I had just finished taking the SAT while running a marathon—backwards! My wife, on the other hand was actually sad to see them go. I’m starting to think she might not be mentally stable.

So I guess I better start preparing myself for fatherhood. Whenever it does happen, it’s not going to be easy, that’s for sure. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go catch up on some “alone time.” Pokemon is on.

One Man’s First Crack at Motherhood

Copyright 2006 by Valentine J. Brkich (First printed in The Point North, Wexford, PA)

Just recently I became a mother. Let me preface this by saying that I am a 31-year-old man.

It all started the other day when I returned home to find three baby birds on my driveway: one unfortunately deceased; the other two scared out of their minds by the huge, wingless, tie-wearing creature staring down at them from above (me). There is a nest in the awning above my front porch and I assume these three youngsters attempted to fly before their time. Kids—go figure.

After a brief funeral service for the deceased sparrow involving a shovel and a garbage can, I turned my attention to the two newest additions to my family. Immediately I thought of my in-laws, who have been hinting for some time now that they wouldn’t mind having a couple grandchildren. Little did they know that their first grandchildren would have feathers, beaks, and eat regurgitated insects for breakfast. But I guess beggars can’t be choosy.

After donning a pair of work gloves, I carefully picked up the tiny birds and placed them on an old, balled-up sweatshirt. Then I put the sweatshirt and the birds into an empty planter from my garage. It wasn’t the prettiest nest in the world, but it would have to do.

With the birds resting comfortably within their new synthetic nest, I set out in search of some proper nourishment. Therefore, grabbing my trusty spade, I headed to the backyard to dig up some dinner for my hungry feathered friends.

A few minutes later I returned to the nest for my first Official Bird Feeding. This was sure to be a daunting task considering I still have some troubles feeding myself from time to time (just ask my wife). Lacking a beak, however, I was forced to use my intellect to think of another way to feed the birds. Sure, I could’ve just used my fingers, but that would’ve been gross. (Remember, kids: I’m a writer, not a zookeeper.) Instead, I went to the garage and fetched a pair of needle-nose pliers from my tool chest. In some weird, comforting way they sort of resembled a beak. Best of all, they enabled me to feed the birds without touching those slimy worms. Yuck.

When I returned to the “nest” I found that the birds had buried themselves within the folds of my sweatshirt. I was stumped. I am not a bird. How could I get these birds to come out of hiding for their dinner? Of course I did the first thing that came to mind: I chirped.

Now, considering I took Spanish in high school, there was little chance I could coerce these two frightened animals to come out and eat. Apparently, however, I am also fluent in Sparrow. As I began to whistle and chirp, the two birds emerged from underneath the shirt and opened their mouths in anticipation. One at a time I lowered each slimy, squirming worm into the mouths of the hungry birds. They must have been starving because one of them nearly swallowed the pliers whole.

I soon realized, however, that two earthworms just weren’t going to cut it. I needed a side dish for my hungry little friends. Unable to locate any other worms, I began to pick up rocks and other objects in my yard in the hopes of finding some insects. I was able to find a few beetle-type creatures scurrying around beneath a piece of wood near the shed in my backyard. Normally I try to avoid encounters with such creepy-crawlers, but I was in Mother Mode, and my babies were hungry. To my delight, the sparrows inhaled the beetles as if they were chocolate cheesecake.

It was an amazing. Here I was, a 31-year-old collector of Star Wars memorabilia, successfully feeding and caring for a pair of orphaned sparrows. It was my proudest moment.

I haven’t figured out what to name the two birds just yet. I read somewhere that “Jacob” and “Emily” are the two most popular names for babies nowadays. Then again, why bother naming them when they’re just going to fly away someday and leave me forever. So much for gratitude.

Now if I could just figure out how to teach them how to fly….