Along Came Daddyhood

I think you probably want to be here instead.

And if you don't like clicking word links, the new address is: http://www.knoxmccoy.com.

So I went to the nose doctor today. But not just any doctor. This guy was a doctor who says hello by dousing your nose with numbing spray so he can jam a camera up your nose and telephoto your entire sinus situation. THAT KIND OF DOCTOR.

If you are a male and are reading this and still find yourself unclear on this scenario, it's like a yearly physical but instead of clammy hands on your secrets and coughing twice, it's a camera (that probably costs more than Ryan Seacrest) scraping alongside your brain, while you try not to sneeze or gag.

At any rate, it was this procedure that provided our meet cute. But there was nothing nice or lighthearted about it. Basically, I have some nasal shenanigans that will most assuredly translate to massive financial repercussions. Joy.

But such is life. Just as you gain a little money traction, something breaks, something needs buying or you find out that you have a nose with the structural integrity of Owen Wilson's schnoz.

But here's where the frustration comes in: why do doctors act like everyone has graduated from Harvard Medical School? Just because you pin up an Xray of my face to a bright light board doesn't mean that I can make like Dr. Derek Shepard and deduce my diagnosis. Make no mistake: my degree in English is SUPER useful. I can usually spot typos and I can totally tell you some freaky stuff about Oscar Wilde, so....there's that. But the point is, I'M NOT HOUSE M.D.. TRY TO EXPLAIN THE PROBLEM USING SMALL WORDS.

When he snapped a couple of pictures with his brain-scraper camera and let me see those, I still was at a loss. YES, DOC, I SEE THAT MY INNER NOSE LOOKS LIKE A BLOODIED SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS. NOW CAN YOU TELL ME WHY?

But no. I'm left with vague descriptions filled with medicalese and a REALLY big payment.

At the end of the day though, if he figures out the problem, I won't care what kind of bedside manner he has. He could spray my eyes with the numbing stuff and make me watch a So You Think You Can Dance marathon. I'm just principled like that.

And just so you know, I was this close to putting the pictures of my nose as bloody SpongeBob at the top of this post. I suppose I'm mellowing in my old age, though. Your appetites can feel free to carry on unmolested....for now.

Sometimes, no matter how clever you think you are, your child has a way of putting you in your place...


Daddy - The funniest videos are a click away

I have an awful tendency to compartmentalize my life. Not exactly a grass is always greener thing, but sort of a "life will be good when (x) happens" kind of thing. I do not like this about myself.

This flawed idea hinges on the idea that my life is leading up to this moment where my dreams will converge with reality. Only then will I be uniformly happy. Magically, I will be doing what I love to do. Donuts will be as nutritional as Raisin Bran and siestas will gain traction as socially acceptable workplace policies.These are my hopeful aspirations.

There are a few things wrong with this line of thinking: First, I would imagine that eating donuts every day would get old fast. That may seem sacreligious in terms of donut devotion, but I think the wonderment and glory of a donut is in it's rarity. There's a novelty in having a donut in a similar way that Christmas or Memorial Day is awesome. If we had Christmas once a week, dealing with all the wreaths and tree lights would just get obnoxious, AM I RIGHT?

But more to the larger point, my hopes beg the questioning of this murky point of tangibly living the dream. As much as I would love to be able to cross some finish line and just coast through life to never again be burdened with stress or trials, it simply doesn't work like that. I want it to, but it doesn't.

But there's something refreshing in that. Life isn't broken into compartments of enjoyment and endurance. It's one long string of experiences. Some are good, some are bad, and some involve raisin bran. All of the separate elements exist to comprise the same singular thing.

So for the Boy's blueprint, I want him embracing every part of life. I don't want him holding out until all the conditions are perfect, because life is short enough as is.

Below is my favorite quote from The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I can't read it and not think of my son because it encapsulates everything I want him to know.

"For what it's worth: it's never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There's no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you're proud of. If you find that you're not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again."

On the whole, my skill as a driver is probably average. Sometimes, I may assume that I have unlocked some inner code to what it means to operate  motor vehicle, but the fiftieth percentile is most likely where I live.

This is good, I suppose. My averageness means that I will never try to ramp onto/into an empty transfer truck and I will always be hesitant before boarding another vehicle whilst engaged in a highway shootout. Vin Diesel, I am not.

But in all my road mediocrity, I do excel in one area: road RAGE. Unfortunately, this is for the worse.

Rage of the road is one area where I struggle mightily in concealing my problem from the Boy. Usually, he is on hand for most of my outbursts. I will vehemently disagree with another driver's course of action and after I conclude my loud rant, I can always count on looking back to see the Boy staring at me, mouth agape and fingers wrapped tightly around his blanket. Fatherhood fail.

To be fair, there's A LOT of bad driving going on these days. It's inevitable with so many options behind the wheel. Back in the day, when horses were the preferred method of transport, if you took your hands off the reigns, it was OVER. If Last of the Mohicans taught us ANYTHING, we know that inattentiveness on a horse meant an arrowhead right to the sternum.

Now? You can watch Daniel Day Lewis as Hawkeye IN YOUR CAR and tweet about it WHILE DRIVING. For the overall species, this is what anthropologists call BAD. Take it back ten years, and using a cell phone while driving wasn't even a good thing. Now though, it seems tame in comparison to playing CoD: Modern Warfare 2 and freaking Farmville while parallel parking.

As a general rule, I think doing anything while driving is too ambitious. Think of it as church marquees. Is it cool to have a witty marquee that grabs the attention of an unchurched public? Why yes. Yes, it is. But your margin of error is slim. Guess wrong on your content and you may come off as small-minded, close-minded, or ignorant-minded.

"Better get sanctified or you'll get CHICKEN FRIED!" may seem like a winner, but it's probably not. Better to keep it simple.

Same with driving. Texting, tweeting, and watching Friends Season 2 all while driving may sound awesome, but staying alive is better. And besides, don't you already know that Ross is a TOTAL loser? (Smelly cat, Smelly cat, it's not your fa-ault.)

That's a long way around to my original point. As long as we operate vehicles, there will always be terrible drivers. People will always drive woefully slow in the fast line, they will never use their blinker when turning, and they will presume that their new car deserves two spaces instead of one. These are the inevitabilities of the world we live in. We do not control them.

What we do control though, is our reaction. These permanent fixtures of the road will continue to be flagrantly awful. But do my reactions have to be awful? My hope is for the Boy to roll with life's punches: on the road, at work, at home...wherever. And so I will begin changing this in myself so that it may be part of his blue print.

While on the topic of driving, I read this tragic, but fantastic story (Dead Man Driving) about an accident and how it relates to you or I. It analyzes the small choices we make while driving and how it can translate into a life altering decision. It's a long read, but WAY worth it. Especially if you drive with a high pulse rate (hand raised).

In my younger days that were rife with a cavalier disregard for free time, I would often wonder why was it that when parents were asked of their child’s age, the reply is given in exact months? Such a strange practice.

When a child turns eight, does the parent announce that their child is 96 months old? No, silly, they do not. So why do babies get this treatment? It seemed superfluous to me at the time. But I understand now. BOY, DO I EVER UNDERSTAND.

Being on the other side of the parenting divide, we parents give exact months because WE EARNED THESE MONTHS. Sometimes, they are nice reminders of how long our little bundle of joy has been with us. Other times, these months are the metaphorical chalk tallies on the walls of our prisons homes.

Don't get me wrong though: There are some months that are wonderful. These are nice because each day runs into the next like a beautifully choreographed montage where wistful music plays, graceful shenanigans take place, and it all ends with him cuddled in his bed. These months do exist.


But these months have a ferociously ugly twin. It's like Meet the Parents vs. Meet the Fockers: Seemingly related entities but entirely opposite. These companion months are not so wonderful. They are like the Trail of Tears for your sanity and they are the times that try the hearts of mothers and fathers.


See, each month is a badge of parental honor. If I say “right at 15 months” it's because I’m proud that:
A. The boy is still alive.
B. My marriage is still intact.
C. Child services has not investigated my parenting methods.

I claim each and every month greedily, like a homeless waffle fry at the bottom of a Chick-fil-A bag.

Why? How dare you. WHY NOT? I’ve earned it, THAT'S WHY.

I’ve been yelled at, peed on and crapped on at all hours of the night. I’ve been pegged by grapes, slimed by sweet potato guts, and had my feet smeared with swiftly decomposing banana bits. I’ve had my beard ripped out in spots, been almost t-boned by a Mickey Cart and nearly brained by wooden building blocks. YOU WANNA KNOW HOW I GOT THESE SCARS?

When you consider all that comprises the investment of parenting, there’s a sense of obligation to yourself to be as accurate as possible because it leaves nothing to chance. What if the following exchange took place at a local Target?:

Random Stranger: Aww he’s cute. How old is your son?

Me: Over a year. Have a good day.

(The End)

"Over a year" could mean ANYTHING. It could mean 366 days. It could mean that it is 12:01 am on the day after his birthday. He's 16 months old for crying out loud! These things cannot be left open for interpretation. This isn't Lost , you know? PEOPLE NEED TO KNOW.

There is a moral obligation to clear the air so that this random stranger understands the caliber of person that stands before them. Namely, the kind that can keep a child alive for “just over 16 months."

Ergo, the exchange presumably would become this:

Random Stranger: Aww he’s cute. How old is your son?

Me: Just over 16 months.

Random Stranger: Really?! Please, take your assorted domestic items and various groceries and take my place in line for YOU HAVE EARNED IT.

Me: I have, haven't I?

(THE END)

I think the latter scenario works out much better, don't you?