Let's play "Jeopardy!"
Answer: getting up in the middle of the night with a newborn, while exhilirating on the "I'm bonding with my new son" level, sucks. He's evolved; Desmond normally wakes up once between midnight and eight now. I, on the other hand, seem to be up all the time. It's an event when I manage to stay asleep for more than an hour at a time.
Question: Why the hell am I writing at 3 AM?
Correct. Select again.
I'll take "different types of spit-up" for $400...
Anyway, I'm up again. It's kind of peaceful in the "I might be the last person on Earth" way, and I've had this habit most of my life. My last two years in college I worked three nights a week from midnight to six in the lobby of one of three dorms. All I had to do was sit there and make sure nothing bad happened. It was on the less-exciting side of the Iowa River, so very little happened, though I did punch a pizza delivery guy once. And I ran down a hallway at 4 AM with a flaming bag of popcorn (though not at the same time as I punched the pizza dude). It was essentially eighteen hours of mostly uninterrupted study time and I was getting paid for it. I rarely had to do any work outside of those three shifts. The only drawback was trying to sit through a class on three hours sleep. I took a lot of naps in secluded regions of the library back then.
(Think of that last paragraph as the answer. The question: "What is a random, pull-it-out-of-your-behind memory from college that you haven't thought about in at least ten years?")
There has been a lot of snow here lately. I think we passed fifty inches for the season today, after a little less than a foot fell here. When I first came downstairs an hour or so ago after giving up on sleep again, I walked into the dark kitchen that looks out to the backyard. I love how the darkness of the middle of the night is brightened by a newfallen snow. It's one of the few things I enjoy about winter.
So I stood looking outside for a while. It was completely silent except for the hum of the fridge ten feet behind me. Very peaceful; I was glad that I was awake. Then, for no reason that I can think of, it hit me like a slap: today is February 7th, my father's 74th birthday, the six he has celebrated up in Heaven.
I've written about this day before, and I think I've made my point about it, so I think I am done writing anything else in regards to this day. I will say that I have been thinking about my father a lot lately, obviously because I just became a dad, and I am comforted by my memories. Once a day, I tell Desmond something about his grandfather. By the time he is ten he might know as much about him as I do.
There is a specific direction that I want to go with this, but I will have to resume at a later time. Someone is hungry again, and it ain't me.
I mean this with all sincerity: being a Dad rocks.