How are the announcements supposed to start? “We are excited to announce…”, “Three’s company…”, or “Sarah and I want you to be the first to know…”?

I can’t say that, because I’d be lying to you. I have two beautiful children. A toddler son that is a ball of nuclear energy, and a daughter that is just receiving her first tooth and just taking her first steps. The simple truth is, I’m happy with two kids. Happy is actually an understatement of epic proportions. I can’t imagine how I could possibly be happier with the state of my life.

Two kids are enough. Sarah and I are two humans. We have created two humans to replace us on this rock as it hurtles through space. Two in, two out.

For me, having two kids is exactly perfect.

And Audrey is ruining everything!

Audrey… precious little beautiful little Audrey. My little cupcake. The tiny little darling that crawls around the house and drools. on. EVERYTHING. Her babbles are the most adorable noises. And it’s her babbles that have me terrified.

8 months ago

“Isn’t she the cutest ****ing baby on the planet?” Sarah asked. It was, of course, a statement disguised as a question.

“She really is,” I replied.

What proceeded was a discussion about how happy we were to have both a son and a daughter. There was a time where we both wanted two sons. During Sarah’s pregnancy, she jumped over the fence and began wishing for a daughter. I kept my strength, however, and kept hoping for another boy. Needless to say, when I first saw Audrey’s beautiful face, my heart melted. She held out her tiny little hand, extended her tiny little finger, and I became firmly wrapped around it.

“If she says ‘dada’ first, we are having another baby.”

So, as I said, it’s Audrey’s babbling that has me terrified. I tried, I swear. Over and over again, I’d say to her “Audrey, can you say ‘mama’? ‘Mmmmmmaaammmmmaaaa’. Can you say… ‘mama’? See her? That’s ‘MAMA’ over there. Me? I am not ‘MAMA’. But her, she is your ‘MMMMMAAAAAAMMMMMAAAAAA’.” Then I’d whisper to her, “Don’t you screw this up, little girl.”

Even Tyler tried helping me. “Audwee, don’t say ‘dada’, okay? You haffa say ‘mamma’ first.”

I really don’t understand why she keeps crawling around babbling, “dadadadadadadadadadada” over and over and over again. I find myself wondering if Sarah is running around the house shouting “DA DA DA DA DA” eight hours a day, five days a week. And when I come home from work, she gives me the “remember, ‘dada’ equals baby in my belly” look.

“AUDWEE!! You HAFFA say ‘mama’, not ‘dada’. You’re so silly!”

So Audrey, please, knock it off. Our house cannot fit another full-time child. You can have a bunch of girl friends, and Tyler can have a lot of guy friends. They’re all welcome over here any time. They can even stay the night sometimes, but then they can go back to their own home.

For the love of everything that is still peaceful in this house… MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMama.

We had pipe dreams that our house would have sold before my start-date in Michigan of March 1. Sadly, this didn’t happen, leaving it necessary to spend months with this lifestyle. I spend 5 days a week away from my almost three year old son and my newborn daughter, while Sarah spends 5 days trying to raise these same two children as a married-but-single mother. Oh, and she also had to keep the house SPOTLESS for any house showings.

After numerous heartbreaks, we were all reaching the end of our ropes. Sarah was stressed to the point of nearly breaking, Tyler was beginning to act out, I began falling into a state of depression, and Audrey… well, she’s just happy to exist, so she seemed just fine.

Then we finally got the offer we were waiting for.

We spent the next six weeks dealing with more hurdles and heartbreaks. The prospective buyers had to have their hands held during every step of the process, and required numerous phone calls before they’d take care of the next step. Meanwhile, we’d put an offer on a house in Michigan, and were steamrolling towards closing… contingent on the sale of our house, which was not going well at all.

“I’m not built to be a single dad, Sarah,” I told her during a phone call. “I just don’t think I can continue this lifestyle much longer.”

And then things would start moving again. And then they’d stall again. Move and stall, move and stall. It was like a teenager learning to drive a stick shift. With lots of crying.

Finally, we had a scheduled closing date for both houses. We quickly put together the logistics. We’d pack everything, load it into the moving truck, sign the papers to sell our current house, drive all of our worldly belongings to Michigan, sign to purchase a house, and move in. We were nervous during every second leading to the sell of our house. We didn’t dare speak too excitedly of the fact that things were finally happening. We just cautiously moved ahead. We packed, we organized, we cleaned, and we kept our fingers crossed. We loaded up the moving truck until the only things remaining in the house was a blow-up mattress for us, a mattress for my step-dad, and a couple random items needed to eat breakfast the next morning.

Closing day arrived! We got things around, packed up some last minute stuff and drove to the closing. Anxious and slightly excited, we parked and walked into the office… and the buyers didn’t show up.

THE BUYERS DID NOT SHOW UP!

“Listen,” I said to the closing officer, “we must have a very specific piece of paper signed today, or we can’t buy a house this evening.”

The agent went on to explain that the wife got “called in to work.” There’s a lot of things I don’t know, but I’m fairly certain an employer would understand that you couldn’t come in right away if YOU. ARE. BUYING. A. HOUSE! Where are your priorities at when you make the decision to email the office mere moments before closing and say “oh, by the way, I won’t be there TO. BUY. A. HOUSE! this morning because my boss called and asked me to come in. I said yes even though I’m supposed to be BUYING. A. HOUSE!”

“Is the husband coming? Is their Realtor coming?”

The answer was no. There aren’t words in my vocabulary to explain the feelings I was having at the time. “Devastated” comes to mind. I explained again the fact that we quite literally had all of our belongings on a truck and were scheduled to buy a house in just a matter of hours in Michigan. The closing officer, bless her soul, was determined to help. She explained that we would sign all our papers and that she would then drive to the buyer’s employer to get her to sign the papers. With no other option, we signed the papers and went back to the house, deflated. At a time we should have been celebrating, we were in yet another state of limbo. We contemplated all the nasty things we wanted to do to the house, to punish the buyers for being such royal pains in the butt. The best idea was to leave an upper decker for them. There were two problems with this plan however. One, we weren’t even sure they were going to sign the papers, which would have meant that we just did something very nasty to a house we were stuck with. Two, deep down, below the cynicism and sarcasm, we’re both good people. But that didn’t mean that we all didn’t laugh maniacally when Audrey spit-up all over the living room floor!

My phone rang about twenty minutes later. “Hi Joe, this is Jen.” Jen was the closing officer.

“Please tell me good news, Jen.”

“The papers are signed. I’m faxing over the information now. You’re homeless.”

I mouthed the word to Sarah “signed” as Jen continued singing sweet, sweet music into my ear about us no longer owning a house in Indiana. And finally, we could hug each other for overcoming such a huge mountain of an obstacle.

The closing in Michigan went smooth as silk. We were homeless (and 100% debt free and off the grid) for approximately seven hours. Then, this:

And I now get to come home to my family after work every single day. Life is good.

When people asked if we were going to find out the sex of our second child, I would answer with “Sarah decided she wants it to be a surprise, which means I have to let it be a surprise too,” or some other blame-it-on-the-wife variation. I acted spiteful, as if the future of civilization depended on her foolish decision to not utilize everything that modern sci-medicine has to offer. I would have loved to have little sound-waves bouncing off the life form within Sarah’s belly, then to be represented in a digital image on the monitor. I wanted to know if the baby would have an inny or an outie, and it should have been my right to find out.

The complete truth, however, was that I was content with the decision. At the end of the day, the mantra was “healthy baby, healthy baby, healthy baby.

Three months ago, Sarah and I went to the hospital to have a baby, via scheduled c-section. It was a surreal experience when compared to the mood of Tyler’s birth. We were relaxed and ready. We filled out paperwork, we joked, we spoke with the nurses. They told us what to expect, when to expect it, and the general plan for the morning. Tyler was asleep at home in the care of his Aunt, while we calmly prepared for the next major chapter of our lives.

Now, this is the part where a person would say that they were freaking the f*** out inside. That they were acting strong for their spouse. That they were in a near panic at the impending financial strains, the journey into the unknown, and everything else in life that comes with having another poop-machine.

But your friendly neighborhood Irrational Dad was content with it all. I’ll admit that my fingernails were all chewed to a mutilated mess, but that could have been for any number of reasons.

Soon, they took my wife away to be prepped for surgery. I took the time to update my Facebook status.

After I put the mask, gloves, and gown on, they let me in the room. I sat next to Sarah as she lie on the table, and grasped her hand. I asked her if she was ready to have a baby, and she started crying.

“Are you okay?”

“This just isn’t how I wanted to do this. On a surgery table. I just wish I could have tried to have this baby naturally.”

We talked for a few minutes about the circumstances while the doctors finished their prep. I told her to that we will control what we can control, and deal with everything else. I reminded her that we were finally going to meet our new little one in just a few more minutes. We smiled and kissed each other.

The anesthesiologist tapped my shoulder and asked if I wanted to see what the doctors were doing. With Tyler’s birth, I was so petrified at the thought of my wife being bifurcated that I didn’t dare look. Curiosity cured my fear on this day. I looked to see them placing rubber rings, or gaskets, or something in the incision to hold her open. She explained what they were doing, and was a conduit of information for this strange world my brain was processing. Somewhere, I heard someone say something. I’m fairly certain it was our mid-wife.

“Remember, they do not know the sex of the baby.”

A few voices quietly spoke at once.

“They don’t know the sex?”

“It’s a surprise?”

“They didn’t find out?”

Suddenly, I felt proud of Sarah’s decision to not find out. Although I protested, I was a part of the unique few that laugh in the face of modern sci-medicine. I flipped the bird to the ultrasound machine. I stuck it to the medicine man!

The anesthesiologist asked, “Are you ready? They put the last ring (maybe she said gasket) in; just a couple more seconds.”

Just a moment later, I saw my baby’s head. It was time. Right in front of my face was a new life. A beautiful precious little life. An instant later, the body was free and the doctor held my baby up.

The doctor proudly, loudly, and confidently said “Call it, dad.”

My eyes exploded in a flood of tears. I looked to Sarah and told her, “It’s a girl. She’s beautiful.”

“A girl?? We have a girl?”

Sarah cried… a lot.

So did I.

I cut the cord, more as a symbolic gesture than of an actual life saving measure, and held my baby girl. As we waited for mom to recover, I told her about all the people that will love her. I told her about her amazing big brother, and I warned her against “making eyes” at any of her big brother’s friends. We talked for an hour or so, just dad and daughter, about anything I could think of. She didn’t understand a damned thing, of course, and was likely wondering where the nearest boob was for her to suck on. Nonetheless, it was during this time that I discovered that my love didn’t divide between her and Tyler, it multiplied.

So here I am, preparing to raise a girl in the most perfect way possible. I have to find a balance between naive and someone that boys say “has daddy issues”. And I wonder… will I be that dad? The one who is conveniently cleaning his guns when his daughter brings a boy home? The dad that gives the uncomfortably strong handshake to her prom date and talks about respect? Will I be the “you are out of your MIND if you think you’re going out dressed up like that, now get your hind end upstairs and put some clothes on” dad?

Check, check, and check.

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Remember this? Did you even read it a year ago?

Here’s a snippet from the end of that post:

The opportunity to move back has been offered a few times. More than a few, to be perfectly honest. Deep down, I wanted to move back – WE wanted to move back – yet I turned them all down. We made excuses to keep everything the same. Moving down here was easy, because it was just Sarah and I; two able-bodied adults that can care for themselves and be accountable for their actions. The baggage we will be bringing back has a heartbeat and is one hundred percent dependent on us to do the right thing.

I took the first of many huge steps yesterday. I told my boss that I was ready and that I would like to talk about my options. I just hope this decision isn’t one opportunity too late.

So, now, one very small gear in a very large clock has begun to turn, and quite frankly, I’m scared.

Eleven months ago, I told my manager that, while I love my job and all the freedoms it affords me, a move was in order. Since then, him and I have had many conversations about time-frames and opportunities. Soon, I would be hand-picked to assist with a project in New York. Soon, my brain would be rattled from all the information flowing into it. Soon, I would be working long hours, and long weeks, and be away from home for days at a time.

Soon, I would have five interviews for a yet to be created position back home. Soon, I would be offered the job.

Two weeks ago, I officially accepted.

I don’t know how to characterize what I’m feeling, mostly because it’s an emotional Smörgåsbord. Fear, anxiety, glee, worry. I know that I’m doing the right thing, both personally and professionally, but all those emotions are still there. I suppose that I should be more concerned if I didn’t feel those varying emotions.

So, Sarah and I spent many hours – and days – cleaning the house, painting, performing minor repairs, and trying to *keep* the house clean while a two year old monster terrorized the place. It’s now “on the market,” and our fingers are crossed that it sells before my March 1st start date. If not, I’ll have to commute to work, which may mean that I’ll only be home on weekends for a while. Oh, and have I mentioned that Baby Squiggles (the nickname we’ve chosen for the baby – of unknown gender – in Sarah’s 29 weeks pregnant belly) will be born on February 8th? Crazy times. If you know anyone that is looking for a very lovely home in a small town in Indiana, I’ve got exactly what you need.

But… this is all for the greater good. We remind ourselves of that fact every time we think about the worst-case scenario of Sarah being stuck at home with a 2 year old and a newly born infant for a few days at a time. I fear that it’ll be too much for her. I fear that Tyler won’t adjust well to the new baby and to my absence. I fear that Squiggles won’t know or grow attached to his very loving and dedicated daddy. But it’s all for the greater good…

Right?

As Tyler played with his Buzz Lightyear toy, Sarah and I caught up with each other. I had been in New York for the last few days, and wanted to know how things had gone in my absence. The conversation was a difficult one, because Tyler liked to interject his thoughts every ten to fifteen seconds.

“Mommy, you Woody,” he said, placing the Woody character into her hands. “You go sleep now.”

“Well, will you tell me a story?”

She placed Woody onto a pillow. The conversation that her and I were trying to continue was put on hold for the time being. We both waited for the story that Buzz Lightyear, Space Ranger, would tell to Woody, the rootinest, tootinest cowboy in the Wild Wild West.

“Upon a time. A big bad wolf not eat you. The end.”

It’s my new favorite story.

I’ve been seven hundred miles from home for a few days. Later today, barring any airport troubles, I’ll be returning to my happy family.

And I can’t wait!

Sarah started a bedtime routine for us that I love taking part in. Before Tyler began developing a solid vocabulary and became capable of having a conversation, I would stay with him for a few minutes after he was in his bed.

After being away at work for the entire day, I wanted to have some extra time with Tyler before bidding him a good night. I would place my arm across his chest while sitting on the floor. I’d ask Tyler “what did you do today?” He’d respond with general nonsense and a few keywords here and there, like zoo, or playground. If I knew more details about the day he and his mommy had, I’d talk to him about it and ask if he remembered.

On one particular evening, a while back, Sarah stayed up in the room with Tyler and I. She listened as we talked, then added her own memories of the day. Before we left the room, she said to Tyler, “My favorite part was going for a walk with you and daddy and Lilah.”

Thus began our nightly routine. We don’t rehash the details of the day any longer, but we talk about our favorite parts of the day. Tyler never goes first. The thing I find most amazing and endearing is that Tyler sometimes has completely random favorite parts. A few nights ago, the same night he was horse-kicked by a cow, he gave us the following gem.

“Mommy, what you favrit port?”

“My favorite part was watching the horses and eating cotton candy with you and with daddy.”

“Daddy, what your favrit port?”

“My favorite part,” I began, “was petting all the horses and rabbits and sheep and piggies with you and mommy. What was your favorite part of the day today, Tyler?”

“My favrit port, I have two favrit ports.” Tyler held up two fingers. “My first favrit port was goin a fair. My two favrit port was goin home.”

Great favorite parts, Tyler. And great idea, Sarah.

“What time is it?”

I get that question a lot. We don’t have a clock in our living room. Unless the television is on, which it isn’t when Tyler is still awake, there is just a single place to check the time. Mounted on a wall, roughly four feet off the floor, sits an EnergyStar electronic thermostat. On the thermostat is a one inch by three inch display, that shows the day, time, and room temperature. The display is so crisp and clear that it’s viewable from a staggering fifteen inches away. I crane my neck to see the display from the floor, where Tyler and I were playing a high stakes game of cat and mouse with a couple of his toys.

“Uhh… eight seventeen.”

For some peculiar, OCD reason, I am unable to give general time to people. At eight seventeen, I’d never say it was a quarter after eight. If someone asks me the time, I tell them exactly the time displayed. Is it just me, or is this common?

Sarah told Tyler (and me) that it was time to start cleaning up, and joined us on the floor to help. Little People, Legos, cars, and farm animals made their way into their respective bins.

“Okay, let’s put the dinosaurs away next,” Sarah offered.

“I count them,” asked Tyler?

We gathered all of Tyler’s miniature dinosaurs and placed them on the upturned lid of the bin we were working with. Tyler picked one up and placed it into the bin.

“One.”

I can’t speak for Sarah, but I was very interested in seeing how this was going to proceed. Tyler can count to ten, and beyond, but tends to skip the number four, going from three to five instead. We’ve been working with Tyler to count slower and more deliberately, placing extra emphasis on four and seven, which he also omits on occasion. Instead of counting to two, then three, before ending my suspense, Tyler decided to work smarter, not harder. He grasped the lid, upon which all the remaining dinosaurs rested, lifted it, and unceremoniously dumped them into the bin.

“All of them.”

Sarah and I both laughed heartily and said, in unison, “One. All of them.”