I didn’t expect to be writing about this topic any time soon, but that’s the thing about shit… it can surprise you.

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I’m so far behind in updating this blog that no one can claim I deal in “current events”. But, I’ve been thinking about a major news event since it happened. And even though it quickly died out of the news cycle, it seemed to me that the most important questions never got asked. I’m not talking protests, or anyone occupying anywhere, or Bin Laden or the EU. I’m thinking about Gilad Shalit.

In 2006 this 19-year-old Israeli boy-soldier gets abducted by the Palestinian Hamas movement. He’s held in isolation and mystery for more than five years while his parents fight tirelessly for his release. Protests, demonstrations, and mentions of his captivity happened all over the world. Finally, in October of this year he’s released. Parents rejoice. Events are held. The press swarms.

Heartwarming. Yes.

But I can’t help the feeling that the difficulties of his life may be yet to come.

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Recently, my son’s weapons grade bowels struck again and gave me a newfound appreciation for the wonder of diapers. Obviously something has to be done to keep little ones from literally soiling everything everywhere with a dedication rivaling the postal service. But, after nearly two years of diapers, I’ve found myself genuinely appreciating them as a vital tool in a parent’s fight for sanity (Sanitary?).

Diapers are one of those constantly improving products, yet I’ve never heard of anyone who actually works in diaper development. Who are these secret refiners of the disposable shit-catcher? Do they work underground? Is there a bunker somewhere filled with diarrhea plagued toddlers and a haggard group of lab-coated scientists? Seal teams are publicity whores by comparison.

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Among the many priority shifts required for parenthood is the sudden awareness of certain places you never even saw before. The most striking is my sudden awareness of playgrounds, slides, and fast-food jungle gyms. I don’t think I ever actually used a fast-food play-palace during my own childhood, and until recently I couldn’t tell you anywhere I’d seen one.

These days I can be flying down the freeway, notice one out of the corner of my eye, and slice across three lanes of traffic to get our little man some slide time. He loves these places, but the adult in me only sees the vile plastic, wobble construction, and mats which were probably washed when Reagan was in office. Yet these places have revealed something much more interesting and unknown; playgrounds of all kinds have their own social order. Adults beware.

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As this month has ticked by I’ve been increasingly aware of the date. Not because of any impending event or activity, but because it represents a moment for nostalgia. I’m thinking about May of 1991. Twenty years ago. When I graduated from High School.

As a seventeen year old senior, I remember thinking that I’d be thirty-seven at my twenty year reunion, and that was really old. There were two large errors in that assumption. First off, thirty-seven is far from old. And secondly, there’s no twenty-year high-school reunion on the horizon. Which brings me nicely to my point.

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My son has just now grasped his first two clear words… Dada, and Mama. Truth be told he’s said them both for a while, but in the last few weeks it has a lucid connection to the appropriate people. (“Dada” has been a blanket term for any male or picture of me for quite some time… now…it’s just used for me. A nice change). So it’s obvious that he can’t read yet. But I think his personal library is far larger than mine.

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Long before I was a father I decided I had absolutely no interest in flying with an infant. It always seemed like the parent trying to quiet their child under the glare of their fellow passengers would rather pop the emergency exit and take their chances with the free fall. No thank you.

So since my son has been born he’s flown many, many times. Frankly, I’ve lost count, and I applaud my wife for surviving the recurring madness. However, I have only taken one flight with the two of them and it established airports and airplanes as places where new and exciting things can happen with your child.

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Over the years I’ve heard many people describe parenting and mention how much they enjoyed watching their little one discover the world. But I think the real wonder of it isn’t in what the child discovers, but what it awakens in the adults. By the very nature of our adulthood, we are matured, toned-down, and muted in our daily lives. We go through a million variations of been-there-done-that to get to our milestone of the moment.

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My first year of fatherhood has brought with it many lessons I never expected. Of course every new parent experiences changes and learns things they wouldn’t know otherwise. For example, no man can tell you how many weeks it is before you can really tell the sex of a fetus… unless he’s doctor, or he’s been there.

However, I’m talking about lessons – observations, really – I would not have come to without our little guy around. So, here are my top five for year one:

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After nearly a year of fatherhood, I’ve reached a strange season in the eyes of others. When any conversation leads me to reveal the age of our little guy it brings about a universal response.

“Oh, that’s such a great age….”

This declaration brings me to one of two possibilities; the person speaking either has no recollection of a child this age, or they are being factious.

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