Second coming

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It's been said a million times and is a cliche for a reason, but it bears repeating: Having a second child is like writing for "Saved by the Bell: The College Years." Sure, you may try a few different things at the beginning (baby goes in the crib first night home, Zack doesn't get the girl), but eventually you find a groove doing what you know works best for you (following my wife's lead on just about everything, bringing back Kelly Kapowski).

Unlike "College Years," however, having two children will run at least 18 seasons in prime time before continuing forever in syndication. Yet every day is a new episode with its own story arc and hopefully more laughs than tears.

I only came truly to appreciate this aspect of being a dad, the importance of stopping to smell the butt paste, when our son was born in June. I love my daughter, of course, but my mindset was totally different after three years of being a dad.

It started right at birth. As I was waiting to go into the delivery room three years ago, I got choked up thinking about how my daughter was going to change my life forever -- for the better and in ways I knew I could never expect -- mixed with the sheer terror of becoming a first-time dad. I was trembling as I took photos of her while she wailed on the heat bed. It was an out-of-body experience in hospital scrubs.

When my son was born, however, there were no tears before I entered the delivery room, just a few butterflies in my stomach and an eagerness to meet him. My mind was clear as I held my wife's hand and cried through my surgical mask as we saw him for the first time. I was not scared so much as excited to complete* our family.

(*Whether our family is "complete" -- and I don't mean getting a dog -- has yet to be decided. If I were a betting man, setting my money on fire would be the safest wager right now.)

To be sure, there was definitely an adjustment period after we came home from the hospital with our son. And by "adjustment period," I specifically mean "getting peed on like I was a fire hydrant next to a kennel." If our armed forces are looking for creative ways to train bomb defusers, have them attempt to change a newborn boy's diaper while staying dry. Even though we seem to have moved past that phase in his life, I am still wary every time his privates make a public appearance.

But after a few weeks and all of us developing new routines, my wife and I discovered what many had told us: the adjustment from zero kids to one is infinitely more challenging than from one to two. I found myself not sweating the small things the way I might have when my daughter was a newborn.

When athletes reach an elite level, they often describe how the game slows down in front of them. That's how I feel; the kids are growing up way too fast but I never forget just to enjoy my time with them. It could be going almost nose-to-nose with my son and making random noises so he starts giggling. Or it could be singing the ABCs like Brad Rogers from Crash Test Dummies while brushing my daughter's teeth before bed. (The song really kicks in right around the letter "M," naturally.)

All I ever wanted to do professionally was to work in newspapers, and I did that for 11 years. After my daughter was born, all I ever wanted to be was a good father. After my son was born, all I ever wanted to be was home for dinner at a decent hour. Changing careers ended up being a lot easier than I thought. And any doubts I had about my decision are erased when I get home to see both kids smiling -- and then start helping with dinner.

It makes me feel warm all over.

No, wait. Too slow on the diaper change again.

Urine trouble

I was sitting on the beach in the Outer Banks earlier this summer when nature called. There was no Garçon de Piss in the vicinity, let alone a public bathroom.

Belle had to go, too, so I followed her into the water (keeping some distance, natch). She was out of the ocean in a few minutes. I remained in the waves.

And I tried.

And I tried.

After 10 minutes, I gave up.

I walked back to our beach chairs, defeated. Belle, my sister-in-law and her boyfriend looked at me with a mix of incredulity and empty bladders.

I like to think of myself as pretty good when it comes to urination: my autobiography could be titled "Wait for the Shake." Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I'll be in the bathroom for so long I fall asleep standing up. I have had no problems going No. 1 in the woods or on the side of the road if I absolutely had to. But I might be the only person who cannot pee in the ocean.

The irony, in an Alanis Morissette kind of way, is that I love the beach. Give me a beach chair and a couple magazines and I'm content for an entire day. Until I have to go to the bathroom, at which point I find the nearest restroom.

I think my issue is how ocean urination is basically peeing your pants. Perhaps I have some repressed memory of feeling embarrassed when I was a wee lad (ha!) who couldn't hold it in. Besides, aren't children taught to wait to use a bathroom and given positive reinforcement for doing so? Maybe, by peeing in the ocean, I would be setting a bad example for the next generation of beachgoers, like Fat Guy in Speedo or Guy Strumming Guitar But Not Actually Playing A Song. (Note to Guitar Guy: You playing a G chord over and over is not going to make bikini-clad groupies come out of nowhere but it will give me a headache.)
 
Yet on some level, I understand that I'm coming out of the ocean with a wet bathing suit no matter what, so I might as well just go. But I physically can't pull the trigger. The act of urinating on my clothing is a mental block I can't overcome. While in the ocean at the Outer Banks, the thought  of pretending I was in front of a urinal crossed my mind, followed by the thought of getting a citation for indecent exposure. 

Instead, I sat down in my beach chair and picked up my magazine. Then a funny thing happened -- my need to pee went away. I was able to enjoy the rest of the day on the beach.

Looking back on it now, I realize my ability to hold it in means I'm living in a golden age of bladder control. That is, when I was a baby, I had no control. Thirty years from now, I'll probably have to go on the hour, every hour. So I'm going to enjoy these years of a regular-sized prostate before it's too late.

And I'm also going to enjoy these years when I can still sprint, because that's exactly what I did when I got back to beach house to reach the bathroom.