I'm Back, and our We is Three.

I'm just going to dive in... this is merely a finger exercise, tonight... an intro, or re-intro. I may eventually, occasionally or inconsistently reflect on the odd transition since back-when, and the myriad changes from the last time i used this blogsite -- back in the summer of '08.

For my own perspective's sake, let's look at then-&-now: i had a relatively new girlfriend, as we tiptoed and traipsed around each other's world, learning; i was in my 30s; puppydog was an actual puppy; i had roommates; i hadn't yet read "The Chosen" or "The Corrections" or "The Jungle" or "The New York Trilogy"; a white guy was POTUS; Lehman Brothers was a well-respected bank; the Blackhawks and Giants still hadn't been champs in decades; Conan was on NBC; and Jack, Kate & Sawyer were still mired on the island.

Things have changed. I can't stop writing about change, about the passage of time, about differences -- it is much of what i calculate and ponder and sift through, mentally. In the greater than eight hundred days since the puppy-related blog posts, which you can glean below, that dog has become my -- no, our -- best friend. And instead of talking only about me and my, it's we and our -- Tamara is a part of me in a way that I can only, simply, be thankful for. And our little we, whoopsie, became a bigger we this fall, when Jonah joined the frenetic fray.

So calculating time -- my whole M.O. -- now, with a baby, has been changed. Now, as wholesale changes are grouped by the hour and day, rather than year and decade... I am on internal clock overdrive. And THAT is why i am here: I need to calculate the changes with words, hash them out as thoughts, put on paper the incongruousness of all of it, of life, of parenting, of making a kid and finding him here all of a sudden and watching him wiggle, and wiggle bigger, and outgrow onesies even now, at ten weeks old.

So this is how my mind works -- it IS odd -- when I look at the kid cooing at the window or the wall.

I think, Holy Shit. I have a baby. Tamara had a baby. I made a baby, and Tamara made a baby, and Tamara carried that baby -- a real baby, organic, heavy and tangible as a sack of potatoes, kicking like mad -- for NINE FREAKING MONTHS.

That's what I shake my head at, dozens of times a day. I like it; it boggles me; but don't know how to keep that thought fresh while staying present, moving on as The Baby moves on. It's an existential walk-in-a-circle on our hardwood: how did this happen? How can I keep it steady. understand it, and flow with it?

How can I REMEMBER EVERYTHING ABOUT IT?

That's why I am here, and why I'll scribble here for the foreseeable, occasional future.

So it happened. How??I mean, I know how it happened. I blew a baby into the world.

I - We - plopped a baby onto Planet Earth.

A baby, with my reverberating DNA, and, thanks to the Goddess of Baby-smell and Diaper-tape and Midnight-television and All Other Baby-Related Things Holy, my beautiful wife's DNA as well... was lifted out of the World (whirled?) of Being Pregnant -- (an aside: getting pregnant is one thing... but Being Pregnant is altogether another, and one of the other things it is, is, FANTASTICALLY DIFFERENT THAN HAVING A BABY LIVE IN YOUR HOUSE) -- was lifted out of the Preg World (again I suggest: whirled?), a world crammed full of Preg booklists and filmstudy and mommy-and-daddy-Get-Ready-Classes and over-the-shoulder glances at babygap (as you consider whether stepping inside will cause colic) and carseat befuddlement and crib comparisons and diaper dilemmas and daily OBGYN appointments (every day, right? didn't we have an air mattress in the lobby, and a best-friendliness with the front-desk nurses?) -- and sushi and sapporo cravings and unasked-for explanations as to why this mommy or that daddy found out of didn't find out the baby's XX or XY chromosomal configuration (not that there's anything wrong with that) and Q&A sessions with perfect (read: imperfect) strangers... out of that innocent (really) World (whirled?) swirled a ten-fingered, ten-toed, vocally-corded, fully-cooked baby, lifted skyward and nonchalantly washed-and-dried by the nursing staff, plopped into my arms, Tam's arms, our arms... and sent, with instructions, to our house. With us. All of a sudden. Out of nowhere. Out of our bodies. Which is nowhere, really...

His name is Jonah. I haven't eaten him yet, or kissed him into edible bits, or rubbed the fine soft hair off of his miniature head. (Ten weeks ago -- J turned 70 -- (days) -- today -- ... ten weeks ago, I thought overlove was inevitable. I was right. It has suggested to me that this won't manifest as truly problematic for at least 5 years, and possibly not for 25 or 30, or 50).

He is a wiggling widget of skin and soft and sweet smell, of squishy meat. And I am going to remember everything-- that's my goal -- by writing it down. His -- I hate this word but I'm freaking exhausted, guess why -- adventures, and mine, and Tamara's, over the coming hours, with Jonah-only-knows what kind of consistency.

Final though here: I have been asked my take, by friends with kids, on parenting ''so far,'' -- like it's a game, the first part of the 1st quarter is over, now's the TV timeout. How's it going, aoch? Game plan good? Unfolding as expected?

The query is sweetly meant, but odd. My take on parenting.... I mean, does Baby have a take on Milk, yet? Sure, he's had a helluva lot of it. But he has hardly tempted, or savored, the flavors. The few he's had -- left boob and right; formula, of this sort or that, liquid or powder... But Jonah's take on milk can't be compared to anything. He doesn't even know what he doesn't know.

So it goes with me. Here I am, allofasudden, not directly planned, Someone's Dad. I wasn't someone's dad until I was; now i am. And "parenting so far" -- well, I have hardly tempted, or savored, the flavors, though I've had a few. Still -- I don't even know what I don't know.

I want to know it. I crave remembering all of it, forgetting nothing. I want to hear it from other points of view, and compile it with abandon.

It will be boring at times, and I like the notion of that -- a nice respite from the unboring, from the things that make me shake my head in wonder, when I don't have time to shake my head.
That's why I am here, and here I -- er, we -- go.