So I Say I Want a Revolution. Well, y'know . . . (Part 1 of Many)

                When you get old enough (as opposed to just “old”), you start to notice the patterns. You start to see that culture, society, nature, life in general, all turn on great wheels, intersecting with each other at certain points, and in certain variations. Given time, a wise enough person or a good enough scholar of history will note the number of variations is finite, and repetition is inevitable. One can predict literal and figurative revolutions, if I can get Asimov-y on ya.

                Those of us who are feeling particularly jaded with today—those of us who are anti-war, anti-capitalism, anti-Harper, pro-environment, pro-Occupy, pro-the future—see that we’re at a very ugly out-turn of the wheels. We are saddened by this and anticipate—crave, even—a revolution, a change in sensibilities.

                Everyone who reads my blog frequently or interacts with me via social media (digital or no) knows my opinions on this. Having lived through the greed and materialism of the 1980s, as well as its constant fear that the end was near, I then lived through the subsequent hope of the 1990s. Politically, Reagan, Bush and Mulroney gave way to Clinton and Chretien (not to say the latters were without fault, but anything was better than the formers). Walls came down, Cold War ended. There was a real sense of hope in many ways as the 20^th century wore itself out. It would be foolish to ignore the Rwandan genocide or the war in the former Yugoslavia (as examples), but as a young man living through that time I felt an awakening hope that the First World was going to start doing the right thing for the Third, and that the Second would rebuild itself. But all the hope in the world means little when—within a decade—the wheels cycle and we enter the world of W. Bush and Harper, of Islamic fundamentalism, of the War on Terror, of tarsands and environmental apathy, of banks acting like banks and the economic (insert noun indicating anything from a slowdown to an all-out, grab-your-monkey-and-run-for-the-hills-crisis here).

                We want a revolution, those of us. But who, exactly are we? Who exactly am I because I’m not, strictly, one of them. I have friends on the poles (or wings, if you’re chicken), right out there in the extremes. I’m extreme in some regards, less so in others. I can say that I feel that if you find the current similatrities with our world and that of the 1980, politicially, socially, culturally are good things, then you don't love your children. Fact. 
              Over the next little while I’m going to be posting some bloggity blogs detailing the revolution that I see and crave. These will range from the global and pertinent, to the trivial. Whatever tickles my fancy. 

Life

Recently, I spoke at a high school graduation and tried to be uplifting. I think it’s a regrettable habit of the old to be a bit cynical when imposing our wisdom upon the young—we want to remind them that life doesn’t always turn out as you plan. This often strikes me as veiled excusing for a pathetic life.

Life doesn’t turn out as you plan. Accept it. Life is not the car, it’s the road. You aren’t in control, you can only navigate to the best of your ability.

I’ve been thinking about life a lot lately, because in the past dozen days I’ve experienced the birth of a son and the death of a friend. I have learned some things about this enigmatic existence, and most of them tell me that what I don’t know is often what’s best.

I have two sons. Every day I question how I’m measuring up as a father. My wife and I look at our boys and say, “Wow, we made those? Really? Hard to believe we’re capable of such wonder.”

The world moves faster as you age because it’s smaller. You want to find peace, excitement and grandeur in the world again? Study it with a child. Lying on your belly watching an ant carry a dandelion seed across a patio stone is nirvana.

When you have kids, you learn what in the rest of your life actually matters. Very little you do can justify taking time from your kids. I read a lot less, write only once a day, play with my band rarely, and I haven’t spent any quality time with my computer since 2008.

There is nothing more glorious than napping with a sleeping baby on your chest.

. . . Unless it’s a toddler saying, “Daddy, I yove you.”

I have heard that some men aren’t as attracted to their wives after seeing them give birth. Asinine. Nothing can make you fall deeper in love like watching your wife mother your children.

You can have all kinds of highfalutin philosophies about proper parenting before you have kids; ideas on soothers and nap-times and circumcision and Baby Einstein and discipline will be completely rethought once you’re on the job.

The littler the arms, the better the hug.

If you don’t care about making the world a better place once you’ve seen what it means to the innocent, you don’t have a soul. They say you should be the person your dog thinks you are. I propose we make the world the place our children think it is.

Kid + pen + paper = art. Always. It doesn’t matter whether it’s on your power bill or your wedding certificate or your final exams or your novel manuscript. Art.

We were convinced our second son was actually going to be a girl, we even sort of started planning her future. The moment your kid is born, you’re so in love with him that all preconceptions go poof and you can’t imagine anyone but this one.

I’m not telling experienced parents anything they don't know. I’m sharing my joy not my wisdom. I’ve had a couple of conflicting weeks, it’s a cliché to call it a roller coaster but it’s sure as hell felt that way.

Four days before Father’s Day I earned my right to celebrate that day a second time. I’m good at many things, but I was born to be a dad.

My life hasn’t turned out how I thought it would. Mostly, it’s been better. Yes, really. For I have learned that the greatest experiences are the unexpected ones.