Jim Turner

GENUINE MOMENTS:

1. Knee High by July (July 2005)
2. The Graduate (June 2005)
3. It's A Small World After All (April 2005)
4. For Love (February 2005)
5. Missing Silent Night (December 2004)
6. Always a Child (November 2004)
7. Just Another Ribbon (October 2004)
8. Singing the Blues (September 2004)
9. The Democracy in Naming a Legacy (August 2004)
10. My First Time (June 2004)

Knee High by July

I live out in the country among the cornfields and farms. The title of this piece is a popular saying among the farmers growing corn in this region. They know that if their crop is “knee high by July” they are on track for a high-quality year.

I thought of this adage not only because I drive by the cornfields every day but also because my youngest son is about to have his first birthday. He is a firecracker baby, born on the 4th of July, my Yankee Doodle Dandy.

I began to think of the analogy further when comparing what we as parents do to that of what we know of farmers and the process of bringing in a good crop. As he stands clutching my knees, wobbling and unsure of his next step, I chuckle at the prospect of his growing season. Even now, we are cultivating our next child due to come into the world.

Farmers nurture, develop and cultivate the ground making a good foundation for the seeds they plant, turning and prepping the soil, making conditions as perfect for their seeds as possible. Farmers place in the ground their seeds at a time they know they will be most beneficial with growing and surviving. They plant the seed in rich soil, water and care for the seedlings while they are in the early stages of growing. They pray that the seedlings stay healthy and that no outside conditions harm or hurt the seedlings. They watch anxiously as the weather and outside dangers come and go, hoping that they have made conditions such that their small plants can endure. They know that the stronger the roots become and the healthier the plants grow the better chance they have of a good yield on their investment.

They look across their fields with pride as they see the sea of green and a healthy and vigorous crop. Their pride continues when they come to the time of harvest when all of their hard work shows its bounty. This process begins again the next spring when they start to raise another crop and more children.

We as future parents try to lay the best foundation for our family where our children can grow in a most opportunistic setting. We have the same worries as the farmer about outside influences that may shape the growth of our children and their safety. The child’s mother tries her best to eat well and to nurture her unborn child, knowing that the care and effort she puts in now will make for the best of conditions and the best yield. Each time we have a prenatal test, or each time we spend at a doctor’s office, it is like the farmer watching the skies hoping no danger befalls his crop. We have an unspoken anxiousness that we carry over the life of the pregnancy. Hopefully, the hard work we have put into the early process will provide the best crop and will provide us the reward we yearn.

No matter the care and nurturing and planning we do as parents, sometimes things cannot turn out as we had hoped. Like an unknown hailstorm or a single lighting strike causing a fire, a horrific moment for a farmer, we as parents can sometimes befall a problem while bringing a new life into the world. I speak of having a child with special needs, and a child that for whatever reason does not benefit from the special care a parent has provided.

In 1965, my mother gave birth to a special little angel—a beautiful little girl, but a child with special needs. My little sister was born with Spina Bifida and Cerebral Palsy. The doctors at the time did everything they could for the little girl but there was little hope that she would have any semblance of a normal childhood and life. My mother was the Farmer watching her crop damaged and not growing properly, but she never gave up hope that the crop would come in and be a bountiful harvest.

Many surgeries and hard times were ahead for the little girl. Many sacrifices were made, and times were most difficult for the family. The little girl’s father could not carry on the fight any longer, and he left the mother with two babies, sixteen months apart in age, one with a serious health problem. Suddenly, the mother was alone in her fight to make the family survive. Her crops were in danger. Fortunately, a new man came along and took a chance on the mother and her babies. He helped weed the crop helped water and feed the seedlings. He too took up the charge of making the effort to support the crops so they would survive and would later be rewarded at harvest time.

The doctors didn’t have much hope for the little girl as she underwent treatment for every ailment she had. Some doctors believed that the problems were even too many to list and to cure. They gave her life not much hope past the age of seven. The parents refused to allow the doctors to deter their efforts. They remained steadfast in their care for the little girl and protected her from the storms that threatened to end her life. Meanwhile, they had other children to care for, never once wavering in their efforts to bring in the best crop possible for each of them.

The years passed and the parents continued to fight, not wanting to succumb to the difficulties life threw at them. Some of their crops grew into strong and abundant harvests, going on to be successful and bearers of their own families. They have never given up the fight for their little girl. The years have proven difficult, and each time they are faced with a storm that might cause them to lose their crop, they fight the elements to give that seedling a chance to survive. That little angel has never really stopped growing, but she has never been able to be harvested.

My little sister turned 40 years old this month. She continues to struggle to live each day, suffering from kidney failure and having to undergo dialysis every other day. Her mother, in an attempt to save the crop, donated her own kidney, which was heroic, but another storm caused the transplant to fail. This too is a tempest that will only be a setback but not dampen the spirits as they continue to fight to provide the best life offers.

The growing season is with us again, and new storms will surely come to the crops, but if we provide the best conditions possible, if we give the crops the best chance of survival, somehow they continue to grow into a wonderful harvest at the end. As we continue growing our crops, we are also teaching the next generation of farmers. My parents have never given up on the one crop where perhaps there is no hope of a yield, but I for one think that their efforts have produced the best of all crops. They have taught my brothers and me how to farm.

Here is hoping your harvest is bountiful and your growing season is filled with rain and sunshine making your crop strong and healthy.

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Copyright 2005 Jim Turner

Jim Turner is the father to Annika (5) and Jake (4) and newborn, Aidan James. Jim keeps a daily blog called Genuine in which he shares his whimisical musings on fatherhood.

The Graduate

She was my first-born, our experiment with being parents. Each new thing that she learned was a triumph of the human spirit in our eyes. She would dirty her first diaper and it was a feat with which we could tell the world. She would learn how to smile and giggle and the whole world would disappear around us.

Being a father for the first time affords these daily signs that life is moving faster than we can control. It seems as though she was just learning how to sit up on her own and how to crawl across the floor, pulling herself to a standing position. My little girl graduates this year. She is all grown up. She has moved on to the next level in life. She will suddenly transform from that little baby to a first grader.

Today she is wearing her cap and gown, and explaining the finer points of what the purpose of the tassel and the significance of the moving of the tassel from right to left. She went on ad naseum with her little brother as he stared at her like she was speaking a different language. She then went into meat of the graduation program, telling us all the names of the other children and reciting each of their lines. It is surreal to listen to her as she talks about her own life and the day-to-day happenings.

As she entered the stage for her graduation program, I noticed she was the tallest of the group. She is a year younger than the rest of the children in her class, but is a few inches taller than the next tallest child. She turned to the audience, and my heart welled up in tears of joy and pride. She looked out over the audience and spotted her Mother and I and waved a little tiny wave so as not to upset the balance of the program but to let us know she had seen us standing there with pride in our hearts.

They began their program by putting on a play, a western about Black Bart stealing all the schools books. She had a large role in the play, and belted out her lines in perfect monotone fashion. She had memorized them perfectly without inflection or without emotion. I was still very proud, in spite of the humor I derived from the scene. The music began, and the tone never changed. As they shouted out the lyrics, I thought I could hear her voice above all the others.

I looked around to see all the other fathers and mothers also hearing their child above all the other participants. I suddenly thought about the stereotypical parent at the school play, the one that you see in all the movies -- the ones that want to stand in front of the rest of the crowd to get that perfect money shot of their daughter or son singing or saying their lines.

I can remember when she was a newborn, looking into her face, looking into her soul, promising her the best of everything I could offer to her, never actually thinking of the day when she would be able to write her name, sing a song, and recite lines for a play. All of that seemed light years away and seemed impossible at that moment, but I knew this day would someday come. Now that it had arrived, I had no idea the emotion that would burn inside me, and the pride I had seeing something I had created actually doing what I thought was only a dream. Looking over at her mother, I could also see that she was beaming and tearing up knowing that something she had created was performing on stage.

They cannot explain the feeling you have as you see a child perform and graduate from one stage in life to the other. There is no way to describe this to a person that has not had the opportunity to experience it. I can write about it here, and try as I might, all the help from
dictionaries or a thesaurus, cannot help me invoke words of that feeling that you derive, seeing it unfold before you. There are many things you must experience in order to know the feeling.
Like a birth of a child, a death of a loved one, or a child standing on stage and the administrator bellowing her name as he hands her a diploma.

I have twelve more years before I get to see her next graduation. That time now seems like
only a possibility, as did her graduation into first grade when she was born. I also have three other children that will be going through this process, although we are about to give up hope
for my son. I’m beginning to wonder if he will turn out to be the only child left behind. Like skydiving, there is always the first time it is experienced, the first time is always ultimate experience that cannot be replicated.

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Copyright 2005 Jim Turner

Jim Turner is the father to Annika (5) and Jake (4) and newborn, Aidan James. Jim keeps a daily blog called Genuine in which he shares his whimisical musings on fatherhood.

It's A Small World After All

I don't want to put the song into everyone's head, but this cliché has become more true to life than it did back when it Disney brought his dream to fruition. Now as a parent, I am struck by the irony of the nearly 300 animated children on that Disney ride all joining together in a chorus.

Technology today has brought us all together, not in a chorus of voices, but in a single voice joined together. It has no ability to distinguish race, gender, sexual orientation, or age. I have often been mistaken as a woman, or as an African-American man. I know that I too have been mistaken on an occasion of thinking I was talking to a father when it turned out I was talking to a mother about the tribulations of breastfeeding.

I have found through the Internet that mothers and fathers across the globe have a single common denominator—parenting. I have met through the use of e-mail, instant messaging, and blogs, an array of parents. I have met single mothers, single dads, parents that have one child, and parents that have many. I have spoken to stay-at-home mothers, stay-at-home dads, and parents that can't find work. They all have the same fears, questions, thoughts, and issues with raising children.

A father in South Africa is having the same problems with sleepless nights that we had our first few weeks with a newborn. A mother in Australia is raising her family with an estranged father, and she struggles to pay her bills and still provide the proper structure of a family unit. A dad that has lost his wife to cancer wonders whether he can handle the adversities of his daughter. A mother that has an absent father, because he represents his family and country in a war in a different part of the world, wonders whether her son has been given enough opportunity to see a how a man handles life.

All of us happen to have the same fears that we cannot provide adequately for our child or we cannot protect them from the evil that may be lurking around the corner. We have the same triumphs when our children reach that milestone of crawling, walking, sitting up, and their first word no matter the language. We know the heartache of a daughter not being asked to the latest dance, and the son that lost the big game. We rejoice in the little things that parents often do, and we take pictures and show them to friends and family, as we chronicle the lives of our offspring.

We experience the same heart-wrenching sorrow as we hear of a loss of a child to disease or other tragedy. As parents, we feel the horror of a missing child, and pray for a child to be returned to a parent and the safety of home. We know when we hear of earthly catastrophes that in every story their lies the tale of a child and a parent and we weep inside hoping for the best. We make fun of that mother dealing with the same thing we dealt with and lived through. We commiserate with that father of a colicky baby that for some reason only knows to cry when Dad's eyelids happen to finally close from exhaustion.

We as a planet of humans, have some common elements to our existence. Happiness, sorrow, pain, and love all have a place in the heart of a parent and a child. Whenever I think that I am alone in this job as a father, I can easily look into the thoughts and ideas of many others. Not only can we lean across the fence and ask for advice of the next door neighbor, but the Internet has given us the ability to hear how a Mother in England has dealt with the croup, how a father in South America feels about changing his 14th diaper in two days, and how each time it seemed worse than the last.

The adage is that "it takes a village", but I say we have more than a just a village -- we have the world. My hope is we are able to have technology lead us all down the path of peace and understanding where my neighbor is merely a touch of a keyboard away. Perhaps we can achieve the world peace we so much long for by simply typing a simple greeting to that parent on the other side of the world.

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Copyright 2005 Jim Turner

Jim Turner is the father to Annika (5) and Jake (4) and newborn, Aidan James. Jim keeps a daily blog called Genuine in which he shares his whimisical musings on fatherhood.

For Love

Hearing the faint swooshing of the heartbeat is one of the most rewarding things a future father gets to experience during those first visits to the OB/Gyn. I have never missed a visit with my wife for any of our babies, not because I am the supportive husband, but because I get to be involved.

I am not the best at surprises. And I like thinking that I am somehow in control of this miracle of childbirth. This time around is not much different from the last time when I sat with my wife at her appointment. Except, I hadn't expected that I would be sitting here again, so soon -- a mere seven months after my wife gave birth to our third child.

On the trip home following the appointment, my emotions ran amuck. We had just had a firecracker baby on July 4th, and now Santa left us this little surprise package under the tree. I tend to complain about my home life because having three children 5 and under can be a nightmare. Now we were expecting number four to be born before the oldest one turns six.

I always said that it would be nice to have four children, but then again I began to think that someone up there had a sense of humor. When I first thought of that number of children, I was in my twenties and full of vigor and a passion for life. The other part of the irony when I said I wanted four children as the fact that I had not even had the first one at that time. I had no reference point. Now as I sit here thinking about my life at 40, four children seems like a sharp stick in the eye.

I was sure that the first child would be an only child. This was too hard. Why would anyone stand in line for this duty? It was much harder than I imagined. The sleep deprivation, the siphoning of money, and the intangibles reared their heads as we struggled through being first time parents. Sixteen months after our jump into the deep end of the pool, we were watching a second child come into the world.

This was okay; after all, we needed the boy to even things out having had a girl on the first try. This would be a perfect pair. They were fairly close together and they could be friends. We were happy with this number. Two was an even number, it was a girl and a boy. This is where we needed to stop. But of course, we all know that misery loves company.

I feel like a professional father now, a wily veteran, the ultimate daddy. I can change diapers in the dark, I can hear things from the other room and discern whether it needs my immediate attention or if it is a battle that needs not to be fought. I can make chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese in less than three minutes and read stories with all the proper voices and inflection. I can bathe all of the children at once and manage to spill only a pint of water on the floor. I can make bottles of formula with precision all the while mediating over who has the bigger cookie and who has more juice.

I seem to be in a constant state of diaper buying. Since 1999, I have paid more for diapers than I have reduced the principal amount of my home. I have forgotten the meaning of silence, and I never have to feel alone. I wonder if all of this practice and training will prepare me for this fourth baby?

I walk into my office and people look at me and shake their heads. “Yeah, that is him, that is the guy that is having another baby so soon after his last one.” I have heard “Better you than me” so many times I am beginning to have an identity crisis. I feel like the guy that is chasing death, a thrill seeker or an adrenaline junkie. I must be the type that needs to have constant turmoil to feel alive. I walk through the day with bags under my eyes dreaming of that chance to close my eyes for a few moments. I wake up every day wondering if the sniffles that child has is going to latch on to me for the next two weeks. Why would I subject myself to this horror? What could possibly be the reward for this tumultuous relationship?

The answers to these questions are simple. The love of a child is equal to no other. They love unconditionally and need to be loved unconditionally in return. This connection between a parent and a child is unparalleled. This is truly the reward for bringing new life into the world, for creating this miracle. Once you look into the innocence of your child’s eyes for the first time, the journey ahead seems simple and yet impossible at the same time.

When they learn to sit up, take that first crawling motion on to that first step, the pride that swells up in you is enough to power a steam engine. You walk into the room or they hear your voice and they light up and show that toothless grin. You are everything to them. I can’t imagine my life now without my kids.

Why do I do it? I could never answer that and explain with all the words at my disposal. But I can say simply I do it for love.

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Copyright 2005 Jim Turner

Jim Turner is the father to Annika (4) and Jake (3) and newborn, Aidan James. Jim keeps a daily blog called Genuine in which he shares his whimisical musings on fatherhood.

Missing Silent Night

As my wife and I sit and talk about our plans for the upcoming holidays and our plans for attending this meal at that relative’s home or that school play and that party for work, I am suddenly overcome with the thought of our servicemen and women that won’t get the chance to make plans for the holidays.

Their plans have already been made for them and they don’t include sitting and watching that turkey being carved, or that look on a child’s face when they open their special gift, and they won’t be kissing a loved one as the ball drops in Times Square.

They will be standing guard, or they will be flying in the skies over hostile territory. They will be serving meals to their comrades, fixing machinery, and clearing sand and grit from their eyes while in a strange land.

Our servicemen and women make this sacrifice to protect me while I watch my children eat their pumpkin pie, open gifts under the Christmas tree, and play their role in the school play. Our families are safe as a result of their efforts and the commitment of each of them. It is inevitable that some will pay the ultimate price of freedom with their lives, and still others will be wounded, and all of these sacrifices for no other reason than their country needed them.

Our soldiers are not the only ones making a sacrifice during this holiday season. They have left behind families and loved ones. These are the families that have loaned us their sons, daughters, husbands, wives and fathers and mothers. They too will be sitting at home without being able to share in the fellowship of their loved one. Daddy won’t be there to help them put out cookies and milk for Santa Claus and tuck them away in their beds. They won’t have Mommy to make that special meal for Christmas dinner, and to give them that extra piece of fudge just because it’s a special day. A brother is gone to war, and that special holiday tradition of a picture while standing under the mistletoe will be missed this year.

I come home in the evenings and plop down on the couch for a few minutes until I hear the service door open and my son shouts my name, screaming all the while with arms open wide wanting a hug and a kiss. This is something I look forward to every day and no matter the difficulties I have endured, this always seems to add a spark. My peers in the military do not have the luxury of a spark to cheer them and warm their heart when they have had a bad day. My friend Jenny from Texas is a mother of three small children and wife to a 19 year military veteran. Her children won’t have the comfort of hugging their dad at the end of each day. She herself will be alone at Christmas. I asked Jenny how she prepares her children for the disappointment of not having their father at home on Christmas. Jenny merely has to tell her youngest “Daddy is still working on the helicopters but he will be home soon”. As she prepares for the holidays, Jenny explains to me how she intends to handle the absence of her husband as it relates her children:

“It is important to my kids that we go on with our old traditions as much as we possibly can. It seems to help them to change as little at home as possible. I will probably put up more pictures of my husband around the house and remind them that their dad is still a part of our lives. I will tell them now that even though their dad cannot be here in person for the holidays, he will be here in spirit and we are always in his heart."

Jenny’s story is not unlike many other people this holiday season. When some of us will be cuddled up with our spouse watching our children rip open their gifts, showing their excitement, some families will only have a picture of that loved one to look upon as they celebrate this special time of year.

Although Jenny keeps her head high and stays strong for the sake of her children, she bravely states that this is the life we have chosen as a military family. Not only do I salute her husband for his sacrifice, but I also take my hat off to Jenny. I pray for her husband’s safe return, so that next year, he can wake up with his children to see what Santa Claus has brought them.

There are 150,000 of our Americans serving in the War in Iraq, in Afghanistan and other deployments overseas. These men and women will not be home for the holidays.

I think back to hearing about a time when we had men across the Atlantic fighting a war and the thought of both sides stopping their fighting, having a moment of peace while they both joined each other in a chorus of Silent Night. Unfortunately, our enemy won’t join in a chorus this holiday season, but I for one intend to sing at the top of my lungs so my American heroes can hear us here at home.

No matter how we celebrate this holiday season, we should take a moment to remember the men and women making it possible for us to celebrate in our safety and in our freedom. I will also pray for peace and for their safe return.

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Copyright 2004 Jim Turner

Jim Turner is the father to Annika (4) and Jake (3) and newborn, Aidan James. Jim keeps a daily blog called Genuine in which he shares his whimisical musings on fatherhood.

Always a Child

The holiday season is upon us and so it begins -- the time of year when our families gather in large groups to imbibe in the bounties of the year. My family is no different.

I have a large family, and we all have stayed close to home, making it easy to congregate for large feasts at Thanksgiving, and large parties at Christmas. Through the years, my mother’s home was always the one where we seemed to flock like salmon during their annual spawn, when we always seemed to make it home. Nowadays, we still make time to gather at one house as a family.

I always remember having more family and friends in our home than we could fit at one table. There was always that friend from college, or the family that had no other place to go, and the old man from the nursing home without living relatives that somehow ended up sharing our food. We could always improvise and provide a place setting for everyone. The ping-pong table, the garage sale banquet tables and the time we had saw horses and a sheet of 4x8 plywood. Someone should call Jeff Foxworthy I have an addition for his act. Of course there was always the table where the children gathered, the table that was far from the adults where food could be dropped, drinks could be spilled, and where eating was actually optional. The kid’s table is the place where the dogs crowd for one chance at a spilled plate. The kid’s table is where children that don’t want to eat the real food before pumpkin pie, drop the veggies on the floor where dogs are eager to lap it up.

We always aspire as young children to make it to the next level, to be promoted to the table where the grownups eat; to partake in grownup conversation. At the grownups' table you might hear the latest in politics, economics, or the latest family gossip. I look back on a time when I was the awkward age when I hated being at the kid’s table, but did not yet have the ability to mingle with the adults. I can still remember the time when my mother announced that I too had a spot at the adults' table. It was a rite of passage that won’t soon be forgotten. That day I looked at my younger siblings and with chest out and grin on my face -- I sat as the adults welcomed me into the group.

My family has changed through the years, and the torch has been passed to me as first born and oldest amongst the children to host family gatherings. The children’s table is segregated in our home to another spot that cannot be harmed by spills or the occasional dropped glass or plate. The back door is close for sneaking those yucky things that mom put on your plates that in a million years you would not even try or even eat.

Now that I look back, my mother spent a large amount of time at the kids' table when we were young. I have reached the age where I sit at the head of the table and carve the family turkey and conduct the family toast, but the irony sets in, I have again been banished to the kids' table. The last gathering I seemed to spend a lot of time around the kids cleaning up spills, and playing referee over spats of who had the pie and who had the ice cream. So many years ago, I remember looking at my younger siblings with head hanging down and a smirk, as I was moving up to the big table and would not included in their group any longer.

Things have come full circle in my life. I began at the kids' table wanting to earn my way to the head of the grownups' table. I finally made it to my destination and was immediately demoted to watcher of the kids' table once again. I look now to pass the torch to the next person in the family, and look forward once again to sitting at the table of grownups to enjoy my food and the adult conversation -- and to look as the next set of parents wipe mouths, clean up spills, and separate fights over who has the most whipped cream on their pie.

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Copyright 2004 Jim Turner

Jim Turner is the father to Annika (4) and Jake (3) and newborn, Aidan James. Jim keeps a daily blog called Genuine in which he shares his whimisical musings on fatherhood.

Just Another Ribbon

Breast Cancer was a myth to me growing up. I had heard of it, but never really understood the disease. I had never lost a loved one, and to my knowledge I never had a friend that lost a loved one to the disease.

The unfortunate fact was, I am not sure this disease was on anyone’s radar until Susan G. Komen’s story in 1982, and then the invention of the pink ribbon in 1991, symbolizing Breast Cancer Awareness. Pink ribbons began appearing on the lapels of celebrities, and the color pink came to symbolize one of the largest charities in the world. The pink ribbon had no relation to me other than I knew what it symbolized.

Then during my wife’s pregnancy with our first daughter, during one of our first appointments, we asked the doctor about a lump that my wife had in her right breast. This was not too upsetting, because my wife had this lump for some time following a sports injury, and the lump had grown and continued to remain without incident. The doctor then had said that it was probably nothing, but that following the pregnancy we should schedule a removal and biopsy. At that time, the doctor was not too concerned because of the history of the lump, and the fact that she had had this lump for a period of time without any other symptoms. But there was a shadow of doubt because of her family's history of breast cancer, and other types of cancer.

Given the trials and tribulations of a pregnancy, we did not give it much thought until some time after the birth of our daughter and after she had finished breast-feeding. Then we made the appointment. It was not an issue until then, I had blocked my feelings about it. But once the day arrived for the surgery, it became all too real to me. My wife was unusually calm, and I tried to remain strong for her because I suppose there is not much reason to panic or be concerned until the time has come to be otherwise concerned.

I waited in the family waiting room while she underwent the outpatient procedure under a local anesthetic. That was a long time to wait in spite of the relatively short procedure. The doctor appeared and indicated that he had removed not just one lump the size of a golf ball, but another about half its size. She had just finished breast-feeding so he indicated he had to work around some of her milk ducts but that he was quite certain that he had removed all of the masses. This was great news, but the real news would not come until days later -- after the biopsies were done. Her doctor had found squamous cells on her cervix during her first checkup and pap smear of her pregnancy, and they were able to isolate and destroy those cells. Having dodged that bullet, I was sure that they would find something within the masses that they had removed that day.

Those next few days I spent agonizing for hours thinking of what we would do if they were in fact cancerous. What if the doctors could not fix what was wrong? What would be in store for my newborn child and me? It was a very real fear and I could feel my anxiety build each day with the thought of losing a loved one to this once mythical disease that I knew nothing more about than the pink ribbon I had seen on a celebrity. I would sit in the dark wondering how I would handle bad news. How would I fight the disease with all my heart to assure that my wife would live to watch our child grow? Would the diagnosis mean financial ruin for my new family? Would the little girl we just brought into this world know the mother that had worked so hard to be healthy and to assure she would also be healthy?

A few days following the surgery the results came back that the cysts were in fact benign, and that no cancer could be detected. I fell to my knees that day and was thankful for the blessings that were bestowed upon my family and me. I was overcome with emotion as I thought about those who were not given the same blessing -- the daughters, mothers, sisters, and friends that had been lost to this deadly disease. Unlike me, they were forced to deal with the worst news possible -- the news that a struggle for life would have to be undertaken. I see stories of cancer survivors and cancer victims, and I hope that some day a cure will be found and the disease will be eliminated. It is our responsibility to fight this disease for future generations, and to allow the possibility of a new mother to enjoy her new family, or for a man to feel the elation of a wife and mother being here to enjoy life.

October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and a time when all of us should reflect on this disease and the havoc it can wreak on our lives. The pink ribbon symbolizes the need for awareness, and our ability to fight the battle against breast cancer. It gives hope to those that have been diagnosed with breast cancer and gives a rally cry to support those that are without hope.

This is not just another ribbon.

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Copyright 2004 Jim Turner

Jim Turner is the father to Annika (4) and Jake (3) and newborn, Aidan James. Jim keeps a daily blog called Genuine in which he shares his whimisical musings on fatherhood.

Singing the Blues

It began when she told him the results of the pregnancy test. The unforeseen problem was merely a spark at that point that smoldered for a few months, not putting off enough heat to be noticed. As the pregnancy began the mourning sickness started. She was constantly nauseous and this caused her strength and endurance to lessen and this made her tired. She lost weight during her first trimester due to the constant sickness she felt.

He did everything he could to make it easier for her and to comfort her. He had no control over her physical symptoms, he could only provide emotional support. This was their third child and each pregnancy had been different than the other. He had helped as much as he could during all three pregnancies, more so than did the generation of fathers before him. As much support as he gave, it never felt like it was enough. He had no manual, no guide to read to instruct him how to handle her emotions. She had back pain and he massaged it, she had cravings and he provided it. She was sleeping poorly and fatigue had set in and she became irritable, moody and the problems at that point mounted.

Finally, the baby arrived. It was beautiful, and everything she had endured suddenly seemed trivial. All of the anxiousness was over and the reward had shown itself. Together they reached the ultimate goal, and they were happy to finally be at this moment, but the happiness ended shortly after the baby’s arrival.

80% of all women are said to have suffered from some form of the “Baby Blues” following delivery. Some of these mothers go on to suffer a deeper postpartum depression. The symptoms are a laundry list of problems that if left untreated can be very serious.

This article may have been a prelude to a story of a mother’s survival of postpartum depression. Actually this is my story, the story of a postpartum dad. Approximately 60% of new fathers are said to suffer some form of the “Baby Blues”. My depression was not caused by a hormonal reaction. I have suffered from bouts of depression for quite a few years, and have been professionally treated. Therefore, I knew its symptoms and warning signs. My depression actually began during my wife’s pregnancy. I felt isolated, like I was putting everything into this new baby. In my mind, I was giving out all the TLC and attention, without any in return. Our sex life had waned and would only get worse after the baby arrived. Everything was about my wife and the baby. This man’s ego had to take a vacation. Then the baby came and the lack of attention to my needs worsened.

I had problems sleeping due to the baby’s schedule and the constant night feedings. The sleep deprivation compounded the gnawing away at my mood. My focus was gone and I could not accomplish anything without effort. The stress at work mounted and I had to increase my duties with the children at home. My needs were constantly being put aside for the good of the family. This was more than my psyche could handle.

I looked to other avenues for emotional support. I threw myself into my weblog and isolated myself in my den talking with online friends and ignoring family members around me. My psyche had finally reached its snapping point, and I had to fight within my mind to recognize my symptoms. This was difficult to communicate to those around me, and especially to my wife. I was supposed to be the strong one. She was the one that had just carried the baby all of those months and endured the labor and pain. It was she who should be suffering from the “Baby Blues”.

This was not supposed to happen to me. I felt alone fighting a battle that was supposed to be over, and if not over, it was supposed to be fought on a different battlefield. I needed the support of mommy, of my partner, yet she had no idea what I was feeling or thinking. I didn't think that I should burden her with MY thoughts and MY feelings of hopelessness. This of course was not true.

As we know, communication is the key to all relationships, and sharing your thoughts and feelings both during pregnancy and after the baby arrives can be a saving grace for the father, the mother, and the partnership itself. New fathers need to know that they are not without support. We may not be going through the nausea, the uncomfortable nights, or the pain associated with having a child, but dads have other stresses and concerns of their own. Simple communication can help lift the burden of having to always be the "strong one". After all, there are high expectations associated with fatherhood today. In this new era, fathers are very much an active part of their children's birth and lives. Gone are the days of sitting in the waiting room passing out cigars. And while these changes are good, one should remember that sometimes even well-intentioned fathers get a bit of the blues.

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Copyright 2004 Jim Turner

Jim Turner is the father to Annika (4) and Jake (3) and newborn, Aidan James. Jim keeps a daily blog called Genuine in which he shares his whimisical musings on fatherhood.

The Democracy in Naming a Legacy

One of the first tasks we have as parents that carries with it a monumental responsibility is the naming of our children. It will be the moniker that they will carry throughout their lives and the name that will mark their place in history for generations. This is an almost indelible decision that we cannot easily change.

I know that some children grow up to be famous and they change their names for fame or they use a nom de plume when writing, but for the most part we all have the name our parents gave us.

Most of us begin thinking of the naming process at an early age, before we have yet considered being married or even having children. I had girlfriends in high school and college that were naming our children after the third or fourth date. This all scrawled on the front of their notebooks, surrounded by hearts and other doodles, their own name with my last name and then underneath, the names of our children. I admit I too have always thought what it would be like to have children and what they would be named. Of course, we men always give our boys masculine, football player/action hero names. Our daughters are given the names of a princess or our latest crush in the movies or on television.

My wife and I have three children. The first two of our children, a girl and a boy, were easy to name. We did not have to pick but one boy name and one girl name. The first of our children was a daughter. We were unable to determine the sex until her birth. This necessitated that we have a name of a girl and a boy on our list. We muddled through the process of elimination, reading every book of baby names and surfing every website with a baby naming section. We knew the spellings of names, the meaning of names, and the heritage of names we thought we might give our child. We wanted the name to be different than the most popular names, but not so peculiar that our baby would be teased or ridiculed at school, and would later want to change. My wife always wanted to have a daughter and name her Paige. This was a perfectly suitable name right up to the point when she married me, a man with the last name of Turner. Needless to say, this name did not make our list. We decided on a name that was different, yet was a strong indication of our heritage -- Annika. Yes, Daddy is an avid golfer, and very happy with this name.

It was different for our second child and we were lucky because we were able to determine the sex from the ultrasound. There was no doubt that this child would be a boy. We already had a list of boy names from 16 months earlier which made the second list easier to compile. I had always wanted a son, and always wanted to call my son -- Jacob. We decided that Jacob's middle name would be the last name of my grandfather who was killed in an automobile accident involving a drunk driver in the early 1970’s. I wanted to ensure that my grandfather's name was carried on through my own children.

The last of our children came somewhat unexpected, and we were not exactly at that point planning to name a third child. This made the process of naming our third child much more difficult. We wanted to give this child the same considerations we gave our first two. For the first four months, we had no idea whether we were having a boy or a girl, but I was certain that this next child would be a girl. I began a list of feminine names and compared that list to my wife’s list. We actually had a girl’s name fairly nailed down by the time my wife had her 16-week ultrasound. A dose of Murphy’s Law, as the ultrasound revealed, we definitely were not having a girl, unless this girl had an extra appendage. We would have to go back to the naming drawing board.

Still, I thought that a boy's list would be easy. I sat down to begin my list and I drew a complete blank. I could not think of a single name that stood out more than the others. I decided to delegate the full naming duty to my wife, but agreed to offer suggestions as they entered my mind. My wife began her list and kept it on the counter, and as we came up with a name we liked, we added it to the list. I should also add here that there were three other boys born into the family during the last three years and we could not possibly double up a name that had recently been used for the cousins.

A list was derived after a few weeks, and it was time to whittle it down to a manageable group to make our final choice. The list was comprised of only 12 names, but herein arose the problem -- we could not make a decision. Each name was as well liked as the other. We were deadlocked without a clue as to how we would narrow down the names to even a handful.

That's when I decided to turn to my blog. Through my daily postings, I have developed a number of readers that come to visit and read of my regular antics as a father. These readers are from all over the planet and they have grown to a significant number. I decided that since we were having such a difficult time paring down our list, and since we live in a democratic society, I would hold an election, or a primary, to help eliminate some of the names on the list. My readers truly represent a slice of society, or a good cross-section of the population, and I felt that in casting their votes they could ultimately help us with the naming of our child.

I presented all 12 names on the list and asked that each of my readers vote on the name they liked best. Over a hundred votes were tallied. I planned on taking the top three names and moving them to the next round of elimination. As fate would have it, we had clear first and second place names, but three names were tied for third. So, instead of three, we had five names to enter into the final voting. Again a vote took place and we had a large and supportive voter turnout. We must have had a number of voters from Florida though, as once again the tally had been completed, and we still did not have a clear winner. Three of the five names all tied with an equal number of votes. This was proving to be more difficult than imagined.

Finally, after some time had passed, and after voting on a middle name too, we determined a clear "winner", and came away with a name for our son. After nearly three months of intensive voting, tallying of all votes, and examining all the hanging chads, my son's name had been determined by popular (and blogging) vote. On the birthday of our nation, July 4, 2004, our son was born and we named him -- Aidan James Turner.

The people had spoken.

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Copyright 2004 Jim Turner

Jim Turner is the father to Annika (4) and Jake (3) and newborn, Aidan James. Jim keeps a daily blog called Genuine in which he shares his whimisical musings on fatherhood.

My First Time

I can remember it like it was yesterday, not unlike any other fall day. It would soon be a day I would never forget. I always knew this day would come, but I never knew once it had arrived, I would be so nervous for my inexperience.

After all, didn’t everyone know how to do it? Wasn’t this a rite of passage that men had done forever? I had seen this a few times in movies, and I thought I could at least make sure all the right things went in the right place and in the right order.

I was out front with the guys when she beckoned me. They all had a look of knowing my future, none of them wanting to show their knowledge of what was about to happen. I approached the door of her house, and peeked inside. This girl was beautiful, with perfect features, blonde hair, and blue eyes. She was basically everything I had dreamed she would be and more. She had a look that day like she knew we would bond with one another. I had not known her for very long, but I knew I would love her forever. I was about to do it for the first time.

As we went into her bedroom her eyes were shining and she had a sheepish grin. She held my fingers with one hand and with my other hand I caressed her cheek. She had perfect skin, unblemished and without lines, wrinkles, or torture by the sun. Her skin was soft and she turned her mouth to my hand. My hand was somewhat dirty and it was rather rough from playing ball with my buddies. Surely she was not going to put that in her mouth. Dear God! I jerked away my hand showing my awkwardness and she followed it as if I had taken something precious from her.

My hands worked slowly, as I trembled with fear at what was about to take place. My inexperience was showing, and I knew she was able to see the fear in my eyes. She seemed to sense the fear, so I planted a kiss on her forehead ever so gently to reassure her that I knew what I was doing. I actually had no idea, and my confidence, or lack thereof, was beginning to show. I helped her out of her clothes and things began to go much more swiftly. And then, her breathing and mine both quickened as we approached the task at hand. God or nature has a way of giving you just enough knowledge with such things.

I was surprised at how long it lasted. And I began to feel ill at ease, and unsure that what I was doing would get me to the end result. My buddies had told me that once you get started, it goes really fast. I, on the other hand, was taking forever. Maybe, I was taking too long. Was I doing this wrong? Did she want this to be over? My confidence began to wane. Then she shuddered. A small coo came from her mouth. Oh my God! Did I hurt her? What was I doing? What was she doing? The shock on my face was obvious and frozen in time. It had happened so quickly, her accident, that I had no time to react. And so I shouted out and this scared her. I looked at the ceiling and closed my eyes.

Her tears began and I felt horrible. I had scared her. She had scared me. This was all completely unexpected. I cleaned up the mess with a towel I found next to her dresser, and then I held her until she finished crying, soothing her and whispering in her ear that I loved her. I could feel her heart beat ever so swiftly at first and then it began to settle.

I knew at that moment that this memory was one that I would never forget. It was an instant that I would carry with me, always etched on my brain. I would discuss it with fervor with my friends. I can still see her face, and smell her skin, and feel the softness of her hair.

That first time I changed a diaper, my baby girl had peed all over my hand and down the changing table, completely missing the diaper in my other hand. And my startled shout was to her mommy who, being too tired and sore to come running, did eventually make her way into the room just in time to see me holding and soothing our crying baby girl. I thank God that it had only been the pee pee and not that mustard colored poo poo.

And so you see that fathers may not be masters at changing diapers. But we do learn from our mistakes. And we never, ever forget our first time.

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Copyright 2004 Jim Turner

Jim Turner is the father to Annika (4) and Jake (3). His wife is expecting a third baby, a boy, in early July. Jim keeps a daily blog called Genuine in which he shares his whimisical musings on fatherhood. With original blogging style, Jim actually solicited baby names from his readers, allowing them to vote on the name for his soon-to-be born son. The bloggers voted, and the boy will be -- Aidan.