About a Dad.

About a year ago I held a baby. Not my baby. I could count the number of times I'd tried this on one hand, and this particular baby was small and squirmy, like a bag of marbles. Not like the sleepy peaceful kinds I had held before. Not like the bag of flour I carried around for a week in high school.

I dropped that bag of flour on the last day of the assignment. However, I managed to hold on to my friends' baby for a few minutes. I even practiced some calming techniques that we had learned in childbirth class. I hummed to her, bounced her a little, pat pat pat on the back. This was going to be easy. Sign me up for a litter.

A few months later, a few weeks early, our son Miles was born. When he first came out I remember thinking that he didn't look like I expected. I still wonder why he looks the way he does. But it's a feeling of wonderment that is awesome. I wouldn't trade it for all the money and sushi in the world.

The first eleven months have been like eleven years. And like eleven days. Being a parent makes you very aware of time. For instance, I've spent five minutes writing this. In that time I bet Miles has learned something new, chewed on something he probably shouldn't have, worked on standing up, cried, giggled and farted. Babies are far more ambitious than adults.

I haven't played my bass or guitar too often this year, except to show Miles how the strings make sound. I've missed being in bands: since I was 16 I've been in some kind of rock band. It's a funny part of who I am. My parents have long-ago accepted it, now encourage it, and I hope to do the same. That is, if Miles wants to grow up to be a musician (I know - you can't have it both ways). I'll adore him just as much if he wants to be an accountant.

I'm excited to play a reunion SFTD show next week. We have a secret special cover that I've wanted to play forever. I need to dust off my bass and figure out what to wear. What does a new dad wear to a big rock show? All I know is that I'll need to check my shoulder before I leave the house to make sure I'm spit-up-free.

One last note about a dad. Remember Steve Irwin, the host of The Crocodile Hunter, held his baby near a wily croc with a big gaping mouth? It was scary and stupid, and everyone shook their head. What a bad dad. But I now understand what he was thinking. When you're holding your own kid, and not a bag of flour or an egg, you hold him like there's no tomorrow. Or, I should say, you hold him like there is a million tomorrows.