Yesterday, at 5:21pm, our daughter Chloe Annabel was born. She weighs seven pounds and thirteen ounces. When she came out, she immediately spoke to us with a soft, squeaky cry. It was love at first chirp.

Her three and a half year old brother, Cole, excited to see her for the first time, kept saying, “Aaawh, she’s so cute!”

Mommy and Daddy certainly think so too.

… See more pics over at Flickr.

I’ve long accepted the fact that the job I go to everyday shouldn’t be the primary place to go searching for self-worth and fulfillment in my life. Don’t get me wrong. That’s in no way meant to disparage any circumstance or person in my career, past or present. I’ve enjoyed my gigs fondly enough. It’s just a philosophical truism I’ve taken to believing, which helps me categorize my day-to-day activities into a larger picture.

I don’t expect that I’ll be the most recognized customer experience designer this side of the Atlantic any time soon–but those cards could be in the picture one day. Nor am I particularly motivated by the thought of making enough money for a three-story house with a four-car garage overlooking the valley (technically, I’m halfway there anyway). And don’t get me wrong again; I fully expect to be rewarded for my talent and skills.

It’s just that what’s important to my life legacy and what gives me purpose, especially given the way the cards have been dealt to me so far, doesn’t have a lot to do with the clout I may or may not gain in the professional arena.

Rather, it’s the efforts I give daily to shape meaning into this abstract thing called fatherhood. I was reminded of the simplicity of this the other day as I was trying to brighten my son’s spirits, while he was in the midst of a 2-year-old mood swing from the outer-depths of toddler hell.

Somehow, in some magical way I can’t recall nor describe, I made him do a complete mood turn-around. This must have seemed like some kind of spiritual voodoo to him. I know it certainly did to me. But I remember paying attention to my own careful orchestration of his cognitive experience and how it elicited a desired effect – much like designers across different industries get paid to do.

(Okay, I was probably making fart noises with the side of my mouth, but that’s not really the point here.)

In a few short seconds, I affected his perception, transforming his willful defiance into an involuntary smile. Cool, I thought, if only I could accomplish this long term. And then, I thought, why couldn’t I? Why can’t my role as a parent emulate some of the things I do in my profession?

It occurred to me then that something of the opposite in my secret theory of life might also hold true. Perhaps the thing that’s intended to bring me the most joy may resemble certain aspects of my professional routine. And, yes, maybe even the two can occasionally even inform each other.

Surely, the commitment I’ve made to nurture, protect, and prepare a human being for a world full of uncertainty is not so unlike my job to provide a satisfying experience to the users of [insert product with hence-forth still fuzzy requirements here].

Discovering and creating values, trust, and loyalty–these are all things that I intend to master in my role as a father. And humbling to the academic state of user experience and product design as it may sound, I think these positive attributes may also be transferred into a more practical application.

I think they may also apply to life.

There’s no shortage of days to remind me that my industry, with all of its accompanying challenges and headaches, is that much removed from the work of an intelligent creator or benevolent watchmaker, if you will. But if even a minuscule fraction of the values I strive to build can be absorbed into the work I do to live, and the life I try to shape for my child as a father, I think fulfillment and true purpose may get a run for their money on two fronts.

Because to me, that’s what true purpose is all about. And in the grand scheme of things, that’s how a legacy should be defined.

You know, there are certain days, and I’ll just take this past Valentine’s Day as my not-so-everyday example, when the most romantic thing your mother and I might say to each other is, “Hey, does it smell like poop in here?”

But the other day you beat us to the punch line.

When your mother insisted that the cat took his revenge in the corner of our bedroom carpet after we had just come home from a small weekend getaway the other night, it was a rare occasion when I had to disagree.

“No,” I thought to myself (yet somehow failed to articulate verbally), “it smells more like human urine, only… if it had somehow been burnt into microscopic vapors by a popcorn machine.” How my subconscious knew that sensory experience is far beyond me, and I’m glad my mind wasn’t asked to take it any further, because when your mother recalled to me the story of how you took absolute pleasure in relieving yourself into our oscillating heater fan just before we left on our trip, it instantly made perfect sense to the two of us.

“Oh, that heater’s going out in the breezeway tonight.”

Thanks for the a-ha moment kiddo.

Love,

Dad

A big blue shiner on his cheek from one of many missteps in the mastery of walking, a lasting fever with clear signs of roseola, and an unrelenting cycle of nag/cry/scream that says simply “hold me in your arms for about 87 hours straight, please” and it is clear that our role into this parenting thing is still in its learning stages. The fever broke long ago, but the aftermath has continued into our rain-filled weekend.

My wife and I will eventually take stuff like this as no big deal, but if we seem a little on edge lately, it’s because we’re still paying some serious parenting dues.

There are rare and precious moments that remind me of how small and insignificant a child of the universe I am without creeping the ever-loving bajeezus out of me. Yes, at times my ego runs on all four cylinders. But alone with my son, in the back yard the other day, I came across a small glimpse of meaning into the
setup of things.

It was grand and simple and made perfect sense.

There we were watching the sunset over the farmland landscape that stretches out from our back yard. I stood with my son in my arms and pointed. “Sun,” I said. As we turned around to go in for the evening we saw a brightly lit waxing orb centered perfectly over the house. I stopped after gazing and pointed again. “Moon,” I told him. And then I did the only other thing that made any sense to me. I pointed to the open field of grass below our feet and with a broad sweeping circle said, “Earth.”

I repeated this lesson of connect-the-dots for a while, until all of a sudden it turned into a kind of healing meditation. We weren’t just looking at this setup. He and I were a part of it. This was a profound moment for me to stumble upon—that is, if one can believe to stumble upon such moments. But I’ve started to take notice when I see all my ducks lined up in a row.

Not entirely unrelated: Richard
Butler, Isaac Newton, William Blake

You know, I asked your mother not too long ago if having a child was everything she expected it to be. I distinctly remember how she searched for the right words and replied to me as seriously as I’ve ever seen her. “I honestly didn’t think it was going to be this satisfying,” she said. And with that she summed up both of our experiences in a way I never could have articulated.

Having you has been satisfying. Bullseye, mom.

While we’ve had our moments of panic (you have a tendency of getting into anything that might electrocute, permanently mar, or flatten you into an oversized pancake), we both feel that you bring something into our lives that makes us see things in whole new unexpected ways.

Last year, when you were born, we had noooooooooooo idea what we were getting into. I mean none. I remember how naive we were, prancing off to the delivery room after your mother was induced. I can still see her standing in the hospital room mirror and admiring how cute and adorable she looked in the delivery gown she purchased for the birthing event, while I inquired to the nurse about getting wireless internet access on my laptop.

No, really, that’s what we did. We waited for the contractions to come like we were standing in line to see the next X-men movie or something. Like I said, we had no idea what we were getting into.

Set the clock forty minutes into the future and your poor mother is overwhelmed by the sharp intervals of pain and discomfort. The gown is thrown off from the biological heat wave that consumes her. She’s screaming and throwing up all over the bathroom and yelling nonsense to me about the nurse not liking her because of something she said (actually, this may not have been entirely inaccurate). All I can do is try my best to get her an epidural. It’s getting ugly fast.

A few hours further and mom has pushed and strained like nobody’s business to get you out. But every time we make some headway, the doctor nudges you back in so that the life monitor can read your vitals (I guess that’s the procedure or something). I didn’t have the heart to tell your mother that he’d been doing that for the past five hours.

Finally, just as the morning sun spewed golden light into the delivery room, you were born. I had Cat Stevens’ Morning Has Broken stuck in my head.

I don’t know how to describe this moment to you. I don’t think any parent can. All I know is I looked up and saw you for the first time. I heard you crying and the most profound thing I could muster was… “Holy shit!”

Mom and I just stared at you, half laughing (mostly crying), saying to each other, “Holy shit! Look what we did!” Afterwards, as the nurse measured and weighed you into the world, you and I had our first man to man talk. Ask me sometime when you really need it what I said to you.

I think of this day every now and then and the feeling still floors me. When I look at you and see how you’ve grown in one year, I’m amazed that there was a time that we didn’t even have you to watch.

So, this is your day. Your special day. And I just wanted to share a little bit about your real birthday with you.

Because what we’ll be celebrating every year at this time is our day too. And having you around makes our lives that much more satisfying.

We love you. Happy birthday.

Dad

This singular event did more to frame me as a person, I think, than anything else ever could, with obvious good reason. But I don’t usually think about my childhood with logical reason most of the time. Instead, I find myself reacting in primal spurts and sputters, or worse yet, closing up. Old habit.

Several mind-blowing things have been going on lately. First, I left my job and started a new one last week (actually, I went through a good week of inspirational training, but I’m not splitting hairs). I work in the city now and in a way I feel more like a Schindler than I ever have. Yesterday, I was the best man at my brother’s wedding. Today, Liz celebrated her first Mother’s Day. And Cole turns one in another week.

There’s a good amount of static going back and forth in my mind lately. And when the landscape changes this quickly it’s important to take stock and prioritize.

Here’s the crux of it. I have never felt more like a person, more humbled and blessed by my creator, than I do when I’m with my son and I feel like a father. That’s the biggy that I can keep going back to when things get weird. And it’s the same thing that makes setting my own priorities so much easier. Instead of endlessly asking myself if I’m making the right life decisions, I can simply turn down the opacity on my entire self-existence, and focus on what really matters.

That’s something I’ve never been able to do before and it’s been more freeing than I thought it would be. Life comes with its share of disappointment, its surprises, and its irreversible decision points for sure. But when we find the things that matter in the grand scheme of things aren’t really ourselves at all, we find a hidden gift—the ability to cope with the rest.

Me (after pausing to think about that last sentence for a moment): Actually, hun, I don’t think Superman eats.

Liz: What?

Me: Well, I’m pretty sure if he was trapped in a desert or something, he wouldn’t need any food or water. He’s, like… super. Y’know?

Liz: What are you talking about? Of course he needs to eat. He’s got a mouth and a stomach just like you and me. It’s not like he’s an alien or something.

Me: No, actually, he is an alien. Planet Krypton ring a bell?

Liz: Well, whatever. He still needs to eat. I’m pretty sure I saw him eating at some point in the movie. He needs to do other things that humans do.

Me: Oh yeah?

Liz: I know I’ve seen him and Lois f—

Thankfully, today’s modern world comes replete with the power of the internet to argue these important issues for us. And just for the record, this Wiki article has this to say about Superman’s inhuman abilities:

Theoretically, Superman has unlimited stamina, nourishment coming from the solar energy his cells process; he does, however, have the psychological need to eat, drink and sleep just as humans do. He can also hold his breath for an undefined duration.

Oh, thanks for settling that one.

I get this way when I read Newsweek sometimes too. Actually, I can think of a few accounting firms that might be able to provide my boy with steady work.

Believe me when I say that could entertain you with endless stories of my baby boy, espousing the unique differences between his binky, boppy and, of course, his bippy. Then again I could just share with you a mix of soothing music that usually gets him to sleep at night.

Let’s go with the latter.

1. Falling In Love With Me – Tim Booth
2. Somewhere Over The Rainbow – Israel Kamakawiwo’ole
3. Blue Moon Revisited (Song for Elvis) – Cowboy Junkies
4. Nature Boy – David J
5. I Don’t Like Mondays – Tori Amos
6. You Make It Easy – Air
7. Vibrate – Rufus Wainwright
8. Such Great Heights – Iron and Wine
9. Revien Cherie – Lou Reed
10. For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her – Simon & Garfunkel
11. Now At Last – Feist
12. I Was Born – Billy Bragg and Wilco
13. Life On Mars? – Seu Jorge
14. The One Who Knows – Dar Williams
15. Imagine – Keb’ Mo’