Category: Fatherhood

One Month of a Life

Aleksander turned one month old this past weekend.

Yesterday, he had his fist monthly check-up with the pediatrician. Despite putting on an operatic display, the doctor assured us that our son is growing well and looking good. He’s almost up to nine pounds, having added about 30% of body mass to his birth weight. The day for mommy and daddy was typical for the days when we’re scheduled to be anywhere with our little one: long, hectic and hanging by a thread controlled chaos.

Aleksander’s first month of life has offered so many lessons that it’s hard to know where to begin. (Also, to note, my brain capacity is hovering somewhere around the 50th percentile as I write this, further complicating the expression of any coherent description).

The first notable thing is probably the incredibly abrupt, immediate and all-encompassing reorientation of personal priorities that comes with a new (especially first) baby. Dalia and I have lived a pretty charmed existence as a married couple. We exist very comfortably, have jobs we enjoy and numerous hobbies to keep us busy. One could say that we were completely in charge of how we spent our energy and time, and we very much enjoyed this privilege. This reality was flipped entirely on its head with Aleksander’s arrival. I’d estimate that now, Dalia’s actions are between 95-98% dictated by his needs, and mine are probably motivated about 90% towards him, her and every other thing around the house that neither of them can do.

In no way is this any kind of complaint either. The deep-seated motivation to take care of an infant feels entirely endless. All I’m saying is that this one-day-to-the-next absolute rearrangement in your life’s priorities is something to behold. And one of those annoying cliches that happen to be true – that there is no preparation sufficient and that the situation must truly be lived to be understood.

On the point of priorities, mixed in with exhausted brain fog, I’ve never been so laser-focused on a few distinct items, namely: Aleksander, Dalia, me (somewhat)… then way down the list, every other thing. I’ve always liked being non-committal to the varied aspects of my identity, flowing through them as needed. Now I’m so locked in as a father and husband that I barely see anything outside of our three person circle of life. Of course, it helps that we’re both on parental leave (shout out Canada!), so without hyperbole, both of our full-time jobs (including nights, weekends and holidays) are solely to take care of our son, full-stop.

Aside from the impact on our own lives, Aleksander has fascinated, astonished and brought us joy in so many ways. First is just the incredible, almost indescribable, cuteness of one so little. His fingernails, chubby legs, perfect ears, are just so lovingly surreal that you can spend hours just admiring them. This complete enrapture is such a clever evolutionary twist. Admiring his little beauty and acknowledging that he’s been born of you almost distracts from how fully dependent he is on you. The desire to protect and care for him is so strong and so perfectly matched to how much care and protection he needs: 100%.

As we age into adulthood, we seem to be authentically surprised and impressed less and less. Our stores of memories of life grow quite substantial and we become comfortable with a certain predictability in life. In fact, one could argue that that’s what maturation is really about: creating a stable and predictable life path. Changes come more at the pace of icebergs than ice storms.

A newborn is such a quickly and transparently developing creature that it smashes the rational and reasonable adult contexts we’re so familiar with. Aleksander changes noticeably, in some way, on a daily basis, sometimes even seemingly within a few hours. He grows, gains weight, opens his eyes, uses his voice, stops to listen, squirms his body, pauses to consider in ways that are always new, because they really are. It is nothing short of miraculous to witness. And invigorating, and refreshing, and the most lucid reminder that life at its core is about growth and discovery, and not only about doing the needful.

Of course, he has no idea of any of the metaphysical inspirations he’s stimulating – he’s too busy eating his own hand, or sleeping like a rag doll, or filling his diapers. At one month, he’s starting to focus his eyes, although he still shows no real recognition of us. In the last week, he’s discovered a few sounds that he can make that are not related to crying and we very much hope he leans into those more. Sometimes when he’s alert, in a good mood, and thinks no one is watching, his little fingers and hands dance around like twinkling snowflakes. It’s angelic and innocent and pure and makes me want to cry. He doesn’t mind when we kiss him dozens of times, smell his little head, or even when daddy cleans his armpits in the bath. He lifts his fists to his cheek as an immediate reflex when he eats and it’s just the most adorable thing you can imagine. He’s quickly outgrowing his newborn onesies, some of which I’ve grown quite fond of and am sad to see go, and will soon move past newborn-sized diapers. He makes the greatest little faces, usually just fleetingly and by accident, but you wish you could frame and forever keep every single one. He’s going through a gassy and fussy phase which can be really challenging but he’s in good hands with mommy and me, and like with all things in his life, we’ll do our best to get him to the other side of this and any other of his tougher moments.

We’re constantly being reminded by other parents to treasure and absorb these early moments because they pass by fast. In fairness, we’re mostly in survival mode so contemplative reflection isn’t always the first instinct. I’m trying to sneak in these essays and hope that between the words and dozens of photos, we’ll never forget how blessed we were in the first month of Aleksander’s life.

A Little Life, From The Beginning…

Last Wednesday morning, just before 7am, Dalia returned to bed, woke me up, and whispered: my water has broken. Thanks to countless movies and tv shows, I groggily understood this to mean that our baby, growing in her loins for the past 37 weeks and three days, was on his way. Taking in this gigantic pre-dawn news, I closed my eyes, held her close and responded: let’s just sleep for 45 more minutes.

Our first born son, Aleksander Joseph, arrived into our lives less than a day and a half later, at 1:24pm on Thursday, October 29th, 2020 at the Ottawa Civic Hospital. As I write this, he’s been home with us about five days after spending a few extra ones in the care nursery due to some low blood sugar readings. Dalia and I have been adjusting to our new reality in the frantic, exhausted, absolutely consumed way that seems to be the norm for parents of a newborn. One thing is for sure, I do not regret those extra 45 minutes of sleep!

We found out about our pregnancy the weekend before Canada entered the first nationwide Covid lockdown in mid-March. The timing was not awful for us as our work moved home and we spent out our long lovely days between the office at the dining table and the lounge on the nearby couch. Dalia’s pregnancy was good by all standards, not exactly a cakewalk, but manageable. We followed our baby’s growth using apps and marvelled at our little sesame seed, pea, almond, chickpea, tangerine, avocado, baseball, squash, melon and then full-term human baby. We cried at ultrasound pictures, debated over names, accumulated stuff, worried that the belly was too small, and then quite suddenly, too big, received tips, read books, took online courses, but for the most part our lives remained largely the same, except with no alcohol, caffeine or sushi.

This mostly wonderful period ended quite suddenly with the early morning October surprise. Dalia called the hospital and they casually told her to have breakfast and then pass by. While she did that, I emailed my boss to say that I would be indisposed anywhere from a few hours up to about 20 years and began organizing many of the baby items we’d been putting off organizing, pretending that I had any sense of what was about to come. 

Dalia arrived back from the hospital with the order to have lunch – they clearly want you well-fed – and to return by mid-afternoon to be admitted for possible induction. We took the news like two naive schoolgirls, giddy, emotional and feigning confidence. We rolled out of home with our hospital carry-on in tow, favourite pillow underarm and snacks in a zip-lock bag like an elementary school trip to the science museum.

In our room, we danced and texted our family and friends – now deeply unaware of what the next day or so was to bring. After a handful of hours of bouncing on an exercise ball and with mild contractions still only five to ten minutes apart, a parade of nurses, doctors, residents, fellows and students arrived to kick the festivities up a notch. What followed was possibly the most intense 12 hours of our lives, but especially for Dalia. Needless to say, no matter how much you read, learn and research about childbirth, there is no real preparation. It truly must be lived to be understood. That being said, my wife show herself to be intrepid, courageous, powerful, committed and because she is who she is, always kind.

Just after noon, about 20 hours after first landing at the hospital, we began in earnest the homestretch to new life. The brigade of doctors returned to our room to help Aleksander arrive safely into this world. At 1:24pm, October 29, 2020, he joined his family and was immediately put to rest on mommy’s chest. 

Seeing your child for the first time is an atomic bomb of love and joy in your world, heart and soul. For as much as you track their growth and movement in the womb, their humanity remains somehow abstract. Something of a science experiment mixed with a practical joke, when you feel their punches and hear their hiccups in mommy’s belly. Stopping for a moment to enjoy the novelty, then getting back to the rhythms of your daily routines. The moment they thunderously arrive into you life leaves no doubt of their reality, tenacity and wholeness. This beautiful little human is yours and here to stay. 

Dalia and I gushed like Niagara Falls and I, for one, also whimpered like a puppy. I cut my son’s umbilical cord, acknowledging his absolute dependence on us and our absolute commitment to him. We took our first family picture, Aleks got cleaned up a little bit and within one hour was suckling on his new source of life. A tiny creature who can do almost nothing for himself comes pre-programmed to latch to his mother in his bid for life, strength and growth. Yet another astounding phenomenon that hits completely differently when it’s your own flesh and blood and not just a nature documentary.

Aleksander was born three weeks before his due date and was also on the small side for his developmental milestones. Our little beauty weighed in at just under six pounds, and yes, that’s as tiny as you imagine. Aside from that though, his fingers and toes were in place, vocal chords engaged, face charmingly symmetrical, skin somehow out of a photo shoot, and maybe most satisfying of all for daddy, his family jewels looked ready to propel our clan into the 22nd century.

Within just a few minutes of delivery, most of the dozen or so people in our room thinned out, off to similar nearby rooms, to drop in on other everyday miracles. Dalia, Aleksander and I enjoyed our first moments as a family. We facetimed excited relatives near and far with joyful introductions. We moved into our post-partum room and both mom and baby continued to undergo regular tests. 

Aleksander’s blood sugar came in low a few times, due, as we were told, to the fact that his little body didn’t have enough fat stores to last from one feeding to the next. Exhausted, disappointed and lowkey, strung-out worried, he was taken off to the nursery for overnight monitoring. Without much to do on our first night as parents, we crashed like we hadn’t slept in days, even though it had only been one and a half.

We visited Aleksander down the hallway as often as we could and were delighted when he returned to our room mid-afternoon on his second day of life. We did our best as first-time parents to change, feed, coddle, hold, entertain, soothe, admire, rejoice and rest, all while always paying special attention to his beautiful, splotch-free, floppy little head.

During his first night with us, coincidentally Halloween, Aleksander was put under a phototherapy lamp to bring down his jaundice level. Our little superhero put on his protective eyewear (aka superhero mask) and did his best to absorb all the healing light he could. Unfortunately, he became quite fussed, suddenly undressed and sprawled out in the middle of the room, and had to once again be taken back to the nursery.

Although our child wasn’t sick or in any kind of danger, we went through all the feels with him coming back and forth. Of course we were happy that he had all his fingers and toes, but parents crave for so much more for their children, especially in their earliest moments and days (but probably for always). You wish to take any instant of discomfort from them, you pray that their genetic coding has no hidden flaws, you watch for every breath and hope that it is deep, nourishing and easy. We low-grade agonized over Aleksander’s first 72 hours. But he already displayed his courageous and gracious temperament. Rarely crying or fussing for a moment more than necessary. Feeding and resting as if knowing that that was his most important job. And then finally, cleaning up like a champ for his short ride home from the hospital.

Bringing your baby home feels so deeply satisfying that it must be one of the few human experiences that have been enjoyed in our lineage for millenia. It’s truly a proper, formal introduction for him into his life’s context. The smells, vibes, tunes, objects, routines, sounds, touches, tastes that will cradle his growing psyche for years to come. It’s the life that mommy and daddy slowly, lovingly created for themselves and now cheerfully make space to integrate their newest family member into.

Since Aleksander arrived early, and as we typically keep a busy lifestyle, most of his items were not quite in the fully ready state when we got home. I tore through boxes, built, measured, assembled, rearranged and organized as much as possible, as Dalia dove into the new priorities of feeding, changing and constantly waking. With every passing handful of hours, our new highly-altered reality became more and more apparent. Our bedroom had been transformed into a fresh-baby-smelling haven and our living room became partially unrecognizable under the assortment of soft, fluffy accessories required to keep a newborn dry, full and cozy.

I hesitate to summarize these early days in any kind of definitive way because they are constantly changing, evolving and morphing, both for Aleksander and for us. It’s truly awesome to witness his growth in his first few hundred hours of life. From one day to the next, and sometimes even within a few hours, his cheeks become a bit squishier, his voice more assertive, and his tiny onesies slowly smaller and smaller on his frame. He discovered his hands, stops to listen to mommy’s voice, stretches and kicks his little legs into all the space his heart can imagine. Mommy and daddy are on constant stand-by, day and night, to do our best to decipher and satisfy his every need. And I imagine, perhaps with longer periods of sleep in-between, that will never not be the case.

Before closing this early open-ended essay, I just wanted to touch on one other thing. Amongst the myriad of mysteries of newborn life, Dalia and I have been confounded by why our little beauty, already small for his age, decided to join us almost a full three weeks early. Surely life is easier on the inside, always warm, wavey and wonderful. Along with wondering what Aleksander is seeing and thinking, we will never have a satisfying answer to this question. But, after a bunch of time kicking this around, with admittedly a strained mental capacity, I’ve only mustered one theory. 

My father died on June 29th, exactly four months to the day before Aleksander was born. I don’t exactly know what I think this means. Maybe a wink from the Heavens. These two colossal Jakubiaks of mine shall never meet, but I like to think their two spirits passed on the same wind in those four months. Maybe even shared a glass of milk and a glass of beer in the airport lounge in the place we come from and eventually end up, somewhere between Final Departures and Arrivals. Maybe they talked about me, shared some laughs, planned some surprises.

I had always heard that my dad had a difficult childhood. In the way of family history, these were hazy half-told tales. A few years ago, I remember seeing, for the first time, a picture of my dad as a toddler, chubby hands and face hanging over a black and white village fence in Poland. I was consumed with love for that little boy, knowing some of the bumps and bruises that he would face along the way.

I’m no Buddhist and don’t believe in reincarnation but I do like the idea, the privilege, the gift of raising Aleksander as though he shares a twinkle in the eye with my own father. Do my best to fill in the gaps, to squeeze him extra hard in the tough moments and create a foundation of love and support that lasts him a lifetime. A place to always safely land, and even more, to comfortably take off from.

It is with these hopeful, positive and grateful feelings that we begin our own journey as parents and moreso as a unique family in our own right.

Life, Death and All The Rest

My dad passed away one month ago today.

Nothing prepares you for the death of a parent, even if during your entire life you know it’s an inevitability. There is nothing that doesn’t suck about it. The event itself sucks. The things you have to do afterwards suck. And the way you feel sucks. There is no real silver lining – although we twist ourselves into knots to convince ourselves of some.

Maybe because my wedding anniversary was last week, I was reflecting on the comparison between the two life-altering events. The main similarities are the grandeur – both spiritual and earthly – and the shocking associated costs. Otherwise, they’re pretty much inverses.

Weddings you plan in detail over months, working towards your day with a joyful vision in mind. Death arrives on its own time. If you’re lucky, you might know the year or month it’s coming. It goes off like a nuclear bomb – in your heart, through your family, in your community. You go zombie-like while doing a million things that need doing. Ideally, one would have a communications team, finance office, legal department and more than anything, a professional to sob in front of. And yet there you go, turning off constant phone buzzing while choosing a cemetery plot and casket colour; drafting and delivering meaningful words for one final moment; flipping through decades of layers of memories and possessions, deciding how to honour them properly. Like I said, most of it sucks. But it’s also necessary and unavoidable.

Somehow I feel like I’ve opened a new level of human maturity by dealing with my dad’s death. Even if the lessons are impossible to articulate, you know that they are being learned. About reality, in the truest sense. About love, about relationships, about loss. Even about how many wallets and belts one person actually needs!

My dad comes to mind about five times a day. When I would have usually given him a call. When I hear the word ‘fantastico’ or phrase ‘don’t be sorry, be happy’ in his voice in my head. When I think about being 7 or 17, or even 37. I have to keep the sadness at bay because life continues despite his departure.

After one month, I still hope and pray that his soul is at peace and am grateful that mine has found the strength to honour his life and keep living mine.

Goodbye Dad

My dad died sitting in his favourite chair. I’d like to think that he was watching House Hunters International or Caribbean Beach Life, as he liked to do. Dreaming of sun, warmth and beaches as he drifted off.

He was born on Christmas Day and maintained his whole life that it made him extra lucky. There were at least three inexplicably lucky events that I remember from my childhood that have no rational explanation other than his Christmas Day birth. One involved winning a department store draw for a necklace for my mom and my wildly gleaning eyes shining alight at this magical good fortune.

He died on June 29th, the Feast Day of St. Peter and St. Paul. Not exactly lucky, but the death coming on the Feast Day of the saints who share names with my brother and I, has brought me profound comfort and feels like a direct and clear message from the sacred lips of God Himself. For me, June 29th is now the Feast Day of Peter, Paul and Zdzisiu (z-jee-shu).

We publicly announced my father’s death on Canada Day, another oddly auspicious occurrence. Our dad loved Canada in a way that can only arise from the sincere belief that the country saved his life, without hyperbole. Not general and inherited but uniquely personal. He always cherished that Canada had provided him and his family escape, welcome and opportunity. 

I’ve often marvelled at the image of my 27 year old father, arriving in Sudbury in February, with wife and infant son in tow, not a word of the language, not a familiar face in sight, and hungry after the flight because they didn’t eat out of fear of how much the in-flight meal would cost. In Canada, he turned down a three dollar an hour job installing windows because he had a family to feed. Delivered pizzas, cleaned theatres at night, drove airport limos. Bought a car, established a career, purchased a home. He saw his sons grow, thrive, graduate and succeed. He was able to rest easy. Share the pride and joy of fatherhood with pretty much anyone who would listen. ‘You boys were the centre of his world,’ read one message received last week.

He died peacefully on the Feast Day of St. Peter and St. Paul.

I am only slowly becoming accustomed to the void left in my life after my dad’s death. I’ve taken to referring to it as a shadow. Sometimes happy, sometimes sad, sometimes laugh out loud funny and other times, close the door to the world with sobs. I like to imagine that he can now see things he couldn’t before. The beautiful private moments of daily life; trips long ago taken; the kind love between me and my wife, the daughter he never had; the opportunities that we will continue to live; and the blessings that we will always share with his spirit.

I’ve also been remembering the trillion things that make up the dna of who my dad was. The way he would whistle to me from the stands when I was a little Polish hockey player. Even in a full arena, I could always make out his motivating sign of encouragement. The way he screamed ‘yeahhh babbyyyy’ so loudly when the Maple Leafs scored that the whole street could hear. That he bought me a Raptors hat on the day the team was announced and jumped back on the bandwagon 25 years later for their championship run. How he organized volleyball games for his friends for almost 30 years. How he played tennis with my mom and I when I was a kid and still hit the ball around decades later with my brother. How he loved to barbecue – filet mignon, cheesy garlic bread, baked potatoes. How he fried kielbasa to a salty crisp before adding it to his scrambled eggs; experimented with spices to perfect his chili; put so much dressing in his caesar salad that even he called it a heartattack salad. He joyfully threw out his alarm clock on the day he retired. Laughed hysterically on the day I smashed both the front and rear bumpers on my mom’s car while doing such a crappy job that I could barely even pay for one. Spent hours tinkering on his boat with a friend in our garage. Bought me all the right brands and shoes when that seemed very important. Took us on all the relaxing all-inclusives and made fast friends with the staff. Shared tips about girls and how to survive heartache. Was the tidiest person I ever met. Was a proud patriot, a self-styled Jakubiak ‘freedom fighter’, and never backed down from a fight. Told me upon learning that my now-wife was half Russian, “We’ve been fighting the Russians for centuries,” and then went on to fall in love with her anyway. He deeply loved the sun and beach, and even though he almost never swam, was still the acknowledged king of the condo pool. He worked two or three jobs almost his whole life. He took me to the baseball all-star game in Toronto in 1991 even though I’m pretty sure he didn’t understand the rules of the game. He insisted on getting two cards and two gifts on Christmas Day, always reminding us of his birthday. I remember how he let me take his car out of town on a summer long weekend the day after getting my license. Always made sure my guests had enough to eat when they came over for a party. How he used to write poetry as a young man. How much he loved the Greeks for welcoming our little family before we left for Canada. For laughing at Ottawa as a faraway town where ‘dogs bark out of both ends.’ How he made me nutella sandwiches with milk for breakfast. How he came to love Nintendo sports video games and played with my cousins and I. How he contemplated the meaning of life, God and time. How easily he discussed politics. How he made good and unexpected friends wherever he went. How he won a pose-down contest at a resort in the Dominican Republic even though he never lifted a weight in his life. How he held on to everything sentimental. Kept all my brother’s volleyball programs, rewatched all our family VHS tapes and always appreciated the souvenirs I brought him back from travel. He put my brother and I into French immersion even though he never spoke a word of the language himself. Whenever anyone sneezed, he would immediately mumble ‘shaddduppp’ and it’s the first thing that comes to my mind when I hear someone sneeze in public. He loved music. Santana, Janis Joplin, Metallica, Sheryl Crow and blasted salsa while he cleaned. His hair was always combed, shoes cleaned and shirt pressed. He tipped generously. He loved shrimp-fest at Red Lobster and juicy Cantonese style fried noodles, with no water chestnuts. He was most proud of his journey and establishment into Canada and mentioned it in almost every conversation in recent years. He insisted on a call every time we got back to Ottawa – the lack of which really hit me returning home last Sunday.

There are so many strands in a person’s life. My list could go on and on, and I’m sure that my mom and brother would say the same.

There is a finality to death that feels so alien to the human experience. In its abruptness, irreversibleness, opaqueness, inflexibility and non-negotiable reality. The only appropriate response is to lean into the Love. Only it can fill the holes, mend the wounds and soothe the soul.

I loved my dad like any good son – for many years he was my world, and after that, I always knew that I owed him mine.

I pray that his soul is at rest. Hopefully on a new favourite chair, still dreaming of sunshine and beaches, reunited with his many loved ones, keeping an eye on those of us still down here, and radiating with the Love of the Heavens above.

Bumps on the Italian Road

It’s a strange time. The more appropriate and accurate description is ‘unprecedented,’ but everyone is tired of that word (no matter how appropriate) and living in its foggy shadow. That being said, this past week has been one for the unprecedented history books.

It’s early June, the beginning of the best time of year in Canada. Week 16 of Dalia’s pregnancy. Week 13 of the Coronavirus lockdown. A week where the U.S., and the world with it, exploded over in the fight against persistent racial injustice. And, for us, closer to home, we sadly found out that my overseas post to Rome has been cancelled. It is a lot to take in, and to continually keep taking in.

The posting has been cancelled for obvious and not entirely unexpected reasons, but it still stings – and eliminates one of the main bright points at the presumptive end of the current quarantine tunnel. Alas, ’tis not to be and our baby won’t be born in Italy and we won’t celebrate with gelato and Tuscan wine. But our families will get to meet our squishy bambino without any delay; we can celebrate the snowy birth of Jesus at Christmas with our loved ones around our own family crib; and count down to the next year with us all together a few days later, cheesy hats and all.

There is always silver lining in our disappointments. And something else to look forward to once your heart settles a little bit.

Instead of continuing with Italian grammar, we’ll reconfigure our living space to peacefully welcome our long longed-for new family member and prepare to expand the seats on all upcoming journeys and adventures by one.