Paternity Leave

Violet turned one month old this past Saturday.  I have had the joy of being present for every waking moment of her life so far.  Whether it was 3am or 3pm, weekend or weekday, or even 4th of July weekend, I could swaddle, hold, feed and sing to my daughter whenever I wanted.  And while I understand that I run a distant second to Regina in terms of immediate sustenance, I like to think that my nonsensical bedtime songs and expert swaddling abilities are somehow imprinting a sense of dad's love and ultimate authority over who she dates.

Like I said, it's been a joy.

But with one short week left, I've also started to feel a little guilty about how much time I've been off.  I know my colleagues at work would smack me upside the head for saying so.  When I think about the empathy, love, flexibility and support they've shown me, I realize that there is no one on Earth luckier than me to have the kind of friends as colleague that I have.  Seriously.  Don't even try.  You're not luckier than me.  I win on this one.

With that being said, I figured it's only natural to feel this guilt.  The onward march of academia slows for no one, right?  Think of the schedule that had to be covered, the patients that had to be seen, emails to be returned, unforeseen snags I wasn't there to volunteer to help work out, those poor residents aimlessly shuffling by my office door seeking out my sage advice....

Or, as so expertly described by Peter Venkman in Ghostbusters: "Dogs and cats living together...mass hysteria!"

But even when I rationalize this guilt, it hits me even harder that I was blessed with an amount of paid time off so few men are afforded in this country.  Of course, this country's woeful disregard for maternity leave is a well-documented affront to the "family values" so many in power claim to fight for.  In fact, one of the best editorials I've ever seen on this was just recently delivered by John Oliver on Last Week Tonight.  If you haven't seen it, take a few minutes and watch it here...it's fantastic:

 It's sad that a foreign-born comedian with a Green Card has a better grasp on this uniquely American problem than most elected officials in Washington.  If only John Oliver were eligible to run for President.

But paternity leave, beyond the usual economic arguments, still remains a societal taboo to some extent.  While the term Family Medical Leave has shifted focus to become more inclusive of family members and medical conditions, the actual act of a father taking extended, unencumbered time off to support his wife and change a diaper or two is stuck somewhere in the 80's, where men's role in a family are sandwiched between National Lampoon's Vacation and Mr. Mom.  Mention "paternity leave" to some folks and there's a good chance you'll get a snicker or some comment about wearing fake boobs to help with breastfeeding.  I wish I were making this up, but even with my overwhelmingly positive experience, this still happened.

I know this may sound like a whole lot of first-world complaining, but this country has always taken a horribly third-world stance on this subject.  By far, women bear the brunt of this by absorbing the double-insult of unpaid medical leave ON TOP of wage inequality that stems from a belief that they take more time off for family.  But as a new generation of men seeking similar opportunities to bond with their children, the two biggest obstacles we must overcome include the macho-breadwinner archetype we've designed and the belief that our work hours are somehow more valuable than doing laundry for our exhausted postpartum partners.

It's mind-numbing to think, as a country, we don't see the overall economic and societal benefits that paid family leave can provide, despite proof from every corner of the earth.  I'm sure the first thing you'll hear is that America just isn't like those damn socialist Scandinavian countries where people get 6 months off for adopting a new dog (more eloquently explained in this New Yorker article).  But you now don't have to look any further than our own California (which some will still try to label as foreign Socialist country) for proof that paid family medical leave makes economic sense.  

While I can talk a big game on a societal level, I'll admit I don't have any big solutions beyond my own experience.  I saved up as much vacation time as I could, amassed as much credibility with my coworkers as possible, got to know the ins-and-outs of my institutions FMLA policies, and ultimately made contingency plans for unpaid time.

And even after all this, I still feel LUCKY for having this precious time off.

LUCKY?

In some ways, I think this is how I rationalize my guilt.

Where to begin....again.

I'll admit it.  Facebook has made me lazy.  So has Instagram.  And texting.  Facetime.  Skype.  

Somewhere along the line, the written word and I parted ways.  Even at work, the need for writing more than 2-3 full sentences with a clearly defined subject and verb has become somewhat obsolete, if not frowned upon.  

Agree with above.  

Patient stable.  

D/C home.  

There aren't even enough syllables to qualify as a haiku.  

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not shopping for quill pens and inkwells.  This isn't some rant against modern technology.  I have enough first-world problems on my mind to try and attempt getting my handwritten memoirs published.  And quite frankly, I do find utility in the quick and (somewhat) mindless act of mass communication.  In a time of ever-increasing distance between family and decreasing time for leisure, I like to think I'm able to put a smile on my mom's face by showing her a snapshot of her newest grandchild.  

No, I think abandoned my ability to chronicle my life consistently way back around 1990 when I thought I could mimic Doogie Howser and keep a journal on my Commodore 128.   Much like the 5.25" floppy disks that stored all of about 4-5 entries, that fell by the wayside.  My next endeavor came in the form of poems and lyrics for the now defunct (but locally legendary) Twinkie's Revenge.  I figured my hopes, dreams and (lack of) conquests would live on forever in the liner notes of our (never released) self-titled album.  And while I've held on to those lyrics and notes, as well as those from my subsequent bands, they still only shed light on a sliver of life from very distinct moments in time.  

Fast-forward 10 years, it's 2006, and I'm heading to Kenya for 6 weeks medical school elective.  During my four years in college, two years of grad school, and four years of medical school, there still wasn't a term called "social media".  I had a Sprint flip-phone that took grainy pictures, a Zen Jukebox mp3 player (because the first generation iPod was way out of my price range), and a brand-spanking-new email account from a company called Google. 

Here is my first blog post (worth reading because I actually reference MySpace...seriously!): http://jerryballas.blogspot.com/2006/03/where-to-begin.html

I wanted to chronicle my trip for friends and family in real time, but also knew that my access to the internet would be spotty, at best.  Uploading a ton of pictures or sitting at an internet cafe and writing a mini-novel would be nearly impossible.   So I would draft my posts on my friend's laptop at night back in our quarters, cut and paste them whenever we'd get internet access, and upload a picture or two.  Ultimately, these posts ended up having enough content, both written and visual, to qualify as my "thesis" for the elective and get me credit to graduate.  

It felt good to write.  I've always enjoyed it.  I figured residency would give me all the material in the world to keep on writing deeper, more thoughtful stories.  And it did.  Without a doubt.  

Except I didn't do the writing part.  

Somewhere in the middle of residency, Facebook appears.  And honestly, as a resident, it became the perfect way to a) communicate with the outside world b) communicate amongst the folks you work with and c) curate your life in such a way that smoothed out the manic-depressive extremes.  I felt like no one needed to see (or read about) the banality of my 24 (or more) hour call, but rather it was the delirious mimosa-fueled brunch we dragged ourselves to afterwards that would ultimately make the editorial cut.  Pretty soon, life in general started getting a similar treatment.  

When I moved to San Diego for fellowship, I decided to take a little different approach.  Since it was such an alien landscape to me, and I found myself taking pictures of such exotic things as palm trees, birds of paradise, and my apartment, I figured I would simply do a photo blog.  It was genius!  I would simply post a picture per day, with or without caption or context.  Profound!  

Mind you, this was July, 2010.  Instagram wouldn't make its debut until October of that year.  I consider myself a pioneer.  

I had 178 posts that year.  Technically, in only half of that year.  

Then, 57 posts in 2011.

Then...

You get the picture.  Facebook.  Instagram.  Even a little Twitter thrown in for good measure. Yet, somehow, writing 140 characters seems more daunting most days than writing 140 words.

And now, magically, as my left eyelid twitches from too little sleep and too much caffeine, I've decided to test the waters of consistent blogging once again at a time in my life that almost GUARANTEES failure.  I've been home on paternity leave for 3 weeks now, and haven't managed to string together 2-3 sentences in less than 1-2 hours without something coming up (or out) that needs tending to.  

Babies are no joke.  I know that sounds trite and flippant, and probably wouldn't make the cut for a teen pregnancy prevention PSA, but that's the truth in its most Twitter-esque form.  I marvel at all those parental bloggers out there that can somehow churn out post after meaningful post, all while carrying their kid in a sling, typing with one hand and sipping freshly squeezed lemonade in the other.  At least, that's the image of them I have in my head most of the time.  

Or maybe it's the image I want to project.

Nailed it.

I don't make any promises going forward, and I'm starting to think this may end up being more therapy than theater, but come on back when you have a few minutes to burn and maybe we can share a laugh or two.