March 14th, 2004

A few days have past now since the first official hours were logged as solely father and son time between Landon and me. Last Friday, Rhiannon left the two of us alone so she could go and get a well deserved hair cut and style. I approached this time with trepidation, unsure of what these hours might hold, but looked forward to the time with my new son. After a sweet kiss, and with a cell phone close at hand, Rhiannon exited, and Landon and I were left blankly staring at each other.

The afternoon held limitless opportunities. We could sit on the couch and watch college basketball divisional playoffs, we could go run a few errands, we could both cry our lungs out and count down every second until Mommy returned. It was an unseasonably warm day for late winter, so we boldly decided to spend some time in the sunshine. There is a man-made lake a few blocks from our place; it seemed the perfect destination for a casual stroll, and maybe a chance to wet a line, for the first time, as a father-son team. So I bundled Landon up, and strapped him to my chest in some sort of reverse backpack contraption called a “baby bjorn”, grabbed a rod and we were off. I decided that for this first outing Dakota would have to wait at home.

The walk to the lake was absolutely perfect, the weather was outstanding, and Landon was peacefully awake, enjoying the ride. I even phoned my brother to brag about this exciting endeavor. By the time we arrived at the shoreline Landon had passed out against my chest, I tied on a lure, and made a few casts. After standing still for a few minutes, the lack of movement caught Landon’s attention and raised him from his slumber. Cries immediately ensued. However, I quickly determined that by walking again he would drift back off to sleep. So a new mode of fishing became invented, I would take a few steps, make a quick cast, and then hurriedly move again, never pausing long enough for Landon to regain alertness. It worked well, as far as keeping him placated, but the fishing side of the outing suffered. After an hour and a half of walking and casting and walking some more, I received a call that Rhiannon was on her way home, and so too decided that the walls of home beckoned for us.

It was on this return trip that I began to notice how incredibly hot I had become. While fishing, I had failed to realize that I had been walking around under the noon sun with a little, compact thermally constant biological organism. My son was in effect cooking my chest, and I too was probably overheating him.

We made it the rest of the way home uneventfully, Landon still dreaming away. I removed him from his pack, and set him down on the couch. A few moments later Rhiannon returned, just in time for the downward spiral to begin. Landon awoke, and began to cry; thinking he might be hungry (it was past his lunch time) we tried to feed him. He wailed. We walked him around the house. He screamed. We looked at each other struggling to discern what the little guy wanted. More crying. We stripped him down to a diaper and patted him with a cool washcloth. He hollered. We walked him around the block hoping the movement might quiet him down as it had previously. His unhappy vocalizations continued. We passed him back and forth for the next few hours. We shrugged our shoulders. We felt like crying. More quivering lips and wet tears.

Finally, over two hours later, he calmed down and passed out with Rhiannon, as she simultaneously crashed out to dreamland still cradling him in her quaking arms. I just stared at the walls, too wiped out too sleep, already contemplating what might happen on the next father and son outing.