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Beginnings By Paul Martin Email: prmartinvotalent at gmail dot com (above email address formatted to reduce spam) December 11, 2007 Seems it's all a bunch of beginnings with no ends. Here I am, holding Matthew. Gooey, wet behind the ears, literally, and less than ten minutes old. My fingers are consciously pressed together so I don't mistakenly jab him in the tummy or eye or something. He's so new, shaking from the cold; he can't even find his own fingers to suck. He's looking in the direction of the camera, but his little eyes can't focus that far out, so he looks adorably drunk and helpless. That's my life in a nutshell; raw, unrefined, like brown sugar instead of white. My hair and clothes match perfectly messy from thirty six hours of birthing support. I can't even look ready for this new beginning. I look just as unprepared for this as any of the other beginnings; smiling like an idiot the whole time. A happy, hopeful idiot, mind you; but surely an idiot. I always remember beginnings. I love the newness of them. Everything is in front of you. The mistakes I haven't made yet seem small, like happy little dramas that only add adrenaline to the experience. The victories I haven't reached seem pure and perfect, and I hear theme music when I imagine them, scanning the horizon from the beginning. When you're older, Matthew, we'll be standing at the top of one of those victories, and we'll be so worn out and raw, we probably won't even know how great it is. It won't click for years. Then, we'll remember it was so very special, looking back at the beginning. About the author: I'm a certified English Teacher/graduate student/"Mr. Mom" who is teaches self defense as an Associate Professor at Erie Community College (State University of New York). If that isn't enough to keep me busy, I also work as a voice actor/voice over. I was raised by two displaced country parents. My grandparents on my dad's side raised my father and his 12 brothers and sisters with Culpeper, Virginia country values. My grandmother on my mom's side raised my mother and her 9 brothers and sisters alone on a sugar cane farm in Okinawa, Japan with very old country values. | | | |
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