I just realized that today is the one-year anniversary for DadBloggers.

12 dads have been a part of our writing team since December of last year and continue to submit stories: ChuckR, ChuckT, Jared, Jason, JeffS, Jesse, Ken, Matt, Phil, SteveL, SteveR and Tom.

Thank you especially, guys, for your consistency and desire to be a part of our effort here.

I also appreciate the other new writers who have come on board through the course of the last year. Here’s to many more!

It was the night before the night before Christmas ... and still some gift wrapping to do.  Approximately all of it.

Actually wrapping is the the easy part.  Bringing them out of hiding—even finding them—and then sorting them seems to have become very complicated.  The whole Santa thing becomes more complex —and will get more so—as Benjamin gets older and more aware of what’s going on.  (Before continuing the story, by the way, I should perhaps apologies to Matt of To Santa Or Not To Santa.  The tale, however, may better serve as a case study in favor of his argument ... heh.)

Which presents are from Santa?  Which from us?  Which will be wrapped?  Which will be in the stocking?  Does Santa buy things or is everything made at his workshop?  Because if it’s the latter, then gifts with dead giveaways as to where they were purchased (irremovable price tags, etc.) must not be from Santa.

I don’t know if it was during last year’s or this years sorting deliberations when jealously first reared its ugly head.  Jealousy of Santa Claus.  I looked over my list of which presents I had allotted to us and which I had allotted to Santa, and ... Santa was giving way better presents.  That’s easy for him to do.  He’s working with unlimited resources up there.  Sure we could have a higher income.  I quit my job to stay home with Benjamin.  My wife could have taken one of the high-paying job’s in her profession requiring workaholic’s hours, but found a more stable, not quite as lucrative one with manageable hours.  Call them sacrifices; they’re gifts.  Time with our child.  You can’t wrap that in shiny red wrap and put it under the tree, but it’s a huge gift.  Where were YOU, Santa, when all of those diapers needed to be changed?  Didn’t ever offer to use any of that fancy “magic” of yours to clean up even ONE puke-stained sheet, did ya’ pal?

Needless to say, the list was rearranged, so Mama & Dada gifts were at least as impressive as the Santa gifts. 

Logistical details continue to the very end:  What plausible explanation could there be for Santa using the same kind of wrapping paper as we do?  Not a problem:  Santa uses different wrapping paper, purchased in advance, and hidden as carefully as the Santa gifts.

At our home, Santa has always brought gifts to the adults as well as to Benjamin.  So all the above constraints must be must be applied to Santa’s gifts to us, also.  I had to ask my wife, does Santa just give adults gifts in their stockings, or also under the tree?

The actual wrapping is kind of relaxing after minding all these details.  But then, dare I wrap any of the Santa gifts?  I’m not very neat, straight or dexterous.  The elves, with their in-bred superior fine motor skills, their nimble little fingers, their centuries of experience: I can’t compete with that! Perhaps, my wife could wrap the Santa gifts?  Ohhh, but what about the ones for her?  Benjamin wouldn’t notice a few imperfect wrap jobs, would he?  Well, Santa must hire some new guys once in a while, to meet increasing demand? Maybe he’s outsourcing ... 

Saint Nicholas Day (December 6th), when he brings just a few little things for us and leaves them in our stockings or shoes, was a successful dry run, ... and still all these complications.

It seems pretty suspicious that Santa leaves things in our stockings not only our house, but also at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.  And not only for the grandchildren and the parent that once lived in that home, but for in-laws too.  I hope that doesn’t cause any doubt, because I know there’s no way Grandma’s relinquishing her Santa privileges.

Then there’s the scheduling.  We are still developing our traditions here.  My wife’s family opened their presents on Christmas morning, but my family did it on Christmas Eve.  (When did Santa come, though?  I’m trying to recall.  I think I was told to go up to my room for a while to rest or read or play, otherwise Santa wouldn’t come if we were all hanging around in the living room.  Pretty thin cover, now that I think of it!  But I remember believing.  Poor gullible sap.) Well, last year Santa came to our house while we were at church on Christmas Eve, and we opened them when we got back.  It was much easier, however, to distract a 2-1/2 year-old from noticing that the presents are already in the nearly dark room under the tree, on the way out to church.  So if we change it back to Christmas morning this year ... hmmm ... Well, Santa has a complicated schedule which changes every year: increased population, logistical improvements, weather, ... he could come any time, really.

Finally, there’s the cookies and milk.  (Yeah, we go all in.) They must be consumed with no evidence of mortal tampering.  I can handle that.

The whole thing is a very delicate operation, and my wife will allow no cracks in the illusion.  Her parents were rather sloppy about the Santa thing when she was young; disintegrated the fantasy a little too early, I guess.  Her mom still is rather impulsive about the Santa talk.  On Christmas day, it’s like, “Now Santa told me that he had to buy that at Shopko and so if you don’t like the color ...” And now that we have a kid who still believes, we’re frantically trying to signal, “Shut up, Grandma!  Little kids are credulous, but they’re not idiots!" Of course, she oblivious.  We’re going to have to have a talk.  (Yeah.  That’ll help.)

Well, at our place, once its been decided and done, Santa leaves a pretty nice trail of Christmas cheer.  And he may keep doing it every year . . . so long as he knows his place.

“Jordyn, can you see this? What animals do you see?” the eye specialist asked my little girl yesterday morning.

A pause. I was holding my breath. I’d bet money Gem was, too.

“A cat!” and the doctor looked at us both as if he had performed a magic trick.

Maybe not a magic trick.

More like a miracle.

My wife and I have been fighting one of the most important battles in our parenting lives; the fight to save our daughter’s sight. We will take any magic tricks or miracles that help her.

My little girl, my adorable, intelligent, absolutely beautiful little girl, is lucky to be able to see at all. She (and her twin brother) was born almost 2.5 months early. Both of my Okapis had something called Retinopathy of Prematurity, but Elijah’s wasn’t bad at all and corrected itself. Jordyn, however, needed surgery. Eye laser surgery at 8 weeks old. In both of her eyes.

The doctor yesterday said he could see the burn marks on her retina, the little holes they “drilled” with the laser to reduce the pressure on her retinas so they wouldn’t detach. Even though we have never, and will never, be able to see them, the idea that she has burn marks from that surgery on her retinas shakes me to my core.

But even laser surgery on both eyes at 2 months was not enough to save her vision. Her right eye was significantly worse than her left and before she could even walk we had to patch her “good” eye to try and strengthen her weaker one. Her brain was ignoring the signals that eye was sending and if that continued, she would lose sight in that eye. The patching forced her brain to pay attention. It also became the worst hour of the day for Gem and I because Jordyn didn’t want the patch so she would rip it off her face every chance she got. Fortunately, we found a place called Patch Pals (http://www.patchpals.com) and they make patches that fit over glasses, that don’t stick to her face, that have adorable little designs on them, giving Jordyn a chance to choose which patch she wants to wear (ballet shoes, the sun, a cat, puppy dog, panda bear, etc.). They are essentially for my little girl, a unique accessory, like a bracelet is for other girls, except no one else she knows wears a patch.

She has been wearing patches for over two years. For two years we’ve been visiting our eye specialist every three months to have her eyes checked out. For one long stretch she had to wear a patch for 8 hours a day. Now we’re down to six – short enough so she doesn’t have to wear it during school or other classes. She has made enormous improvement, but most of her gains in vision are not visible to us. Until yesterday.

The last time we visited our eye specialist, Jordyn was given the same test she received yesterday. I’m sure you’ve seen those pictures of colored lines and if you look at it carefully enough you can see that there is a 3-d looking image inside of it? It was all the craze a few years ago. That is the test the doctor gave her. Last time, she was unable to see anything. She had no 3-D vision and Gem and I were concerned.

“Don’t worry,” he had said. “Her brain will learn another way to see three dimensionally.” I didn’t NOT believe him. I just couldn’t envision how that happens.

When she saw a cat, I believed. I believed her brain was growing, learning new ways to ensure my little girl can see – despite all she has been through.

“Whatever you guys are doing, keep it up. You’re doing great! Come back in six months,” he told us instead of the usual three months.

I believed that everything we have been doing, forcing her to wear her patches every single day for the past two years has been making a difference, has been the difference between her seeing and not seeing.

When we got to the elevator after leaving his office, I gave my wife a high-five. We don’t talk about our fight much anymore, but neither of us has lost the determination to win this, to give our little girl every chance possible to see how beautiful and wonderful she is, to see all the people that love her.

“I don’t know whether to scream in excitement or to cry,” my wife said, her voice full of pride, of satisfaction, of relief.

I feel the same way.

A few weeks ago we dismantled my daughter’s crib and gave her a full size bed.  She is a month shy of being 2-1/2 years old.  It was the bottom bunk of the two beds that were in my son’s room.  He is now sleeping on what was the top bunk.  We gave her the bottom bunk as it is crib-like in that it uses both headboards and therefore the top and bottom of the bed are still high enough that she is not in danger of falling out from those sides of the bed.  But my story is not about falling out or bed guards but our ongoing attempts to keep her in the bed after bedtime arrives.  And the joy she evokes after each escape.

With our son, this event came a month or so before his sister’s birth to give him time to get used to the bed in the months before she graduated from a cradle in our room to the crib being claimed for her use.  For a few weeks he made it a game and challenge to run out of his room when his bedtime would arrive.  We tried gates (he figured them out) to no avail.  We took his hand and lead him back to the bed wordless time and again until he became too tired to leave his room and at times he slept on his rug from which we would pick him up and deposit him on the bed.  But with time the pain of those weeks, and the joy of his fun, have faded.  Her fun seems to be taking longer.

It is not an annoyance as she is quite cute in her escapes and seeing her devilish look each time is worth any cost.  It’s just interesting how different children develop and grow.  We know to cherish this time as there will be a time not so many years from now that she may be sneaking out of the apartment and not just her room so this is the easy part. We realize it is not so much a transition for her as it for us.  I don’t know how many nights now this has been going on or even how many escapes there have been.  Seems like it has been on average 20 times each night.

At times it is hard to keep a straight face and to keep her on track.  He giggling can be contagious.  At the same time we enjoy smiling at her acknowledging her joy at making her great escape.  Each time is an accomplishment to her.  I just hope I survive the process.  Now and in 10 years.

As we grow into our own as adults and fathers, the fathers before us grow older. Recently my paternal grandfather died. He was 90, and my own father was his oldest child. The link from father to son to me and then to my own child is a thing I can’t really explain, but Grandpap’s death hit hard. And it hit harder when my own father was sent to the hospital to have his heart checked out. He already had a heart attack and stent put in, but it’s really hard when you realize that your parents are fallible. Now, I know some people on here don’t have parents. Either they’ve passed away or divorced or left, and some of you have step parents and non-biological parents (and all other sorts of parents) but this is just something that has bugged me. Dad turned out to be ok, but I hope my daughter, Claire, can get to know her grandfather and I wish she knew her great grandfather more but life is life.

The other thing that’s difficult is that Donna and I chose to move from Pennsylvania to Arizona, and we have no family here. We don’t know what it’s like to have grandparents around who can just watch Claire at our whim or other family who are always around. Our friends are our local family in many ways, but even that is shifting now. I know family is how you make it, but I just don’t ever want any regrets and family is the most important thing to me. And I bet it’s important to you too, since you are putting in your time being here with us.