Welcome to My Imaginarium

So in keeping with my old journal theme I thought I would post a series of notes I had written my son the week I found out my wife was pregnant.  I found these pretty entertaining to skim through, especially now that I am a father almost twice over and 3 years removed.  O’ how naive I was! :

“ 11:12 Your time - 3:12 mine.  Well its been about a week since I found out about you, eight days to be exact, and 27 hours since I wrote the first 4 words of this entry.  A paralyzing blanket of procrastination has draped itself around me of late.  It’s not that I haven’t wanted to write you, as a matter of fact, it’s been the polar opposite.  It’s been an unfulfilled obsession of mine.  All this writing has been at the tip of my tongue for a week’s time but it seemed as though the toying of, and fondling of this idea was going to be more rewarding than the actual act of completing it.   This, again, should be taken as no offense to you.  I suppose you could just try and look at it in the way a gardener would look at a pile of dirt in an empty lawn.  The vision of a flourishing garden would soon infiltrate his mind.  I’m sure he could almost smell the freshly bloomed flowers and see the immaculately planned layout of his yard as if it were in front of him.  But soon this reverie would dwindle and reveal a mounting pile of hard work and elbow grease looming directly behind it.  I can most accurately describe this post honeymoon period of any large undertaking as the “Thinking Through A Pillow” phase. 

 This pillow, in real life, I imagine to be quite comfortable.  We’re talking 5 star hotel / tons of feathers comfortable.  Unfortunately, the cloudy, foggy, thick as beef stew thoughts that come from thinking through a pillow are the furthest thing from comforting.  It feels more as though my head has been filled with rush hour L.A. traffic, smog and all!  My thoughts are the fluffy and outdated winter sweaters my mother would cram into her cedar closet each spring.  As summer approached, each hand woven stitch, ready to resume their annual hamster cage odor, sucked in as much air as possible. To this day I still don’t know if this last desperate breathe was an attempt to suck in enough oxygen to get them through a half year’s hibernation or just something these sweaters did to make stowing them away all the more difficult; like shoving a puppy into its cage. If only your grandmother’s fine collection of sweaters and my backed up brain came equipped with a Euro-Sealer, everything would fit with much less effort.”