I have spent so much time on this site writing about ordinary things, trying to make them compelling or interesting, perhaps remotely "significant", and then when something seriously significant happens, finding just the right superlatives to maintain the proper arc of my own little suburban life story is suddenly impossible. When the truly significant things in life happen, there's no turning to books, movies, art, or other anecdotal evidence. There's only the soulful suppression of emotion, so that the mind can contain the truth, and yet the mind finds it can't do it, and then the heart turns to God (dragging the mind kicking and screaming.)

Birth. Death. Life. Existential superlatives. I met a stranger a few months ago who said she appreciated my blog. (Thanks!) She pointed at the Little Ditchman and asked me, "Is that the most significant thing?" She was smiling when she asked it, so I wasn't sure if the question was rhetorical. The correct conversational answer was "Yes" of course, but I hesitated because a few other significant things suddenly came to mind. Then she mentioned how I wrote once about some shadows moving across a hardwood floor. I guess I thought that was significant at the time. Now my wife and I have brought another child into the world, and I don't know what to say.

He's sitting here at my feet right now, and he is a Perfect Little Thing. I presume my father thought the same of me when I arrived, as everyone's did, and I like to think God thought the same of all of us at our creation. The birth of your child is that moment in life when God is standing next to you with His arm around your shoulder, smiling and nodding. It's a sublime experience. And if you know better, you rest your head on His shoulder.

Because you're so frickin' tired! There is nothing more stressful than birth. Torture unto death comes close, but even then, at least, the hope of the good afterlife is in the back of your mind. At birth every ounce of faith and strength is required of you, and all that amid a determination that this new life will be altogether more successful and secure than your own, and all that amid the fear that you will fail. Women are to be admired for their beauty, and are for the taking care of -being the weaker sex and all that- and here they are in an ugly display, enduring more pain than a man can imagine. And men, well, all we know is how to fix things, solve problems, protect the women, and there we are so suddenly helpless -all while we await the arrival of our children.

Mrs. Ditchman woke early Wednesday morning, about 2:30AM, with some good sharp birth pangs. She was up until sunrise, and when I got out of bed and made coffee, I came around the corner and saw her at the top of the stairs with that I'm-a-woman-and-you're-going-to-have-to-trust-me-on-this look. And that's when she said it: "We need to start preparing," and she stated it with authority. Now, I'm a man, but with a statement like that, I will not argue.

So, yes, Wednesday's post was a bit of a fib. I was trying to calm myself. If I had mentioned that my wife was showing signs of early labor, the phone would have started ringing off the hook, and you never know if "early labor" is going to last a few hours or a few days. Anyway, most of the contractions subsided and we made it to the Little Ditchman's dance class. At about 4 that afternoon, things started to well up from within the family womb. We called Matt and Holly to babysit. They showed up at 7:30 and we were racing out the door, not wanting to give birth on the Interstate, or at least miss the window for the epidural. Matt stopped us to pray on our lawn and the only thing in my head at that moment was we don't have time for this! (I was wrong.)

When you arrive to check in at the hospital, they look you over to see if you're really in labor. I'm sure they've seen it all in there, as some women rush to the hospital after a gassy burrito, but when they saw Mrs. Ditchman coming down the hallway, nurses were sent to prep the delivery room before we reached the desk. We checked in at 8 o'clock. Three and a half hours later we were holding Keaton. Everything that happened in that three and a half hours is too humbling for me to admit, for my wife is a musclebound champion of utmost superiority who has single-handedly preserved my family name for at least another generation. (My dad would be so happy.) Anyway, if you want to hear all those entertaining details, I'll be happy to share. Buy me a beer. (But check with my wife first to see if it's okay.)

The spawn of TMST is a golden angel! A boy of such perfect features, animals emerge from the forest in a servile display of slavish devotion. Clouds part above the freeway as you drive north, and rainbows appear where there is no moisture. Strangers at a distance find themselves smiling for no apparent reason, just being in the presence of such an affecting and uncommon elan. His comely face caused every nurse and hospital page to swoon adoringly and I was forced to ask for a second security anklet. The building's sound system played ebullient music, each song dedicated to our new son, with admonitions to visit the holy child in maternity room 114. We had to ask them to stop so the princely lad and his Mother could get some sleep, but ascetic janitors banging their foreheads on the loading dock walls from missing the visiting hours kept us awake. Anyway, I'm a proud father.

We are blessed with a healthy child. The Little Ditchman, my greatest worry in the whole event, seems to be taking it as expected. There is some acting out, but we're trying to spread the love around. Parents have the responsibility to doll out fairness. Though our desire for all things to be fair in the world outside our home will never be satiated, we can teach what it's supposed to look like. With the arrival of the second child, you hit the ground running on that lesson.

It's Halloween! I'm going to go carve some pumpkins. We're going to take the kids (!) out trick-or-treating and show off the one-day-old to the neighbors. I'm going to surprise the Little Ditchman and dress up as Superman. Candy for everybody! Life is beautiful! You're all invited over to meet Keaton. We'll have to work on a blog alias for the little guy. I'm sure he'll be fine with whatever.

P.S. I posted the other day that I didn't know how our little family was going to look. Time told, and now I know. It looks like this:




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Keaton Isaac Hawkins!

10/29/08 - 11:16PM
6 pounds, 8 ounces - 19 inches


And everyone's doing fine. There are days when you are inordinately blessed. These are them. Stayed tuned...


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Wait for it... No, not yet. There's still time to get in the betting pool, and take the poll to the left. (Over fifty bucks at stake!)

Mrs. Ditchman hasn't slept much lately. With all the talk of not getting any sleep when the baby comes, rarely mentioned are the symptoms of being nine whole months pregnant -some of which are unmentionable in polite blogging. We got up this morning to find we were all out of coffee. Folks: this is not a time to run out of coffee! We're going to need a bulk shipment, one of those big freight containers shipped in from Costa Rica might do it.

All plans have been suspended for a few days, as we play the waiting game. We're going to watch a few DVDs, carve some pumpkins, futz around the house and wait for consecutive contractions at timed intervals. The weather's nice. I mowed the lawn yesterday. It was wonderful.

And today is dance class for the Little Ditchman. I haven't been, so I'm looking forward to it. That long hard slog through a hot, wicked summer is behind us. We're looking forward to a slow, easy autumnal tide. One that laps on the shore of the new year with a gentle, windless patter, heralding nothing but easy days.


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No, the baby did not come yet. The Little Ditchman thinks the baby comes out of Mommy's belly button, which actually makes more sense to me than the truth, given present medical technology. I know this because I asked her straight out, "How does the baby come out?" just for fun. Mrs. Ditchman raised an eyebrow at me and then we both waited for the answer. "It comes out of the belly button," she said. Made perfect sense. I mean, what else is the belly button for?

Later, we explained that we had to go to the hospital and fetch it, so she knows what's going down. As well, our little girl likes to stomp around on you when you sit on the couch, and lately we'll have none of that; there's a baby in Mommy's stomach! Add to it the oblique changing of bedrooms and the mysterious prepping of the baby devices, and how Daddy always says things like, "Be gentle with Mommy," and "Mommy's pretty tired, she can't play with you right now," and the Little Ditchman is starting to get suspicious. This baby thing is more serious than I had originally anticipated, she wonders. You can see it in her eyes.

That is, you can hear it in her whine. She's been ornery lately, and there's no real explanation for it but Toddler Anxiety, if there is such thing. Last night I dragged her upstairs for bath and bedtime (had to yank her away from her new favorite show DWTS, God help us) and she kept crying for Mommy, Mommy, she wanted Mommy to do it, etc. I stripped her down and instead of getting in the tub, she went over and sat naked in the corner with her stuffed animals. Great, I thought. Arranging for a Family Therapist is not on the list of pre-natal preparations I have for the week.

I brought out the plastic dinosaurs and it all turned out okay, but sometimes you wonder. Mommy had mentioned to her that Mommy was going to have to be "shared" with the baby, which is easily the most disturbing thing the kid has ever heard. (I admit it was for me, too. My first reaction was whether or not I got a piece of Mommy when we divvy her up.) It may not have been a wise parenting tactic to say such a thing, however true. Straight talk is appreciated in a political campaign, but there's not much place for it in real family governing. (It's more the tender justice of "What I Say, Goes.")

I was chatting with a customer yesterday and she asked about the new baby. She told me about her own and then divulged that her biggest fear with the second child was that she would not love her as much as she loved the first -it's a concern I've heard from several other parents- but in the end she was surprised and impressed by her own capacity to love all her children with equal passion. I believe it. We're always tempted in this life to think that love can run out, like gasoline, or money in a bank account, or toilet paper, but love never runs out. On the contrary, the more you give the more you find you have to give. Unfortunately, you'll never know until you try. And that's the rub, I guess.

I would have ten kids, if I had the cojones and the billetes for it. I am one of six, two brothers and three sisters, and though it was a challenge growing up, now it is a joy and blessing. Every holiday is a party, there's a birthday in every month, and every new child is like a precious ornament adorning the Family Tree. When you have more children, what you're doing is you're giving them each other. As it goes, Mrs. Ditchman and I will be gone some day and we can't bear the thought of leaving the little girl alone. When my Dad died, all my brothers and sisters got together. It was an impulse. But what if you had none? I can't bear the thought of that for my daughter.

By the end of the year I'll have six nieces/nephews -and those are just the blood relatives. My grandfather was one of ten. My grandmother was also one of ten. Interestingly, they had two. Me and Mrs. Ditchman? We'll see. But I was the third. So if we don't have a third... well, draw your own conclusions.

Okay, several people have asked about the betting pool, so here we go with the rules. Cost: $10.00 to enter. There are two predictions you have to make: one for the weight and one for the length. You can submit here in the comments section, send me an email, or just call. I'll post everyone's guesses so no one doubles up. The winner is the closest set of numbers, and they get the entire pot. A tie is possible, so put the sex down too as a tie-breaking bonus. Send me the tens in the mail, or just honor it when we see you. Enter as often as you like. You can't win if you don't play.

Here's some fun facts to get you guessing:

Mr. Ditchman: 8 pounds, 2 ounces - 21.5 inches
Little Ditchman: 6 pounds, 10 ounces - 20 inches
Mrs. Ditchman: Unfortunately, the records have been lost to history. Eyewitness accounts claim weight as in "the low sevens."

I'm in:


Good luck! And please participate in the anonymous survey to the left. We're curious what people think.


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God bless Mrs. Ditchman, who, in her vast and infinite wisdom, scheduled an easy week for me! It may not be -for you never know- but she is 9 months pregnant, and her chances of having an easy week don't even register on the scale of odds. (It's called "labor" for a reason, you know.) So it's all on me.

By "easy week" I mean in terms of aluminum patio cover business operations, but I know my week will consist of me 1) being thoroughly agreeable, 2) being impossibly attentive, and 3) being altogether cool-headed, cheerful, and calm. There's no room for slacking off on fatherhood or husbandhood this week. (I may not make it.) Meanwhile, Mrs. Ditchman is exhibiting acute nesting behaviors.

It's Monday! And our baby is due on Friday, which is Halloween. We didn't plan it that way. I have a sister who is due to have a baby on Christmas, and the Little Ditchman almost came out on St. Patrick's Day, and Mrs. Ditchman herself celebrated her birthday on Easter a while back, so perhaps this holiday thing is running in the family. I guess it makes things easy to remember, but it makes planning for pumpkin carving and trick-or-treating and things like that a little tough on the original Little Ditchman. To her, that's what Halloween is all about. The fact that we're bringing a baby home is an afterthought, and is more on the "trick" side than the "treat".

For me, it is squarely a treat! When I consider the sum joys of the past few years from raising this little family, I lift my chin and tilt forward into the happy future -something rarely felt previously. Still, there is a certain amount of "it's nine months already?" that's going around. We were chatting about it yesterday, and I think with your first child there is so much anticipation and planning and thoughtful analysis about how life is going to change, that when the baby finally comes (and tosses all those plans out the window) at least you were watching it barreling down on you. With the second baby, you're so busy with the toddler and twice-the-life and you've seen it all before and then -wham- it's time! Mrs. Ditchman said yesterday, "In a couple days we will have two children," and it was like ringing a bell by firing at it with a shotgun. "We'll have to brace ourselves," I think I muttered.

So we're very excited. I miss my baby, who is now a little girl down the hall whining about putting her clothes on or some such torment. In some ways, I believe we will enjoy this new baby more thoroughly, without all the stressful unknown quantities and accompanying frets and worries that come with the first. Babies are only here for a moment, and then they wistfully vanish. It happens right before your eyes, but you can barely catch it happening, and then one day... where'd the baby go?

We're very much looking forward to having another baby around. How are we going to manage the business? No clue. How is our family going to look? Not sure. Are we ready? Ready as we'll ever be. (Read: Yes.) There have been a lot of redundant questions lately, so let me try to answer them now, once and for all:

-Mrs. Ditchman is due on Friday, 10/31, which is Halloween.
-No, we don't know if it's a boy or girl. We're old-school like that, I guess.
-Yes, we have a few names we like but we're not telling you, so don't ask. All the same, suggestions are welcome.
-Mrs. Ditchman feels great, except that she's nine months pregnant. She just left for Jazzercise.
-The Little Ditchman seems to be taking it just fine. The cat we're not so sure about.
-No, we did not have the baby yet. When the baby comes, YOU WILL KNOW.

[Re: that last one. Look, you don't have to call ten times a day and ask, "Did you have the baby yet?" Family members, all, will get phone calls just as soon as said little digger pops out and shows off its dongle, or lack thereof. Friends and support group will all get emails. Everyone else can read this blog. There will be pictures, stories, visiting hours, and everything. Seriously, you jackals, as much as we would love to steal away and deliver the baby in secret at some sleepy convent in the middle of the night on All Hallow's Eve, it's just not going to happen that way. Any family member who calls more than ten times between now and Friday and asks, "Did you have the baby yet?" will have their information clearance status denigrated, and may be lucky to receive an email. And to the person who found that we were not answering our home phone or cel phones last time, so they took it upon themselves to call the hospital and somehow got a line to ring in the delivery room where the nurse handed me the phone while Mrs. Ditchman was pushing -try that again and you lose all holding-the-baby privileges for the first nineteen months. I'm serious.]

It's an exciting time!

P.S. And to those who have asked, "How can I help?" God bless you. We appreciate your prayers and encouragement. Let Mrs. Ditchman know what a wonderful mother she already is. If you really, truly, seriously feel the urge and desire to offer some literal help, please come over and clean the house. Meals I can handle, but the responsibility of cleaning the house is one that evidently falls on incapable hands. I clean the place like a bachelor. Yesterday, I caught Mrs. Ditchman down on her hands and knees scrubbing the bathroom floor in all of her nine-months-pregnant glory. I told her to stop what she as doing and let me do it. She said I didn't know how.

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Concrete guys showed up at 9:30 yesterday, intent on blowing my historic contribution to the vernacular. Oh well.

Today is the day where everything must be done! Oh well. Actually, I think I'm caught up on work for once. I'm behind on everything around the house, but hey, that's what weekends are for.

No wait, weekends are for Daddy-catch-up, for that's when Mommy works. I come in to the home and she's on her way out, like two ships passing in the open ocean. Two ships passing in the open ocean with their single passenger shuttling between the two on a car seat strapped to a rescue kayak. Even the cat never seems to be around. Having everyone here at once is like waiting for an eclipse. All the schedules have to line up. (Chores are done at naptime.)

Last night, Mrs. Ditchman went on an interesting diversion to hear about the little shopping center that's going to be built in the vacant lot just up the street from us (the vacant lot where the astounding crop circle event was.) I told her that if they offered drinks and a nice buffet that she should be wary, and ready for the fight. She said there was no food, no spectacular multi-media show, no celebrities. Turns out it was just a few guys and some boards on an easel, touting their plans for a vibrant little corner center to compliment the new Sprinter station that recently opened across the intersection. So my wife is actually for the shopping center, that is, if it's a boutique-y, high-end, nicely landscaped thing. But most of the people that show up for these events are against whatever it is being planned -against growth, against progress, against beautifying the empty 7 acres of dirt and weeds that are otherwise strewn with litter and the homeless. The developers must've been glad the amenable Mrs. Ditchman was there. She came home mildly enthused about it, and showed me photocopies of the plans, which look pretty good. There's also something in there about trees being planted and local trails being finished and a traffic signal going in on my street (thank God) so count me in.

One other person from our cul-de-sac showed up. He's in the party against. I'm not going to get into it, but it makes for somewhat awkward mailbox affairs. Us: "Hey neighbor!" Response: "Grrrrrr." He's also against the park that the neighbor city wants to put in on the adjacent land. (Against a park!) Oh well. It's one thing to be against developers, it's another thing to be against reviving our lackluster neighborhood property values. Shrug. Okay, so we never move. (He hasn't.)

Mrs. Ditchman said there was one random citizen who showed up at the meeting with a signed petition of folks against the project. He refused to say who he was with or who had put him up to the petition. Hmmm... competing local businesses perhaps? I feel for the guys who put together these meetings as a public service (they weren't required to do it) -a civic obligation. I'm sure they dread the things. I'm sure they've seen it all. Funny how, in life, the complainers are often so loud and brash, and in your face about THE WRONGS AND ILLS OF SOCIETY! Meanwhile, there's a whole silent majority of the happy, the content, the dedicated, the faithful and the hard-working, who live out their solemn days tolerant of the loudmouths. Giving them what they want just to shut them up is not the answer. Do the happy never fight?

May our gratitude and pleasure to be a part of this free and well-developed land called America be a joyful rage against the malignant influence of the miserable, short-sighted few.


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"Up with the concrete guys," this morning! I'm still trying to coin the phrase, so please use it in your everyday tongue.

That being said, I've got to rush off to pour some boring old footings. But I did want to follow through on yesterday's post. Look! It's the life cycle of an aluminum patio cover!




Big difference, huh? Oh well, the customer seemed satisfied. I decided that if the day comes in 25-30 years where I have to tear down this exact same cover and am hired to rebuild it, then I will tear it down, haul it off, and symbolically walk off the job -leaving an exposed patio- and retire from the business altogether.

I got $75 for recycling the old thing. But there was this aforentioned item:


World wide! I chatted with the owner of the place, who recognizes me by now. He said that if it gets any worse, I was going to end up paying him to take the stuff. I reassured him, "Well, if you charge less than the dump, I will."

He was sincerely encouraged by this. It had never occurred to him.


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