Behold, Clint

Jez delivered Clinton at 12:20am Tuesday November 2, 2010.  We’ll call him Clint.  The name raises a question.

Clinton was the name of my great grandfather.  I never met Clint Yocom, who was Grove’s town marshal in Oklahoma territory around the turn of the last century, my only known relative in law enforcement.  I like the name, though, and the shout-out to that side of my family.  He was not named after Bill Clinton.  Or Hillary or Chelsea or George.

Clint showed up a week late and weighed in at 9 lbs 5 ounces.  His first day on planet Earth was pretty chill; he took a liking to whatever it is that’s emanating from his mother’s breasts, and spent most of his other conscious moments looking around and making soft baby noises.  It was very endearing, of course.

We expected much worse.  His final weeks in the womb were exceedingly rambunctious.

The daughter, Leigh, was nearby when Clint was born.  She wanted to eyeball him at his most neonatal.  She appears to be a fan of having a half-brother who’s a couple decades younger than she.  Of course, she asked me if his appearance beset any kind of a) bicycle-riding type fatherly instinct, infant wise and/or b) cold panic.  My answer was:  A combination.

Clint Yocom, with wife Cora Hall Yocom

In the final weeks of Jez’s pregnancy, I would think about the parental siege awaiting.  My brain would inform me that my low-maintenance life would soon disappear; that simple pleasures such as sleeping, running, playing old-guy baseball, and socializing with adults would become extraordinarily complicated.  I was OK with that.  The minute-to-minute maintenance that I knew was coming sounded exhausting and consuming.  I was OK with that.  But the playground conversations with other parents about what-adorable-thing young Alisha does, or how talented and clever young Zack has become– that sounded pretty awful, and still does.  Likewise, any parental projecting onto children anything that suggests status or hipness.

Only once thus far have I gotten a “…and you’re the –?” type inquiry, which seemed more about whether I was the husband or the unmarried baby-daddy rather than whether I was some kind of grandparent.  I’m expecting that kind of age-based confusion, of course.  I intend to embrace it.

Clint’s a swell guy.  His mother is going to be an awesome mom.  I owe them both some top-notch parenting.

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