PODCAST EPISODE #63: Here’s how my journey in journalism affects my view as a dad.

A few nights ago, I sat in my living room at 3 AM, feeding my daughter while contemplating my first Father’s Day as a dad, when one single moment crystallized my entire fatherly experience:

My baby spit milk into my mouth.

I couldn’t have planned it. I probably can’t replicate it. I had just pulled Olivia’s bottle and perched her on my lap. I had patted her back to burp her, then clutched her against my chest to soothe her. We had sat silently, her head leaning against mine, when I turned my cheek to give hers a kiss. As my lips puckered, Olivia swiveled her head my way and sent an ounce of milk fountaining from her mouth. Most landed on my shirt, some across my face. The rest settled inside my jaw. Dignity.

But it wasn’t her action that encapsulated my life as a dad. It was my reaction. I pffted out the milk, looked at my child, shook my head and laughed out loud in a pitch-black room. I wasn’t upset. I wasn’t grossed out. I felt grateful.

I’ve been waiting so long to be a dad, I thought. A little milk in the mouth is all part of the package.

I often wonder how my job as a journalist affects my outlook as a father, and it’s not always obvious. But in moments like the Great Spitting Incident of 2018, it becomes clear. Same when the twentieth person of the week asks me, “Are you sleeping at all yet?” I am! And what little sleep I lose hasn’t bothered me. Neither have the middle-of-the-night feeds, exploding poops, and impromptu workouts from carrying Olivia on my shoulder for 20 minutes.

I can shrug it off in Atlanta because I remember Sioux City.

Three months and 35 resume tape submissions after graduating college, I landed my first job in TV news: a weekend sports anchor and weekday news reporter in Sioux City, Iowa, the nation’s 144th largest market. I had grown up in the shadow of New York and went to school an El-train ride from Chicago, and I had become enamored with the culture, cuisine, and overall activity that permeated those big cities. I could close my eyes and stencil the Manhattan skyline, but I didn’t fret about heading toward Sioux City’s. I had lived a sheltered childhood, succeeded in nearly everything I tried, experienced little hardship or adversity, and carried an abiding faith that everything would work out. As most of my friends began upon more conventional career paths, nestling in metropolises across America, I boldly (so I thought) broke from the norm and set forth to “make it” as a broadcaster.

Then I arrived. I drove in on I-29 and approached a sign over downtown that read “Welcome to SIOUX CITY” and seemed covered in 1930s-era rust. I inhaled a noxious, methane-esque odor that I later learned was a parting gift of the old pork processing plant that centerpieced the city. I shuddered. And while those initial repulsions soon receded – I quickly made great friends, found enjoyable hang-out spots, and sank my teeth into my work – my apprehension persisted. Why? Because more than any career goal, I yearned to fall in love, get married, and start a family. But I was in my early 20s and only dated within my religion – a religion with scant representation in Sioux City except for legendary advice columnists Ann Landers and Dear Abby, who grew up there during the Roaring Twenties.

My romantic prospects appeared null. And that cast a pall on everything else. I knew it would be years before I reached a city large enough to rekindle my familial dreams. Everything seemed uncertain in Sioux City. What if I can’t get a job in a bigger market? What if I’m stuck making sub-minimum wage my entire career? What if I never wind up in a large city? What if I don’t start seriously dating until my mid-30s? And most of all, what if I never fall in love, get married, and start a family? I felt like I was sinking way behind in life but had dreamed of this career for too long to change my path.

For the next half-decade, I barely dated. I spent two years in Iowa and four years in Buffalo, NY. I enjoyed both cities but struggled to find a romantic spark. I arrived in Atlanta, a city with  extraordinary energy and an influx of young adults of all faiths and backgrounds, and still felt removed from others my age. For them, living in Atlanta seemed like a natural first step out of school or transition from another metropolis, not a hard-fought accomplishment through years of 50- and 60-hour workweeks and never-ending self-doubt.

I caught a similar vibe about marriage and parenthood. I got the sense that many peers in Atlanta viewed them as inevitable stages. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I had just spent six years completely outside the dating pool. That changed quickly in Atlanta, but I still felt a pressure to seek and find love instead of letting it build organically. Only when I learned to relieve that pressure did I meet the woman who I now call my wife.

Over the past few years, I have flourished in my career and settled into family life. I have achieved virtually everything I had dreamed. And I don’t take it for granted. Maybe that’s why Father’s Day feels so strange. I have always felt so detached from the “normal” path that I’m surprised to finally be on it. I’m a dad. And I’m doing all of the dad things: posting baby photos on Facebook, going for walks with my family, taking our daughter in a stroller when we go out for dinner. It’s positively standard. And I’m positively fine with it.

So when my baby refunds her 3 AM feed and lands some of it on my taste buds, I don’t curse my lot. I don’t sit in disgust. I genuinely don’t get bothered. I savor it. And I wonder if, on some level, that’s because of a career path I chose long ago. My journey in journalism snatched me from my comfort zone and goose-bumped me with doubt, but it instilled a personal ambition, gratitude, and urgency that extend far beyond the stories I report. I can look into my daughter’s eyes, fresh off a post-feeding spit, and want to clasp her tightly and cherish her. I can clean her off, put her back to bed, and try to hold off a tear before returning to sleep myself.

This is my world now. And I’m not fine with that. I’m ecstatic.

***

I recorded a reading of this essay as Episode #63 of the Telling the Story podcast. Listen to the podcast at the top of the page or download it and listen to it later. And subscribe to the podcast – and rate and review it – on iTunes and Stitcher!

svj-cover-2

The Solo Video Journalist is available for purchase. You can find it on AmazonBarnes & Noble, and the publisher’s web site.

Matt Pearl is the author of the Telling the Story blog and podcast. Feel free to comment below or e-mail Matt at matt@tellingthestoryblog.com. You can also follow Matt on Facebook and Twitter.

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published.

BECOME A STRONGER STORYTELLER!

Enter your email and keep up to date ...