With This Child, I Thee...
	By Jesse Smith
	http://slicer69.tripod.com/


	First, a special note from our author:

	There is something I feel I should share with you, the reader,
before we get on to the main event. That is:
	The people, places and events in the following story are, as
usual, fiction. (Aren't they always?) While some places and people may
bear resemblance to real (What is reality anyway?) people and places,
any similarities are accidental. So, while, yes, there is a city called
Vancouver and there is a coffee chain called Starbucks and I have it on
good authority there are ladies named Heather, the ones of
real life and the ones of this story share no firm connection.


	I sat back in my seat and checked to make sure my seat belt was snug.
	"In case of an emergency over water..." the video droned on.
	Yep, good 'n snug. I took a glance at the young woman seated next
to me. I'd been afraid that, like my last flight, I'd end up next to some old,
cranky person. Or, perhaps, next to someone who didn't speak English. Or, perhaps
worst of all, a person who spoke English well, loudly and without pause. This
time, I was happy to note, my air travel partner was neither old, nor loud. She
was thin, blonde, had a dazzling smile and, as a rare bonus, had fastened her
seat belt properly. This trip was off to a great start.
	"...Make sure the mask is securely placed over your face Whawonkwawa."
	If you unfocus your mind in a certain fashion, instructional videos sound
a lot like Charlie Brown's teacher. By the time the video had stopped filling us with
needless worries and false hopes, I was grinning from ear to ear.
	"What's so amusing?" the lady beside me asked.
	I turned and smiled at her. I took in wide eyes and a lower lip caught in a half-bite.
What a beautiful way to begin my trip.
	"Oh, I just do this thing where I imagine the cabin staff as cartoon
characters," I replied. She looked a little puzzled. "It helps me relax," I added.
	She nodded.
	Hmm. I needed an ice breaker.
	"First time flying?" I asked.
	She nodded.
	Hmm. A quiet girl.
	"A little nervous?"
	She nodded again, "Yeah, a little," she admitted, knuckles turning white
against the arm rest.
	"Well, for what it's worth, I believe we're in very good hands," I assured her.
	Her eyes looked up into mine, reaching for more false hope than could be
provided in one half-English, half-French instructional film.
	"This airline is one of the best in the business for keeping up with their
safety standards. That's why I fly with them."
	I smiled in a manner I hoped looked comforting. Truth be told, I was sitting on
this particular plane because the ticket had been cheapest of all the airlines at which I had looked.
Since the young lady looked as if she were about to ask me how I knew that little piece of trivia,
I extended my hand.
	"My name is Tim," I supplied.
	She took my hand, "Melissa" she said.
	"Pleasure," we grinned, let go of each other's hand and faced forward. Think,
Tim, think, I commanded my brain.
	"So, where are you headed?" I asked, trying to appear more casually interested
and less stalker-ish than the question might imply.
	Melissa faced me again. Those blue eyes...were narrowing(?) "This is a non-stop
flight to Vancouver," she observed.
	Think faster, I ordered.
	"Ah, yes, well, I was wondering if, perhaps, you were headed over seas from there.
Hong Kong? Japan?"
	"No, just to Vancouver."
	Hmm. I needed a better ice breaker. Okay, I wanted a fleet of ice breakers.
	I tried to sound like a serious official, "Will you be visiting Vancouver for
business or pleasure, Mel?"
	Again, those blue eyes focused on mine (Thank you, God.) "Pleasure," she said,
"You?"
	"The same."
	"Yeah, I'm going out to meet some old friends," she continued.
	I almost said, "the same" again, thought better of it and responded, "I'm hoping
to take in some of the sights. Play tourist for a bit."
	"Sounds like fun."
	"I'm really looking forward to it."
	Hmm. Ice broken. Full steam ahead, Captain.
	"So, Mel, if you don't mind me asking, what do you do?"
	"I'm an architect."
	"Really?"
	"Yes."
	"So, how does one decide one wants to be an architect? Did you wake up one
morning and declare, `I wanna design houses'?"
	A giggle. (Thanks again, Big Guy.)
	"I dunno. It's just something, that, I'm not sure. I just sort of fell into it."
	"Mmm-hmm."
	I swear the sound "mmm-hmm" wouldn't exist if men didn't try to seduce women.
It's a wonderful sound that doesn't really mean anything. It's a sort of place holder. A
way of telling a lady, yes I'm listening, please keep talking, so I don't have to.
	Melissa obviously hadn't been awake for that part of language class. She'd stopped
talking.
	"So, how long have you been an architect?"
	"I just graduated," Mel admitted.
	"Oh, you're coming out to Vancouver looking for work?" It made sense, Vancouver is
a growing city, full of-
	"Oh no. No. I'm just coming out and visiting some friends before I start my job. I've
got this thing lined up in England that I start in two weeks. I'm really looking forward
to it. I mean, I'll get to see England and get paid for it."
	Ah, a smile that could launch a thousand ships, draw a thousand buildings.
	"That's great."
	"Yeah, so what do you do?"
	"Well, actually, I'm currently between jobs," (Fumble!) "but I just finished
doing research for a book."
	Wow, I think her eyes lit up, "You're a writer?"
	"Ah, a little here and there," I tried to sound modest.
	"What's it about?"
	"Eh?"
	"The book."
	"Convenience stores," I answered.
	"Convenience stores?"
	"Yeah, I worked in one for the past year or so. I'm thinking of calling my
book `Bugs, They Get In Everything...Everything!'," I laughed. Mel wrinkled her nose in
that way only unimpressed ladies can (You know, that way your mom used to wrinkle her
nose just before declaring your room needed to be cleaned.) and nodded vaguely.
	Hmm. Skipper, what's the name of this ice breaker? Titanic? I see.
	It was, I regret to say, a rather quiet flight from then on. While Mel may
have missed "mmm-hmm" as used by men looking to seduce women, she hadn't missed using
"mmm-hmm" as a way to avoid having a conversation with a man.
	On a positive note, I did get Mel to take a copy of my e-mail address, jotted
down on a napkin, before we exited the airplane. Not that I expected her to actually
send me any letters from England, bragging about her architectural plans and begging for
sex, but one must make the effort.
	I collected my over head bag, waved good-by to Peppermint Patty and stepped into
the Vancouver terminal.
	Why do they call the place where you get on and off the plane a terminal? It
sounds fatal. It sounds like an ending. I think landings should be about beginnings,
changes and opportunities. Not endings and stoppings.
	So, I was in that area where the plane lets one make a new beginning, collecting
my luggage and looking for an appropriate exit.

	There is something about being in a new city which reminds me of the time I walked
in on my roommate and her new boyfriend. I'd finished classes early that day and come
home to find her orally pleasuring him on our couch. In a poor attempt to break the
tension, I'd yelled the first thing which came to my mind:
	"Get that out of your mouth, girl, you don't know where it's been!"
	That mixture of feeling foolish, embarrassed, lost and suddenly lonely is the
same which flows over me when I first set foot in a new city.

	I grabbed a black bag off the carousel which looked like mine, realized my mistake and
put it back. Another started around the corner which also looked familiar. Just then, I felt 
someone push into me from behind and hands covered my eyes.
	"Ever been robbed by a woman?" a soft, slightly raspy voice asked me.
	"Hi, Heather."
	I turned around and looked down at Heather. Petite, light brown hair, big green eyes.
	"How'd you know it was me?" she demanded, hands on hips.
	"I'd recognize that combination of pussy and smoke anywhere," I answered.
	Judging by the crossed arms and narrowed eyes, I'd better talk faster and without my toes
tickling my tonsils.
	"Your pussy cat. Your fingers smell like cigarettes and car fur."


	Nobody, to the best of my knowledge, has ever enjoyed jet lag. (At least, a quick
Internet search doesn't turn up any results for "jet lag fetish".) I am no exception
to this rule. I am not about to start any Jet Lag Fan Club. I will not print and hand out
Jet Lag Tips & Trips Of The Month news letters. Bearing that in mind, I'm sure you, dear reader,
will understand my lack of enthusiasm for a party when I finally made it to Heather's
apartment. It had been a good twenty-some hours since my last cat nap and my body was
rebelling. To top it off, with the exception of a chocolate bar on the airplane, I hadn't
eaten in twenty hours either.
	A party, however, is just what I received upon arriving at Heather's apartment. It
seemed I was going to be thrown into the Vancouver experience sans safety net. After taking
my bags and hiding them away, Heather took me around the room in a fashion which reminded
me of a merry-go-round. I was quickly introduced and passed on to the next person in a
sort of gang-bang meet-and-greet.
	"Hey, Gerald, this is Tim. Tim this is Gerald."
	"Susan, this is Tim, the one I told you about."
	"Hey, Jerry! Jerry, Tim. Tim is a writer also."
	"Mel. Mel? Melinda, this is Tim. Tim, Melinda."

	Heather passed me around, showing me off to a few dozen people. All the while
a wine glass, which had been thrust into my hand by a red headed fellow, whom I found
out later was the group's drug dealer, kept being refilled. By the stroke of mid-night
I was a little tipsy, very hungry and generally ready to turn into a great big pumpkin.
Bed, I was sorry to discover, was not to be my fate until 3:00 in the morning. Thirty
hours of wakefulness, some booze and no food caught up with me and I crashed on the
couch.

	I awoke at 8:00 the next morning to the cry of, "Breakfast!". I quickly discovered someone 
had covered me with a blanket. Just as well since I'd managed to become half undressed during
the night. The smell of scrambled eggs crowded into my nose like penguins gathering on the edge
of an icy cliff. The guests were gone.


	I didn't believe in love at first sight until I set my eyes on Alisa. Heather had decided,
in her wisdom, to take me out to a little gathering my second night in Vancouver.
	"Just some close friends," she'd assured my tired, hungover and disoriented self.
	As it turned out, "Just some close friends" turned into a whole apartment full
of moving, dancing, drinking, talking bodies by the time we'd arrived. Though I hadn't been
warned in advance, it was, I found out as the first beer was shoved into my hand, a
birthday party. I never found out for whom.
	I quickly became separated from Heather, which was probably just as well for
two reasons. The first being she knew (presumably) everyone at the party. Following
her around and getting introduced en mass would have required me to look like a lost puppy which
knew only one trick: Repeat the same small talk over and over and over while I forgot every
name thrown in my direction.
	The second reason was, eventually, as I searched, dazed and confused, for a bathroom,
I came face to face with Alisa.
	"Excuse me," I nodded to her as I slipped by her and into the closet.
	"Beg your pardon," I asked, when I'd come back out a few seconds later, "but
could you direct me to the bathroom, please?"
	Obviously trying to suppress an absolutely beautiful smile (and failing)
she pointed me to a door off her port side.
	A few minutes later, when I returned, she was gone.
	Gone.
	I spent the better part of the evening looking for her and knocking back drinks.
To the best of my hazy memory, I didn't see her for the rest of the night. I was smitten,
heart broken and drunk and I'd been in Vancouver only twenty-four hours.


	I was, as it turned out, destined to meet Alisa again. Sooner than I expected.
I had decided, upon rolling out of couch the morning after the party, to go on strike.
That is, I refused to cook, shave or brush my hair. Instead, in the hopes of a hearty
breakfast, I'd set my sights on the closest McDonald's. It was nearly noon when I
stumbled through the doors and into the grease-filled air of the home of my
favourite clown.
	"Strawberry milkshake, small. Fries, also small. One of those yogurt fruit cup
thingies with the nuts, please."
	I was searching through my pockets for my wallet (Where the blasted flying
fish hooks was my wallet?) when I heard soft foot steps behind me. I half stepped
aside and continued fishing in my pants.
	"Find anything interesting?" a soft voice asked from behind my left shoulder.
	"Not yet," I muttered as I turned to see who had addresses me.
	There she was, all petite, brown hair and dark sunglasses, over which her
brown eyes peered back at me.
	I fell in love again. Right through the hangover.
	"...But you can help me look," I finally added.
	"Ooh, tempting," she rewarded me with a half-smile, "However, unless you
have a cup of coffee and some hash browns in your pockets, I'm going to pass."
	"I have those," the teenage male, who had taken my order and who appeared far too
chipper this early in the day, offered.
	Again those beautiful browns popped over the rims of her sunglasses and
pierced the young man with their gaze. None of us moved. Time passed.
	"I mean, I uh, could get you some coffee and hash browns," the youth stammered.
	She nodded, "Please," came the curt reply and her eyes disappeared behind the
lenses again. Then she turned to grace me with a smile.
	"Closet boy."
	Ah, she recognized me.
	"Tim," I held out my hand.
	"Alisa," Alisa replied.
	"It's very nice to meet you...again," Tim, if you stop talking now, no one will mind.
	"Likewise. Um, are you going to pay him?" Alisa gestured to the poor McDonald's
employee who stood watching us, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.
	"I'd love to, as soon as I find my wallet..." I trailed off as my hands starting patting
down my jeans.
	"Here, don't worry about it," Alisa pulled some bills from her pocket.
	"But, I-"
	"Hey, if you're search goes on any longer, you're likely to get arrested. Here,"
she passed the teenager a twenty. "Make sure the coffee is black as night and thick enough
I can stand a stir stick in it."
	"Thank you for breakfast."
	"You're welcome. Now, why don't we take breakfast back to my place and you
can make it up to me."
	The kid nearly swallowed his Adam's apple.

	As it turned out Alisa's idea of me making it up to her was probably not what the
McDonald's cashier thought it would be. We spent most of the afternoon sprawled out on
her couch, (quietly) munching our respective breakfasts while I rubbed her feet.
	"Nothing cures a hangover like a good foot rub," she claimed.
	We talked about where we grew up, how geeky we were in school, the differences
in culture and accents between Western and Eastern Canada. In a mere two hours I
felt Alisa had gone from being a complete stranger to an old friend. Politics, plays,
books, movies and favourite foods passed between us. We swapped signs, memories of childhood board
games and musical tastes while lying in the dark (the blinds were down).
	Alisa got up to get us some water (the second best hangover cure, she stated) and
when she came back and handed me a glass, I kissed her.
	"Mmm, strawberry," she murmured and kissed me back.
	

	"Starbucks. There are Starbucks everywhere out here," I thought as
I wandered the downtown of Vancouver, "What I wouldn't give for a brown and
yellow Tim Horton's!"
	Alas, that hockey-loving, coffee-brewing establishment was
nowhere to be found. Instead I was surrounded by multiple Starbucks outlets
(Starbuckses?) serving up more flavors of coffee than I'd ever heard of.
Moco-this, laite-that and espresso-ish smells greeted my noise when I entered
the Starbucks on Broughton Street.

	Heather had made it there ahead of me and was sipping away at a cup of
something which I assumed was a bastardization of coffee. Heather spread her arms
on the table, revealing a chocolate donut and a cup laid out before her. Hopeful and 
feeling irresistibly drawn toward the pretty girl with the chocolate, I walked over and
took the chair across from her.
	"Hey, stranger! What're you sayin'?" Heather asked, passing me the steaming cup.
I must not have been too late.

	"They have broken from
	The frail, straw nest of my heart
	The love doves you lost."

	"What?"
	"It's a haiku," I offered, "You said in your voice mail message you and
Adam had broken up," I cringed at the grimace which crossed her face.
	"Weirdo," I heard her mutter under her breath. You'd think a lady would be
more impressed with a fellow just coming up with a haiku off the top of his head like that.
	"Sorry. Look, I know you liked Adam, but I guess you have to realize he
wasn't ready for such a wonderful woman as yourself."
	For that Heather gave me a half-smile.
	"If I'm so wonderful," she replied, "where have you been for the past three weeks?"
	Ah Heather, always straight to the heart of the matter. Carefully I mentally
looked around at the potential conversational traps which had been placed around me.
	"Well, I-"
	"Well, you...?"
	"Have been-"
	"With Alisa," she finished for me.
	"Yeessss," careful now. Caaareful.
	"Neglecting your `wonderful' friend, me, with whom you could hardly wait to visit
and whom you just had to come out here to see."
	"Yep, that's the one. Right on the head," I agreed.
	"So, besides spending time with your new and `wonderful' crush, Alisa, 
what have you been doing?"
	"Site seeing," I responded. Then, and only then, did I see the trap.
	"So, I'm third on your list? Thanks."
	"That's not what I meant. Look, let's not argue about where I've been and
what I've been doing. Let's catch up. It's a beautiful day; we should be on the beach."
	"You have time off from the ball and chain?"
	"Ouch. Look, Heather, I'm aware Alisa isn't your favourite person in the world. That's
okay, not everyone likes everyone else. But, you know, I do. So, please let's leave
her out of this and just enjoy some fun time. Okay?"
	Heather looked sideways at me as if trying to decide whether I should be
spared or fed to the lions.
	"I can't stay mad at you, you know that?" she finally gave in. Pushing the
donut across the table to me, she launched into the recent history of her (now past)
relationship with Adam and what went wrong.


	It has occurred to me, during my time as a convenience store clerk, the sound
of pull tab (aka break open) tickets being opened, one tab at a time, sounds a bit
like corn on the cob being consumed. The sound of thick, dry paper being ripped has
a similar crunch-crunch to teeth ripping corn from its cob. Selling tickets makes my
mouth water.

	It was perhaps for that reason I decided to take the job at the 7-11 down
the street from our apartment. Or, perhaps it had more to do with the facts of the
situation:
	1. I needed a job, soon. There are always lots of clerk jobs available.
	2. It was close by, just a few blocks from the apartment.
	3. Did I mention I needed a job soon? Rent in Vancouver was a bit steeper than
the rent back home.
	4. I had passed out four dozen resumes a week for three weeks and was getting
frustrated (not to mention tired) with greeting every person I met with, "Hi, my name
is Tim," while extending a hand for a hopeful shake.

	Predictably, it was not to be a glamorous job, but it would give me the
chance to expand on my research for my book. Night shifts, after all, are the most
interesting. One meets all sorts of people at three in the morning.


	"Hi, honey, I'm home," Alisa called as she walked through our door.
	I looked up from my mess of pancake batter, half-frozen blueberries and burning
butter.
	"Hi dear, how was the mall?" though when she entered the kitchen I realized no
shopping bags dangled from her hands.
	She seemed to ignore the question, "I've got something I want to tell you."
	I hoped it wasn't as serious as her tone suggested, "You're joining a singing group?"
	"No."
	"We're taking dance classes?" I flipped a pancake.
	"No."
	"A group of penguins followed you home? In that case, we can't keep them all. Choose
one and tell the others to leave resumes."
	My last comment was followed by Alisa taking a deep breath. I decided to stop
joking. "What's on your mind, hon?"
	Those beautiful brown eyes looked up into mine and she got right to the point.
	"Tim, I'm pregnant."
	I dropped the spatula.
	There are a lot of thoughts which will float through a man's mind upon hearing
those words. Some of them are not pleasant and few are appropriate. Some of them
involve train schedules. I opened and shut my mouth a few times as I quickly watched those
dangerous thoughts float to the surface of my mind and just as swiftly pushed them down again
to drown in my wind pipe.
	"Well?" she asked after an endless parade of comments were discarded.
	At which point my mind finally drew a blank. 
	"Wow..." was all I could manage.
	"What do you think?" moisture welled up in her eyes like water lining up behind the
Hoover dam.
	"Wow..." I let it come out as a long breath. Realizing this wasn't enough to hold
up my end of the conversation, I added, "How do you feel?"
	Her chest shook a little as she collected her own nerve-steadying air.
	"A little scared," she admitted.
	Some sense finally kicked into gear in my mind and I wrapped my arms around her
little body. "When did you find out?" I whispered into her hair.
	"This...this afternoon. I haven't been to a doctor yet, but I peed on the stick ...
the stick ... thingy twice and well..."
	I could tell she was crying. Somewhere in my mind, probably just behind my nose, something
told me my pancake was burning.
	I gave her a long squeeze and pulled back a little. I flicked the stove off and
kissed her now-puffy cheek.
	"Are you okay?" I enquired softly.
	She nodded in an unconvincing manner.
	"Alrighty then, let's sit down," I suggested. I led her over to the couch and
there we held each other and thought quietly.


	"Pregnant, eh?" Heather raised an eyebrow and assumed a position I'd come
to think of as "The Doctor Is In". Relaxed, leaning back in her arm chair, hands folded
in her lap. Deciding to go with the proverbial flow, I ceased pacing and plopped down
on her couch.
	"Yep."
	"Confirmed?"
	"Yep."
	"Wow."
	"Yep."
	Heather, perhaps out of desperation for a different answer, threw a different style
of question at me, "How are you feeling?"
	"Tired, nervous, scared really. Confused. I mean we've only been together a short
time and then, well...." I flailed my arms around in the hopes they'd knock the words
for which I searched out of the air.
	"How about her?" Heather rarely called Alisa by name.
	I glanced at the rain coming down outside before answering. Perhaps answers were
in those grey clouds or perhaps the clear drops could be my crystal balls.
	"She's kinda worried. Happy, in a way. It's like she's glowing and shaking at
the same time."
	"So, what are you going to do?"
	Despite the casual tone, she leaned forward, her clasped hands nearly touching my
knee.
	I took a deep breath and slowly released it toward the ceiling, "We're going
to have a baby," the words sounded like someone else's.
	"Wow."
	"Yep," realizing I was slipping back into single syllable answers I added,
"I plan to go job hunting next week."
	The tea kettle whistled, drawing Heather up and out of her chair and into the kitchen.
A minute later she came back with two steaming cups.
	"I thought you had a job," she mused.
	"I do, but it isn't likely to cover our life style and a new baby. I mean, I might
be able to take a couple extra shifts, but it's still not likely to be enough."
	Heather just nodded quietly, watching me through her tea steam.
	"Job hunting is one of the hardest jobs," I observed.
	Another quiet nod. Then, "What else is on your mind?"
	Always straight to the point, aren't we Heather?
	"I've made a call to one of the local doctors, I don't have one. Well, this
seemed like a good time to get one..."
	"She doesn't have a doctor?"
	"She does, but I don't."
	"You're not the one packin' child."
	"No, but I wanted to get checked out."
	"For what?"
	With other people I'd ask, nay demand, confidentiality. This time I knew I didn't have to.
	"I want to see if I'm fertile," I answered.
	There are a lot of observations which could have followed my statement. A lot
of questions or puzzled looks and, of course, several jokes. Heather skipped all of them
without blinking an eye.
	"Why don't you think you're fertile, Tim?"
	My knuckles went white around my cup. I watched the blood flow away from my
tension like the water drops sliding down the window.
	"I had a vasectomy a few years ago," I took a sip of tea.
	Nothing. Nothing but the sound of Time running backward, of a scream in a vacuum. Nothing
but the rain drops crying down the pane.
	"You had what?" Heather sat up straighter, "Why?"
	"I'm a seedless grape. Or was before I came west," I replied. I felt the "why" was
self explanatory.
	"You had a vasectomy?" I nodded, "You let some guy take a knife to your...?"
	The question hung (hanged?) in the air.
	"Yes," I cut it down.
	"Wow," two beautifully thin and styled eyebrows raised.
	"Yep."
	We drank our tea in relative silence, with the exception of the rain drops singing
carols as they skied down Heather's window. She stared at the wall. Minutes passed.
	"Tim, don't get the test," the air had been so still I almost jumped.
	"Why?" it was my turn to lean forward.
	"Because regardless of the results, they won't give you an answer you want."
	While I tried to digest that piece of advice, she explained, "If the
test shows you are a ... a,"
	"Seedless grape."
	"A seedless grape, you're going to wonder if she's been faithful. You'll demand answers.
You'll hurt her feelings, warranted or not. Your curiosity will get the best of you. On the other
hand, if you're not, if you are fertile, then you'll also be confused, angry and disappointed. 
Neither of those is a good way to start your job as a parent."
	"You have a point."
	Heather was kind enough not to gloat, "Besides, however it happened, you're a father
now. Test results aren't going to change that."
	"Make that two points."
	

	I became a father on October 19th at 8:15pm. It was, I'm sure, the scariest, the
proudest and the happiest moment of my life. The birth of a child isn't something which
just happens. It's a long, drawn out event. Often scary, often emotionally charged and
full of new experiences. (Not many grown ups are used to peeing, pooping and lying naked
in front of strangers. Or at least not the crowd of people with whom I associate.)
With the birthing of a child however, one never finds themselves bored. The air itself seems
to come alive. One of the nurses commented later we were lucky; the labour lasted a
"mere" eighteen hours.

	There had been some debate up to that point what the name of our new bundle of joy
would be. Knowing we were expecting a girl, I'd thrown some suggestions into the air.
	Anne, Carol, Denise, Elizabeth, Jessica, Maria, Mika, Nicole, Sarah and Victoria had all
floated from my mouth into the summer sky. Alisa had shrugged off all of them, sometimes
while making a face, other times claiming we had to wait and see what the child looked like.
	"She'll look like a slimy lizard," I'd remarked once in reply. After that I learned
to keep quiet unless I felt like making a trip to the grocery store for feta cheese and
pineapple.
	However, upon her birth I took one look at her and whispered, "Rebecca."
	Alisa didn't object, though she sometimes joked it was because she'd been drugged
during delivery, and our angel became Rebecca.
	I hadn't believed in love at first sight until I set eyes on Alisa. However, watching her
holding Rebecca in those first moments of her life reaffirmed the practise in my mind
-- slimy lizard or no.

	There is nothing like lying on the beach in Vancouver in the summer time. It's
warm, the ocean is beautiful and there are lots of people running, playing and sunning
themselves. There is certainly nothing like caring for a toddler at the beach. Watching
to make sure she doesn't drown herself, that those guys playing Frisbee won't trip over
her while running after their own charge, making sure she doesn't eat sand, that
she doesn't annoy the other beach goes and she isn't picked up by a stranger is a full
time and nerve wrecking job.
	I had sworn to myself when Rebecca was born I wouldn't be one of those parents
who constantly says "no". I was going to be a liberal, new age kind of dad. One who used
positive language, one who-
	"No, Beccy, put that down. I said n-".
	Okay, another promise to myself broken. Though to my credit I did try to use
positive phrases or distractive measures nearly as often as the "N" word.
	"Beccy. Beccy, come over here and look at this! No don't eat that. Here,
honey, do you know what this is? No. Daddy said `no', don't put that in your- No."
	Hey, I said "try". As I was quickly learning, try is about all any parent can
do. The good ones just have enough wisdom, time and patience to pull it off.


	It takes a village to raise a child. There is a phrase I never truly understood
until Alisa and I attempted to raise Rebecca by ourselves. It became clear, sooner rather
than later, we wouldn't be able to do it. However, we were blessed by God or the Great
Pumpkin or our lucky stars with people in our lives who would look after Beccy for us.
Sometimes on a moment's notice. Heather was one of those people.
	I had to give her credit, thrilled with me or not, Heather was always happy to take
Rebecca. Whether it be for a night or an afternoon or for two minutes, she was always
willing to watch over my angel.
	"Thank you, again, so much," I gushed when she opened her apartment door, letting
me in with my charge.
	"You know I'm always happy to see my God Daughter," Heather replied, reaching
out to take Beccy. "Isn't that right, honey? Yes, I'm always happy to see you."
	Already her eyes were glazing over and a giant grin covered her face as she wrapped
Beccy in a hug. But when my child's face was directed over her shoulder, she gave me one
of her disapproving looks.
	"You know, I'd be happy to see you once in a while too," she said pointedly. "It
seems I only get to see you long enough to pick up Beccy here and then watch your retreating
back."
	Ah, Heather, always to the point.
	"Yeah, I know," I admitted. What else could I do? Working night shifts had alienated
me from both Alisa and, often times, Rebecca too. I just didn't have time to visit anyone
else. Sadly, Heather included.
	"Where are you off to at this hour?"
	It was eight-thirty in the evening.
	"Work, again. I got called in to cover for someone who called in sick."
	"That bites," Heather gave me a moment of sympathy.
	"Yeah."
	"Well, we'll talk about it later," Heather declared, "for now," her voice got sing-songy
again, "we're going to make cookies. Yes we are. Would you help me make cookies, Rebecca?"
With twin grins, my friend and my baby slipped backward into Heather's apartment and the
door closed.
	Blast, I was tired. I was suddenly feeling very alone and, damn it, I didn't even have a cookie.
	Well, to be perfectly honest, I knew I'd get one -- a cookie, I mean. Even if
Rebecca forgot to save me one, as it was near her bedtime, Heather never failed to send me
home with a "care package", regardless of how taken advantage she felt. She just loved feeding
people.
	As I headed for the elevator, I recalled a conversation I'd had with Heather shortly
after arriving in Vancouver:
	"So, now that you're here, what do you want to do?" she'd asked.
	"Lie on the beach?"
	"That's not what I mean."
	I sighed, "I know. Honestly? I'm not sure what my plans are."
	"You don't have any idea?"
	I shook my head, "Before I came out here I was trying to get myself back into shape,"
she nodded, "and I was also trying to figure out what I wanted out of life. So I devised this
exercise plan. I'd ask myself a question about my future and then do push-ups while I
considered options. I'd stop when I found my answer."
	"What did you discover?" Heather prompted.
	"That my arms would give out every night before I found an answer," I said.
	"Silly boy," she shook her head, amused. "Joking aside, how long do you plan to stay here?"
	"I'm not entirely sure," I replied, "maybe a couple of months. And I wasn't joking."

	My inability to make up my mind, I thought as I waited for the bus, about my life's 
direction is possibly one of my greatest faults. Fate had, it seemed, in my indecision,
picked a default for me.


	I was sprawled in our living room chair when Alisa woke me. Work had taken quite the
toll on me that week. After my eleventh straight shift -- the last one lasting a mind numbing
fourteen hours -- I had come home and crashed. Simply crashed in the chair as the sun
was peeking its head over the horizon.
	"Tim?"
	"Grog," what time was it? Daylight streamed in through the windows like liquid gold, dazzling
and yellow. Must be afternoon.
	"Tim, we have to talk."
	To this day those words echo through my head. Every so often, on the dark nights, I
can still feel the ice which formed in my veins.
	"More penguins followed you home?" I tried to start the conversation out on a light
note while I got my mental legs in under me.
	Alisa just shook her head, her hair bouncing liquid gold around the room as she loomed
over me, "This is serious, Tim." My God, she looked beautiful.
	"Can we do this after a bathroom break?" I asked.
	"No, Tim. Look, Tim, I'm sorry, but I'm leaving you."
	"What!?" zero to awake in three seconds.
	Well, almost awake, "What?" I asked again.
	The head shake was slower this time, "Look at yourself, Tim. You're tired and worn out.
I hardly see you. You're like a skeleton. We never get to talk anymore. I miss you. I've missed
you. Beccy misses you. I won't keep waiting up for you, wondering if you're okay, at night.
I won't go another night unsatisfied..."
	Point by point she struck. My defensiveness, anger and hope rose to do battle and retreated,
untried, under the precision of her attack. My ego was stripped away, my love given back.
	"...I've asked and waited and hoped, Tim, and I just won't do-"
	The door buzzer interrupted.
	Alisa turned toward the door. I noticed then the packed bags leaning against the wall.
	"That'll be mom. I'm leaving you, Tim. I hope you can pull yourself together. Good-bye," Alisa
turned on her heel, striding to the door.
	"Wait," I spoke into the sudden silence. Alisa looked at me over her shoulder.
	"Wait. Please stay. If not for me...not for us. Then what about Beccy?" I knew it was
a false hope. Once Alisa started something there was nothing stopping her. She was already
picking up the bags.
	"Things'll be-"
	"Different? No, Tim, don't kid yourself," she spoke over me, throwing the last bag
over her shoulder. She stepped through the door and slammed it behind her.
	I don't know how long I stood there, dumb and shocked, starring at the door. I do
know what brought me back to my surroundings: A tug on my hand.
	"Daddy?" I looked down. Rebecca, dressed in pale cream pyjamas was wiping the sleep
from her eyes, "where did Mommy go?"
	Concern ran laps around her face.
	"She went to visit grandma," I answered quietly, not really trusting my voice.
	"When is she coming back?" always Twenty Questions with this child.
	I picked her up, holding her close, so she wouldn't see the tears forming in my
eyes.
	"I'm not sure, honey," I whispered the lie in her ear. "I'm not sure. But don't
worry, I'll take the day off and you and I will have..." my voice broke, "will have the
day to ourselves."
	"Okay, Daddy."