My son loves to sing. He also loves to come with me when I buy beer. Worlds collided today, and the results were glorious.

Baby #2 is just weeks away from his glorious arrival, and we're hoping that the sequel will be as critically acclaimed as the original.  The first child has been a colossal hit, drawing rave reviews from grandparents, babysitters, and strangers on Facebook. He sings, dances, and tells strangers that they are wrong. Among his greatest quirks are his detailed apologies, in which he explains to you EVERYTHING that he finds significant about his mistake: "I'm sorry, daddy, for hitting you in the face with this pretty cool new blue shark toy that mommy got me at the aquarium." He has the memory of a computer, the mouth of a storyteller, and the stubbornness of a brick wall. He has charm.

I will soon have two boys in my growing monster army, and I have very few expectations concerning the new baby. I have no idea what this kid will be like. He may be loud, rambunctious, and intense. He may be shy.  In regard to appearance, we figure that the second beast will look nothing like our first, since number one received such an odd mix of his parents' attributes.

When we decided to learn the baby's sex after 16 weeks, we thought that it would be best to use one of those companies that provide the Creepy 4D Sonograms. Please note that we did not want to view said creepy images in paper or digital form. In fact, we wished to use their 2D option, and actually paid for that particular service. We simply thought that using a private company would allow us to schedule the appointment at a convenient time.

When we arrived, we informed the doctor that we had no need for the fancy technology. He was kind, and said that he would show us the creepy pictures for free. A real gentleman. He quickly got started, and informed us that we were having a boy. When he revealed the 4D image, I was struck by the fact that Baby Orange Voldemort appeared to have my nose. I made the mistake of asking whether the image was indicative of my baby's eventual facial structure.

"Oh, so you want to know if he looks like you..." asked the doctor I just met. As he spoke, his hand moved back and forth across his mouse pad. Within seconds, he revealed that he had drawn a beard on the fetus.

"What do you think?" he asked.

I think I found the coolest doctor in the history of the world. I also think my son might be a velociraptor with facial hair.  

I work in hospice.

This statement has never been written in either of my blog columns. I checked. I actually just conducted a Google search to confirm it. The omission is likely due to the fact that I write about birth, and cribs, and babies punching Santa. Hospice seems out of place here.

However, end-of-life care often evokes conversations relevant to my experience as a young father. My professional work is about family, and loyalty, and legacy. These themes transcend context, and occasionally reach far enough to punch this young father right in the mouth. I find myself smacked with the frightening yet liberating reality that I start dying now. The process starts today. The ways in which I work, and love, and serve will influence the legacy I eventually leave behind, as well as the manner in which I leave it. I am reminded each day that the life I live is meaningful, that it has consequences, and that it affects others. It affects my wife, and it affects my son.

On the rare occasion that I am asked to define my role as a hospice worker, I share that my efforts revolve around meaning. I base my care on that which the patient and family have found most meaningful over the course of their lives. Alongside these brave individuals and their families, I engage the mystery of death and affirm life. I validate faith and the commitment of the individual, and support him or her as life closes.  Everything we do revolves around that person’s journey. Reconciliation and legacy abound. Heartache is ever-present. A few good laughs are often shared.

I am writing all this to remind myself and others why I began writing about parenthood in the first place. At the end, all we have are stories; Beautiful, sacred stories that bind us and sustain us. Faith, family, and hope are all founded in story, and in death these stories collide.

Today, my stories are joyous, and they are mine forever. Oliver is crawling, smiling, and occasionally raising his eyebrows at ladies in the supermarket. He is awesome. His stories add meaning to my life, and I feel as though I am aware of this now more than ever. Most of all, I am grateful for the opportunity to reflect on our relationship now with enriched perspective, rather than later. If not for my job, that perspective would not exist.

So here I am, because of that “terribly depressing job,” anticipating our adventures together with newfound excitement. I look forward to watching Star Wars with Oliver for the first time. I look forward to sharing my faith with him. I even look forward to getting him his own dog, and then watching as he figures out that tails are not leashes.

All this excitement … brought about by that terribly depressing job.

Over the course of my happy and not-so-long life, I have developed a list of food items that I find irresistible, consisting of foods that I have consumed while living and travelling within the U.S.   I recently shared this list with Oliver, and he surprisingly responded with "Oh snap, dad. Me too. I have a rich and complex pallet." I have asked him to share some of his favorite foods here, alongside my own. Here they are, in no particular order.

Carne asada, grease, salsa, some more grease. This tastes like Los Angeles, and Los Angeles is delicious.

This stromboli is inarguably one of the greatest things ever created by humankind, right behind the Egyptian pyramids and the Snuggie. 

These sandwiches are intelligent, slightly elitist, and very delicious. Thanks, Princeton.

I know, I know. This can be purchased anywhere, and your Vietnamese friend's mother can do a better job than this place. You are wrong. I am right. Slurp it.

These burgers come with grilled onions and blue cheese. And happiness. They come with happiness.

This place makes fried burritos with fruit filling. Who cares? They make donuts.

This list makes me hungry. Somebody order pizza.

There is a reason why my legs are not in the picture.   I already ate them.

It is shiny, it occasionally is lathered in crusty spilled food , and I can see the reflection of my face while I lick it. What's not to like?

Dad likes burritos with anything in them. I like this small crevice in the same way.

I never get to taste it for very long. Shocking.  Dad and mom pull it out of my hands right before I can get it in my mouth. The mystery makes it more delicious.

Too early to give an honest critique. I want to eat a real gorilla and then compare the two.

I don't know what Laser Eye Surgery is, but I bet it doesn't taste nearly as good as these things. 

Jay-Z made a song entirely about tags. He totally gets me. 

I finally have a camcorder. I think.  Is that still what we call a video camera? I feel like the guy who saved all his money to buy a boombox the day after CD players came out. I fully understand that most phones have filming capability, and very few people own video cameras. I do not care. I wanted to film this kid for hours, so I bought a camera.

Unfortunately, my son has decided to stare blankly into the lens at all times. When the camera light goes on, his lights go off. Nobody is home. For whatever reason, the kid just stares. Because of the utter lack of activity, I decided to liven up the video with a little dialogue.  

Babies cry and scream with varying intensity. Some cries are soft and drawn out. Others are sharp, bouncy and chirp-like. I can describe baby noises for days, but unfortunately, I have difficulty conveying the intensity of the baby’s feelings. I know how to tell my wife that the baby is pissed, but I have trouble explaining just how intense he is.

Because of this, I have decided to measure the intensity of fits by creating a hierarchy of intense Hollywood action stars, and associating baby noises with specific actors.   Here they are, in order, from least intense to most intense.

Every time your baby cries like this, you try your best to respect how serious she is. Unfortunately, it becomes increasingly difficult to understand what she’s trying to say, and you cannot help but laugh in her puffy little face.

Your baby makes faces that make him appear racially ambiguous, and all you can discern is that this baby is serious. Is he Asian? I don’t know, but he is very serious.

This cry involves a great deal of theatrics, and can be quite entertaining to watch. After a few minutes, you want your baby to start doing something new.

In response to this cry, people think, “Wow, that baby has such a pretty face. Why do I get the impression he wants to murder me? Ah, who cares. What a pretty face!”

Dad: Is it me, or does that baby have an accent?

Mom: You’re right. What country is that from?

Dad:  Not sure. Somewhere really intense.

You know this scream. You are tired of this scream. But you respect this scream.

This scream becomes more intense as time passes. It starts off slow, steady, and distinguished. Then, in an instant, you are thinking “holy sh#* did he just punch a wolf in the face?!”  Yes, he probably did. He is that intense.

While you were reading this post, Nicolas Cage made three movies. He dies in four of them. Boom.  When your baby starts Nicolas Caging all over your face, just stick the baby monitor on the dresser and keep your distance.

When I was a child, my father set out to build a backyard fort. To this day, the structure is his greatest architectural achievement. Though his three rambunctious boys are now three semi-mature adults, that clubhouse still stands amidst orange trees and a vegetable garden.  It remains glorious. When I initially embarked on this parenting adventure, I figured that I would have to wait several years before creating something of significance. I was wrong. Sort of.

With the help of my sister-in-law and a multilingual instruction manual, I built a crib that has not yet fallen apart. Some of my friendly readers might point out that I technically assembled a crib from parts manufactured somewhere in the United States. They are correct. Still, I assembled that thing masterfully, and I deserve some credit for not assembling it upside down or accidentally nailing it to a door.

This was the latest of several steps we had taken in creating a fun living space for our little guy. Now that Oliver has been here for three months, I can confirm that he thrives in his new habitat. His nursery is baby friendly, personal, and nerdy. He has some fun clothes, a few bath toys, and a wall covered with pictures of historic sports figures. We framed the covers of several sports-themed children’s books, and displayed them throughout the room. Prominent sports icons can be found above shelves, next to windows, and hiding beneath smoke alarms. I initially thought of juxtaposing my face on a few of the athletes, just to boost my self-esteem and subtly convince my child that I’m athletic.  I eventually gave up my dream, and allowed for the icons to retain their place of prominence. His walls tells stories of Pele, Wilma Rudolph, and small Canadian children that play ice hockey.

In all seriousness, this process was much more complicated than expected. I knew that choosing baby room décor was an important part of the nesting process, because someone said it in Juno. However, I never expected this process to become important to me. It never seemed very significant. In fact, when we first started talking about the room, I optimistically figured that my wife would lead the charge. She happens to be more organized, more intelligent, more artistic, and far more proactive than I am. As facets of the room were discussed, however, I found that I had opinions. Strong ones. I suddenly overthought every aspect of the room, and began to question the messages being sent by whatever and whoever was being displayed on the walls. I questioned the iconic figures, the sports represented, and even the color themes. Questions abounded. Am I accidentally conveying some bias about gender or ethnicity by choosing some pictures over others?  Am I forcing my child to like sports? Why are there no pictures of my bearded face in this room?

I spoke with a dear friend who happens to share most of my views on life, and I informed him of my concerns. I was both surprised and comforted to hear him suggest that my worries were absurd. The walls do not matter. My kid receives so much love at every moment of every day, and no faulty room display will detract from that message. My child will learn to love and value all others because he will see that behavior modeled by his parents.  I can fret about somehow creating the racist third grader who makes awkward comments at recess, but it simply will not happen.

I probably will not build a glorious, surprisingly sturdy backyard fort for my children. This kid will be lucky if I construct a go-cart without losing fingers. Still, I have plenty of confidence that I can create a decent human being. I'll let you all know how he turns out.