The Beginning of Exit 117

Let’s start with what prompted this Blog.

Hop in the nearest Delorean and tap in September 16, 2008. Eighty-eight miles per hour later and you’ll find me sitting in my office in downtown Cleveland, Ohio.

I look like I’m about to throw up.

For the contemporary history buffs, September 16th, give or take, marked the beginning of a series of severe market downturns plummeting the U.S. Economy into its current doldrums—and I just made the mistake of checking my stock portfolio. “Mortgage madness” was at its end, AIG was about to crumble behind Lehman Brothers and banks everywhere panicked. The whole house was going up in flames; thanks to the Internet, I had not only skin in the game but a front row seat to the slaughter. I knew then what it must be like to own the Cleveland Browns.

I was taking it about as well as anybody who just lost almost half their meager net worth. I thought about some of the older guys in our office. In a matter of minutes they traded well-deserved retirement for another five-year tour in corporate America. Economic conscription—what a bitch.

At least I’m young, I thought. Plenty of time to rebound. It was also reassuring that I didn’t have kids to worry about. No diapers to buy or tuition to pay. Nada. Save for the wedding ring on my finger, I was a free man.

I’d been married almost seven years to the day. Life was good. But after seven years, one thing was missing. For her, it was children; for me, a Porsche. And since not even the finest German engineering can outpace a biological clock, you can guess where household priorities lay. (For the record, I couldn’t afford a Porsche anyhow—but I’d have settled for four wheels and new car smell.)

We’d been “trying” for about a year without luck. I know some couples wait far longer, but after watching basketball, baseball and now football season go buy without luck, I’d pretty much grown used to the fact that we might go it alone in this journey. I can’t say I was devastated. In fact, until the market crashed, the notion of possibly retiring early was increasingly appealing. I looked forward to us sailing around the world; running with bulls in Pamplona; sipping Mai Tais to setting—and rising—Maui suns. Essentially living every American Express commercial I’d ever seen. What’s in your wallet?

I guess that's a Capital One question, but either way, the answer was easy: nothing. Okay, so I’m being a bit dramatic, but that’s how I felt.

When I arrived home that evening, my wife greeted me at the door. This is nice, I thought. But nice became mystical when I noticed the rocks glass filled with bourbon in her hand. I was speechless. She finally gets it, I thought. Seven years and I finally broke this bronco. I kissed her and eagerly took my prize—but not so eagerly as to impart “special occasion” status on the moment—I wanted her to believe this was part of our routine going forward.

I went upstairs and headed straight to the office to check snail mail. She followed quietly, as did our two dogs. I still grumbled to myself about the market, and a stack of new bills sitting on the desk didn’t help my mood. After polishing off the bourbon, I rose from the desk and turned. An outstretched hand stopped me in my tracks. In it was a white rod that looked like the handle of a toothbrush.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Look at it” she said.

I flipped it over and saw a window with two pink lines in it—one prominent and another barely visible. “What does this mean?”

“Here,” she thrust a box at me, “read this.” The box essentially said “One line = no baby, two lines = baby.” Words simple enough for even a frightened teenager to understand. It’s amazing I didn’t even flinch. When I get pocket aces at a poker table, I’m giddier than a girl who just got her first kiss from the starting quarterback. But when I learn my wife is having a baby, my demeanor is impermeable—stone cold.

Shock is an amazing thing.

I wish I could say what happened next was one of my finest moments as a husband. I wish I could say that whoever happens to be directing The Life of E117 queued up romantic background music, against which my wife and I celebrated our newfound joy with a tearful embrace.

But I can’t.

“You peed on this, right?” I asked.

“Um, yeah,” my wife responded. Even the dogs looked like they knew the answer to that one.

“Gross.” I paused, further inspecting the pee-wand with upturned nose. “You know, that second line is awfully light. Why don’t you take it again tomorrow and we’ll talk.”

And so began my life as a father—which brings me to this Blog.

I’m still not entirely sure why I’m writing Exit 117, but the events of September 16, 2008, definitely had something to do with it. Maybe it’s because I need somewhere to “put” everything going through my head, and a journal just isn’t cutting it. Maybe it’s because I want some sort of record that my kid can tease me about in years to come. Maybe it’s because I just need something better to do than stare at the ceiling at 2:18 a.m.

But who cares? Nobody’s reading this anyhow.