Photo courtesy of Jon Pitts-Wiley

Am I full of shit?

I find myself asking that question more frequently than I once did. The shit that I wonder whether or not I’m full of isn’t of the dishonest variety; it isn’t borne of slick double talk or the intent to be duplicitous. Part of me wishes it were because even that has a deliberate bent that I begrudgingly admire. The shit that occupies my thoughts, the shit that keeps me brooding, has little to do with being disingenuous and much more to do with following through.

I spend a fair amount of time staring at my wife’s stomach wondering about the child inside, and as I stare, my wonder and amazement often give way to feelings that are somewhere in the family of guilt. I want to have the world ready for this kid and here I am unable to figure out the mathematics of doing so. I feel no shame for the life we created, but I do feel the looks and tones of the friends, particularly the more educated and professional ones, who wondered—and probably still wonder—just what the hell my wife and I were thinking. I won’t pretend that my situation is anywhere near unique. In fact, given the circumstances, my wife and are coming out way ahead. The reality of the situation has worked out a lot worse for scores of people and that sad fact is something of a calming influence. To a point.

Still, my reality being what it is brings me back to my central question:

Am I full of shit?

I’m intoxicated by greatness; by individuals who are singularly driven to succeed. While I certainly recognize them as volatile individuals who are, in many ways, completely dangerous templates on which to base one’s life, I’m nonetheless intrigued by those that exhibit an unrelenting passion for excellence. What is that thing that separates the mediocre from the stars, and stars from superstars?

Here’s the part where that sinking guilty feeling comes in. In the last six months, my life was simplified with an impressive abruptness: I’m someone’s husband and I am going to be someone’s dad. Please don’t mistake "simple" to mean easy; I rather mean that life in those terms is no longer in doubt or question. Simple.

Yet the danger of a simplified life, a cruel fact of growing up in general is this: with simplification comes accountability and a lack of egress. Gone are the days when I can sit and wonder on my own time. Gone are the days when the question of my being full of shit could merely be tossed out as the angsty and cerebral musings of a privileged young adult.

Now, it seems, that question requires an answer. And I don’t have one.

As I examine my life, the initial prognosis is less-than-impressive. I hear myself talking about aspirations, talking about things I want to do as I while away the time not being accountable to my dreams. Perhaps they aren’t dreams at all but rather elaborate imaginings on things I’d like to try one time. Asked about the progress of those dreams, I’ll tell the lie that people who don’t want it bad enough tell with near-impunity: Man, I’ve just been so busy. I’ll tell this lie while Twittering pith and then go to bed having lied one day longer and having bettered myself none. I rarely go to bed exhausted. How could I when I haven’t pushed myself all day? Still, the turbines of my thoughts eventually lull me to sleep and when I awake, I share a few moments of quiet shame with the person I'd like to be. Finding no more resolve than I had before waking, I go to stand among the rabble, spectating snarkily while having done little myself.

But this examination extends beyond my life. When I stare at The Feath’s stomach and see the life roiling underneath, I don’t doubt what I would do for this child. But that’s in the Staring Time, those moments when the prodding of young life brings me comfort. When I awake in the mornings and feel that shame I spoke of, I yearn for comfort but do not feel it. The question of how I will provide for her remains on my mind, but I don’t feel a surge of inspiration as I prepare to shill and snark. I find myself filled only with questions.

Could I really do anything for my family or am I just full of shit?

I look at my father and can only feel resentment for being myself and not him. This is a man driven by his dreams, a drive that is only surpassed by his desire to be husband and father. I didn’t know my father in his days as a young husband and parent, but he doesn’t give off that doubting vibe.

I’ve known for a long time that I was incapable of doing something I didn’t want to do. That inclination has not left me and I can’t help but feel juvenile as it occupies the corners of my thoughts. I don’t dare let it dictate my life now, but I feel weak for letting it lurk at all. Who am I to be nearly overwhelmed by my lack of inspiration as someone I helped create prepares to enter the world? Who am I to lack the focus and drive to be great when it actually counts?

Being great as a kid doesn’t require much. If you’re gifted and put forth enough effort, a lot of doors come flying open. I wouldn’t be so smug as to call kid-great easy, but I would be realistic enough to call it something more easily accomplished than in the adult ranks. Wanting it more than the other guy as an adult requires a gear that I’m not sure I have. The greatness may be there, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself to me. But I have yet to see it. And that scares me.

This isn’t the ballad of a future deadbeat. Quitting isn’t even an option and has no place in this conversation. But I find the thing I grapple with to be something worse than quitting. I’m not coming to grips with the fact that I am subpar. I’m grappling with a matter of excellence.

As I watch the roiling of The Feath’s stomach and consider the tasks ahead, I merely wonder if I have the stuff to be great. Or if I'm just full of shit.

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