As I lay on the floor looking at the newly-assembled crib, I realized just how much things have already started to shift. Nothing dramatic, nothing even conscious. Just a handful of tiny undulations who’s seismic center, I would imagine, could be traced back to this impending fatherhood thing.

A month or so ago, while The Wife™ was out of the house, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and knew it was time. I went to the garage, got a pair of vice grips, and ripped out my earrings. To some, this might seem trite, insignificant. I knew it was a big deal, but it hadn’t hit me yet. I’ve had piercings for over ten years now, and for the last eight have worn the same jewelry, never once taking them out. They’ve traveled with me all over the world, and in a silly kind of way, have shared in every experience I’ve had since trotting off to college in the late nineties. All of a sudden, something I’ve carried with me for close to four thousand days, something that in one way or another has helped define me (or at least my outward appearance) had been removed. It was simply time to move on.

And what had started with a Lenten sacrifice has now become a signifier of further change inside. No longer are my days filled from beginning to end with music. Instead, I have been commuting in silence for several weeks, my car’s stereo dimmed each morning. And what I originally thought would be a terrible, yet temporary, oblation has turned into a strangely welcomed exercise in silence. A year ago I would not have believed it myself.

So as I sat there yesterday morning, sun shining briefly through the nursery window, I became aware these recent, muted changes. Sure, it’s nothing substantial or shocking. But they are significant. And I’m beginning to see that while these two things might not be heralding the arrival of a baby-ready Brian just yet, subconsciously things are indeed shifting, and perhaps in a way that means that I’m more ready for what changes are coming soon.

I still don’t know what to make of the third new trend with me, though. Perhaps “falling asleep after one beer” is related to something other than getting older. It’s got to stop, though. This would be an utter slap in the face to my Irish heritage if I became the drinking equivalent of a 19 year old college chick.