Christmas is a little different at the McGrath-Goudie household this year.
In late September, my beautiful wife, Becca, gave birth to our first kid — my son, Owen — and my life has been flipped upside down ever since.
Long gone are the days of grabbing a 10 p.m. weeknight pint with an old friend, or of going on spontaneous Saturday road trips with Becca.
Instead, my days are filled with my exciting — if taxing — duties as a father and a reporter.
Since September, I’ve gone from interviewing a politician over the phone to holding a screaming baby in a matter of seconds. Some days, he sounds just like the council chamber.
Such is the modern journalist.
With Christmas here, I feel a new responsibility. I’m a bit of a Scrooge, myself, but I’ll be damned if my kid isn’t going to grow up experiencing the magic of Christmas: Santa, Rudolph, the spirit of giving — a kid needs that stuff.
Despite my grumpy tendencies, this tiny, smiley, screaming human is changing the tide of how I look at things. Things are tough these days, but I really want him to grow up in a world where people believe in one another and do their best to help. It's my job to show him the world can be like that — and since starting this job, I've learned it can.
Owen himself changes on a day-to-day basis. One day he doesn't know how his hands work, and the next he's got a strong grip on your finger as he beams at you with a big baby smile. It's a truly wild experience.
So much goes through your mind when you become a Dad: What do I really need to show this kid? What values do I want to instill in him? Am I good enough for him? Can I change this particular diaper without throwing up?
Those are great questions, but I’ve quickly learned we aren’t perfect. Being a grownup, and being a parent is hard. All you can really do is get out of bed, look at the pieces of the day, and try your best. And tomorrow, you look to do better than you did today.
I don’t really have a core thesis or major point to make in this column — except for the fact that my heart has grown at least three sizes since Owen was born. I love the little guy to death.
Even though he won’t remember it, Becca and I will be sure to make Owen’s first Christmas a good one — and each one after that.
I’d come up with another joke at city hall’s expense, but frankly, I’m pretty tired these days.
I’ll simply close by saying it’s been an absolute privilege to tell Orillia’s stories over the past couple years, and if your 2025 is half as eventful as my 2024, then you’ll have had a very memorable year. I hope you all make some good memories along the way.
Merry Christmas!
