The Reality of Parenthood

The first few months of being a dad weren’t quite as odd as I’d imagined. Of course, nothing can truly prepare you for the reality of parenthood. A lifetime worth of television, movies and literature depicting the endless sleepless nights and ear splitting screams are no less a primer than the endless procession of people who line up to tell you the same things in slightly different words, “Just wait,” they sing with a satisfied smile, “everything changes!”

And they’re right, everything does. Though not exactly how I expected.

Cindy and I would experience the soul siege of sleepless nights two and a half years later with the birth of our son, but we were spoiled with our daughter. She came, at least for the first couple of years, with her batteries included. She gave us little trouble and allowed us to believe we were some sort of super parents.

This parenting gig was easy, we thought. We’d spent nine months with Mia as our constant companion, even though she had been stuck on the side of the womb which carried an echo. She was no less our confederate once confined to the car seat.

She accompanied us on every adventure, sat with us during every meal, and was included in much of our everyday conversation. She had her mother’s giant eyes, her father’s giant smile, and seemed to have an old soul aware enough to constantly evaluate her surroundings.

I know I was obnoxious as a first time father. Three months into being a dad, I acted as though I was the first person to ever become a parent. I often spray my puppy dog slobber all over the place, even on those things I am not terribly excited about. When it came to my offspring, I was as giddy as gremlin after midnight. Yet, my enthusiasm wasn’t entirely blind.

I was immediately dedicated to being the best dad I could possibly be. A large part of that was in the way I communicated with my daughter. Just because she didn’t understand every word, didn’t mean she wasn’t trying. And how was I to know she didn’t? What if there was a tiny part of her brain, one chip amid the circuitry, which truly did understand it all; something deep in the recesses of her brain granting access to our collective unconscious.

I could feel the curious looks from outsiders as I spoke to my baby in full and rather robust sentences. And yes, I did occasionally feel odd beneath the stares. But I kept right on marching along with the nouns, verbs and dangling participles. I was positive my effort would one day explode forward in a torrent of accumulated language. Every word I’d slammed against the backboard alone would one day be part of our volley.

And they were.

Sometime around 18 months of age, our daughter started marching through the house spewing both questions and answers in long, elegant sentences. Within a couple of months after that, her favorite word was actually, which she used as the start for every other new sentence. But it was a full year before that when I got my first taste of the fun which would one day accompany the constant banter with my baby.

It was during a game of, My Turn, Your Turn.

Mia was six months old. I was laying on the bed beside Cindy, with Mia between us. I rolled over, lifted Cindy’s shirt a few inches above her innie and blasted her belly with a zerber loud enough to rattle the windows in the apartment below.

“Stop it,” Cindy said, even though she didn’t mean it.

“Did you hear what she said?” I asked Mia. “She said it’s your turn.”

A smile spread on Mia’s face; a big, giant colossus of a grin. She crawled over to Cindy, climbed on her belly, lifted her shirt exactly as I had, pursed her tiny lips, and blasted her belly with a zerber which barely fluttered the thin cotton of Cindy’s tee-shirt.

“My turn!” I blasted Cindy’s belly a second time, even louder than the first. “Your turn!” I turned to Mia and smiled.

We continued to trade turns as Cindy patiently watched me and Mia abuse her belly as blasting pad.

Mia was not yet speaking, but she understood exactly what was happening and knew precisely how to play her part. I felt as warm and connected to my daughter that day as the sun in the sky exchanging places with the passing moon.

I knew things would change when I became a dad, though I could have no idea how much or why. I did not know what sort of father I would be because I could have no true idea what the job required. It didn’t take long for me to realize that being a father would simply require me to be my best self as often as possible, providing my child with the constant opportunity to observe and absorb.

Soon enough, all those observations will gather to something significant. Your child will take all she is, blend it with all she came from, then mingle it with every little lesson learned to finally reveal a brand new personality for all the world to see.

Yes, having a child means everything changes, but it isn’t just sleepless nights and endless feedings. Your child will change you as well, especially if you allow it. Children will change your expectations of who you are and who they might one day be.

Allow these changes to happen, nurture the incremental bits of evolution, and allow each day to shape you.