On Fatherhood
They’ll get around to it eventually. They always do. After nibbling little bites out of Cece’s chubby cheeks. Or declaiming they just cannot belive how adorable she is. Or marveling at the fact that Chelle carried such a big baby on a such a small frame. Maybe even after giving Lola some much needed attention. They will turn to me and ask, “So, how’s Fatherhood.”
That’s Fatherhood with a capital F, mind you. For awhile I felt guilty for not having a big important answer that started with it’s own capital letter. Anything that came to mind felt a bit slap dash. “Well jeez, she’s still breathing, has all her fingers and toes and I haven’t dropped her on the soft spot, so generally I think I’m getting a passing grade.” Or, “It’s alright. I’ve slotted it in between weeding the garden and working on my blog.” I wondered if I should be feeling more. Did I sleep through the big Fatherhood epiphany? Was there a class at the hospital I missed? Was I like the Tin Man lacking a heart?
I didn’t think so. I hoped not. It had to be something else. I thought back on the last eight weeks since we came home from the hospital. I counted a few changes:
- Who are those wackos on the highway going 75? I really can drive 55. The right lane in the right speed.
- Falling asleep on a Friday night at 10:30 and marveling at how you used to be leaving the house at this time for the bars. Then rolling over with no regrets.
- Buying new ankle braces because God help me if I turn an ankle and disrupt the delicate household ecosystem.
- Taking 662 pictures in six weeks and being terrified it’s not nearly enough to capture all the moments you want to remember.
- Laying awake and worrying she might date a Yankee fan.
- Yearning for things to speed up and slow down at the same time. Wanting to teach and talk and laugh with her, but not wanting her to get bigger than your arms can hold.
- Volunteering to give her a bath when game 7 of the playoffs is on.
- Buying favorite books even though she won’t be able to read or understand it for a decade.
- Waking up terrified and being unable to sleep till you get up and check even though you know it’s silly.
See, if being pregnant for a woman is like Grimace — big, purple and obvious than becoming a Father is more like the Hamburglar — sneaky, masked and devious. It doesn’t drop a piano on you. There is rarely a big Aha! moment. It sneaks up on tip-toes and rearranges your life with subtle nudges and shifts. Till one day you look around and you’re already there.
I wasn’t some outcast or unfeeling robot. I was just your average Dad because Fatherhood (can’t forget that capital) is being so in love with your child that you will always struggle to put it into words.
They’ll get around to it eventually. They always do. After nibbling little bites out of Cece’s chubby cheeks. Or declaiming they just cannot belive how adorable she is. Or marveling at the fact that Chelle carried such a big baby on a such a small frame. Maybe even after giving Lola some much needed attention. They will turn to me and ask, “So, how’s Fatherhood.”
That’s Fatherhood with a capital F, mind you. For awhile I felt guilty for not having a big important answer that started with it’s own capital letter. Anything that came to mind felt a bit slap dash. “Well jeez, she’s still breathing, has all her fingers and toes and I haven’t dropped her on the soft spot, so generally I think I’m getting a passing grade.” Or, “It’s alright. I’ve slotted it in between weeding the garden and working on my blog.” I wondered if I should be feeling more. Did I sleep through the big Fatherhood epiphany? Was there a class at the hospital I missed? Was I like the Tin Man, lacking a heart?
I didn’t think so. I hoped not. It had to be something else. I thought back on the last eight weeks since we came home from the hospital. I counted a few changes:
- Who are those wackos on the highway going 75? I really can drive 55. The right lane in the right speed.
- Falling asleep on a Friday night at 10:30 and marveling at how you used to be leaving the house at this time for the bars. Then rolling over with no regrets.
- Buying new ankle braces because God help me if I turn an ankle and disrupt the delicate household ecosystem.
- Taking 662 pictures in six weeks and being terrified it’s not nearly enough to capture all the moments you want to remember.
- Laying awake and worrying she might date a Yankee fan.
- Yearning for things to speed up and slow down at the same time. Wanting to teach and talk and laugh with her, but not wanting her to get bigger than your arms can hold.
- Volunteering to give her a bath when game 7 of the playoffs is on.
- Buying favorite books even though she won’t be able to read or understand it for a decade.
- Waking up terrified and being unable to sleep till you get up and check even though you know it’s silly.
See, if being pregnant for a woman is like Grimace — big, purple and obvious than becoming a Father is more like the Hamburglar — sneaky, masked and devious. It doesn’t drop a piano on you. There is rarely a big Aha! moment. It creeps up on tip-toes and rearranges your life with subtle nudges and shifts till one day you look around and you’re already there.
I wasn’t some outcast or unfeeling robot or empty tin can. I was just your average Dad because Fatherhood (can’t forget that capital) is being so in love with your child that you will always struggle to put it into words.
