I keep having visions of you nestling into my neck. You’re days old and soft as a cashmere goat, warm as the sun. We’re laying in bed, your mother softly snoring and you cooing on my chest. In my visions you never pee or poop, and you never spit up. So it’s perfect, just perfect. And I feel complete and terrified and ecstatic and broken open and it’s all so much I can barely breath. And it is good.
But you’re not here yet. And every day waiting creates a struggle within me to remain positive and focus on the light. Sometimes I go into the dark. This is something you should probably know about me sooner than later. So, in the interest of full transparency, I wanted to share with you my occasional mind state as I wait for you.
9 months, little dude. 40 weeks. That’s what you get. You ask me, it’s more than long enough. I’ve met babies who survived far less than that, they’re called preemies. And I’m not saying you’re not as tough as them, or that you’re soft for wanting to stay in all the way up to your due date. But if life forges us through adversity, well, you’re not getting started off on the best foot.
Mostly, I just want you to think about your mother. She carried your parasitic self for what has felt like an eternity. She powered through it for 8 months. Really, truly amazing to see. But now the light in her eyes has dimmed. Every extended reach for a cinnamon roll is a circuitous struggle, every squat a Herculean feat. She’s not going to put up with it for much longer. If you’re not going to come out when our schedules line up and our maternity/paternity leave allows, well, get ready for an invasive membrane sweep and some uncomfortable inducement.
I’m just saying, if children could choose their parents, there would be a line around the block for us. I’m not bragging, just stating facts. Between the two of us we have over 15 years of experience working with kids in schools and homes. We have 6 nieces and nephews, we’ve both babsyat, nannied, mannied, wiped hundreds of butts, navigated thousands of meltdowns. In short, we are about as equipped as any parents have ever been for a child. You’re in for a world of nurturing care once you arrive. Your mother is a relentlessly compassionate and patient person, and your father is basically a stand-up comedian performing private shows for his family 24/7.
If children had to fight for the parents they wanted, there would be a Mad Max arena littered with the corpses of all the losers. OK, I know that last one doesn’t really prove my parenting prowess, but in that metaphor children are in the ethereal realm and there’s no actual death. It’s just a way of saying that there is most likely a literal (figurative) pile of bodies that one true champion had to climb atop to claim his right as our firstborn. That was you, but honestly, I was expecting more from you already. Like being born on the winter solstice, at least.
All right, all right, I know this isn’t sounding as encouraging as it should, especially coming from a first time father to his unborn son. To be honest, when I get anxious or upset I often resort to dark humor as a coping mechanism or just fall face first into depression. Here’s what’s really going on:
1. I’m anxious AF about what kind of father I’ll be.
Yes, I’ve worked with students from 0-60 for 12 years. Yes, I have the practice and experience to qualify me for the job. But when it’s your kid, it’s completely different. I can’t leave you with your parents and go off on a no-handed bike race to the brewery. I’m the parent, the sleep-starved, fulltime worker, fulltime dad, that has to show up for you every moment, no matter what kind of mood I’m in. And if you knew my moods, you’d be worried too.
2. I hate watching your mom, my wife, suffer.
It’s like watching that terrible polar bear video that I wish I could un-see. The one where the bear is skin and bones, mad with hunger, barely able to put one paw in front of the other. Except it’s kind of opposite, where your mother is like a balloon that’s been filled past the point where it should pop. And she’s definitely not struggling to find food.
3. I’m impatient.
There are some things I can be patient for, like waiting for my beer to ferment, or waiting for pizza to cool down enough for me to eat it without burning the top of my mouth and peeling off a layer of skin. OK, I lied about both of those things. I’m just impatient. So, hurry up!
4. I can’t stand not knowing what kind of human you will be.
If you’re healthy, if you’ll be happy, what kind of crowd you’ll fall in with in high school. It’s driving me crazy (crazier) waiting for you to reveal yourself. Every day I’m waiting I make up stories in my head of you coming out with a tusk or 11 toes or with a Boston accent.
5. I freak out when I’m not in control.
If there’s nothing for me to actively do to create, make or push something to happen, I just sort of spin in my mind and drive myself and everyone around me nuts with my anxious energy. There’s nothing I can do right now except wait, which isn’t a great place for me to be (see #3).
I’ll close up this not-so encouraging letter by reiterating that you will be in the most loving and capable hands once you finally arrive. But mommies and daddies have fears and insecurities too. Even though you won’t really be able to recognize other people’s emotional interiors or view anyone as anything other than your servant in a universe designed solely for you for quite some time (like until you’re 27), I hope that some day you can recognize how much your parents did and sacrificed and overcame just for you. All for you. Just like our parents before us and their parents before them.
It’s all for you. And it will continue to be all about you for the vast foreseeable future. So, please, just do us this one favor. Come out of the womb! You’ve got good things waiting for you. Even though this little letter might not exactly prove that.