The Fear

Earlier today, a colleague was asking me how Natalia was feeling, what with the baby due in only a few short weeks. I replied that she was moving slower now but somehow seemed to have more energy than me. She laughed. Then she asked if I was scared.

I thought about that question for a moment. Was I scared? I replied no--with the caveat that with the summer we had and the two kids already in my care, I haven't had much time to be scared. But I did admit to being terrified before Andres was born, and perhaps exceedingly nervous before Celia arrived. She laughed, said "Well, good luck!" and was off.

But the question lingered. Am I scared? I thought about it this afternoon as I took Andres swimming. It hadn't left my head by dinner. And the fact that this uninvited question is still occupying my time probably indicates that my earlier, confident response was a bit...inaccurate.

The truth is I'm not scared of the baby. I'm enthralled about becoming a dad for the third time. I don't fear changing diapers, comforting a crying child, or losing even more dress shirts to spit-up stains. I've been through that twice before and managed to emerge largely intact. (Note the addition of the word "largely." My hair is more sparse and gray than it was 5 years ago, and my self-imposed sleep deprivation has torpedoed my attention span.)

Nor am I scared of the baby on behalf of my two existing kids. I can't wait to see Celia and Andres' reactions--I think they will be fantastic, and I am not worried that either of them will resent the baby for monopolizing our time and attention. Plus, I think they both have overblown notions of what the baby will be able to do in the first few months, and will likely find it more interesting to play with each other, leaving Natalia and I to tend to the new addition's feeding, changing, and sleeping needs.

But it would be dishonest for me to say that I'm not scared at all. It's just difficult to identify what the source of that fear is.

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There's this: So way back in June, 2007, Andres came a week earlier than expected. A routine doctor's appointment turned into a longer, more urgent appointment, which turned into a few hours of observation at Newton-Wellesley. Eventually the doctors gave us ("us"--ha! Natalia) a choice: stay checked in and go to labor and delivery, or spend one more peaceful night at home. We choose the latter option.

That night was the most terrifying night of my life. Not in a horror movie, I-just-saw-my-best-friend-get-kidnapped-by-zombies-and-OHMYGODTHEREAREMOREZOMBIES type way, though. It was pure emotional terror. One distinct phase of my life would soon be over, done, signed, sealed, delivered. My life would never--could never--be the same again. All for a person--a baby!--that I had never met.

My mind wandered back to our honeymoon in Hawaii, relived the sights and sounds of our luxurious trip to Italy a few years before, and drifted around the quiet weekends we had spent with friends in Maine and Vermont. I wished I had sipped some more wine in Tuscany and spent down a few more vacation days to remain gloriously out of touch in Kauai.

I asked myself the questions that, presumably, 95% of first-time-fathers-to-be ask themselves. Why am I doing this? Will I be a good father? Why am I doing this again? What if I don't like my kid? Is there any way out of this? No, really--why am I doing this? I had no good answers. I found it impossible to evaluate my decision in the absence of an actual baby. But the questions kept coming, unbidden, unrelenting. They fatigued me. Sleep did not offer much of a respite.

To my surprise, my fever of questions had broken by the morning, replaced with a serenity that was as out of place as it was comforting. One part of my life was over, yes. And this new, as-yet-unknown chapter was filled with uncertainty. But maybe it was time to start writing it.

I was scared, but I was ready.

Andres, June 24, 2007

Celia, November 11, 2009

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Perhaps this scared feeling never really goes away. The three of us reached a healthy equilibrium before Celia was born, and she (through no fault of her own!) threatened to interrupt all of the routines that we had diligently worked to establish. It didn't happen that way. She made our family stronger, more whole, more happy even as she re-introduced previously forgotten sleepless nights and 3 am feedings. After only a few days, I found it ludicrous that I had ever worried about what impact she would have on our family. She was part of it, after all, and had been with us all along, well before she was born on November 11.

And so here we are, early October, a few weeks before baby #3 is due to arrive. I could use 10 more days with the family unit as is...enough time to keep cleaning, to keep prepping the baby's room, to keep reinforcing morning routines. 10 days would be nice. (20 would be even better!) But whenever he or she decides to arrive, I think I am ready.

Scared? Perhaps. But ready.