But now that I am living with said child in hand instead of in mind, I am finding that raising a baby is not as pleasant an experience as I had remembered. Curious how the mind conveniently forgets some of the less appealing aspects of this job.
By no means take this to mean that I love Lucia any less than her siblings. She is perfect for being born, and I have had fun playing with her, making her smile, and lulling her to sleep on my shoulder. All of this I did miss.
But the rest of it? Maybe not as much. I am tired all the time. I can't stay focused on anything--and forget about jobs that require deep concentration. Those are best left to someone who has less trouble stringing coherent thoughts together. My jokes are less quick to come out. And when they do, they often miss the mark. Punchlines are now slaplines. Fatigue has made me lose my touch.
Nights offer little respite. Back when we only had two kids, I had more time to myself. I could usually squirrel away some evening time for work, or reading, or even exercise. But now? Time evaporates in a mist of diaper changes, crying jags, bottle feedings, burping sessions, and swaddling. I watch Monday Night Football gently bouncing on two feet, a football-sized child slung over my left shoulder. I relax without resting.
[Let us also pause for a moment and recognize both the inanity and utter truthfulness of the phrase "Back when we only had two kids, I had more time to myself." If my 25-year old self had been able to read that phrase, would he have gone running for the hills? Probably not. But he likely would have spent his free time more wisely.]
I had forgotten that babies need to be changed constantly. Lucia especially--she wails when her diaper is even the slightest bit wet. I had forgotten the difficulty of wrangling a child back into a head-to-toe outfit at 3 A.M., each snap an acute challenge in the midst of nocturnal delirium. I had forgotten, too, how much my life revolves around pacifiers. We never seem to have enough. They vanish like wood elves, reappearing amidst blankets or on tabletops when least needed.
So in those early morning moments when I am fumbling around for a pacifier, or a new diaper, or a clean set of clothes for a wailing Lucia, I wonder how I could have ever convinced myself that I missed this. I willingly acknowledge that the meeting of basic needs--of feeding, soothing, comforting my daughter--is seldom fun. But it is necessary, and so I do it. I think longingly of hiring a nanny.
This marks either my maturation as a parent or the hardening of my soul. Back when Andres and Celia were Lucia's age, I would not admit to myself that these tasks were onerous in any way. I convinced myself that sleepless nights were to be treasured because they were symptomatic of the newborn in our midst. I felt that denying the figurative beauty of a diaper changes was akin to denying the beauty of my new child. Every task was a gift.
But now I recognize that I had it all wrong. Lucia is the gift. Hoping that she sleeps through the night or that she does her major poop when I am at work and Natalia is in charge does not diminish my love for her. It took me a while to figure this out, but I think I've turned a corner.
Last night I watched most of the Patriots game with her in my arms. She was fussy, so I was bouncing around hoping that movement would either dislodge a burp or lull her to sleep. And each time I put her in her crib, she would rest for about 10 minutes before issuing the long winding cry that pierces my brain like an ice cream headache. I was annoyed. I got her up, changed her diaper, and tried in vain to give her a pacifier. This scene repeated itself for most of the game. I remained annoyed.
But at some point in the 4th quarter whatever discomfort had been troubling her melted away, and she fell into a peaceful sleep. Finally some quiet.
The game ended and I walked over to her to make sure she was out. Her head was turned to the side, and she held on arm up towards her nose. The rest of her body was neatly swaddled up in a cocoon of blankets. Her eyes were closed. She looked beautiful, and I wished her sweet dreams and a long sleep. I had no desire to see her awake until the morning.
And I didn't feel bad about that at all.
[Let us also pause for a moment and recognize both the inanity and utter truthfulness of the phrase "Back when we only had two kids, I had more time to myself." If my 25-year old self had been able to read that phrase, would he have gone running for the hills? Probably not. But he likely would have spent his free time more wisely.]
I had forgotten that babies need to be changed constantly. Lucia especially--she wails when her diaper is even the slightest bit wet. I had forgotten the difficulty of wrangling a child back into a head-to-toe outfit at 3 A.M., each snap an acute challenge in the midst of nocturnal delirium. I had forgotten, too, how much my life revolves around pacifiers. We never seem to have enough. They vanish like wood elves, reappearing amidst blankets or on tabletops when least needed.
So in those early morning moments when I am fumbling around for a pacifier, or a new diaper, or a clean set of clothes for a wailing Lucia, I wonder how I could have ever convinced myself that I missed this. I willingly acknowledge that the meeting of basic needs--of feeding, soothing, comforting my daughter--is seldom fun. But it is necessary, and so I do it. I think longingly of hiring a nanny.
This marks either my maturation as a parent or the hardening of my soul. Back when Andres and Celia were Lucia's age, I would not admit to myself that these tasks were onerous in any way. I convinced myself that sleepless nights were to be treasured because they were symptomatic of the newborn in our midst. I felt that denying the figurative beauty of a diaper changes was akin to denying the beauty of my new child. Every task was a gift.
But now I recognize that I had it all wrong. Lucia is the gift. Hoping that she sleeps through the night or that she does her major poop when I am at work and Natalia is in charge does not diminish my love for her. It took me a while to figure this out, but I think I've turned a corner.
Last night I watched most of the Patriots game with her in my arms. She was fussy, so I was bouncing around hoping that movement would either dislodge a burp or lull her to sleep. And each time I put her in her crib, she would rest for about 10 minutes before issuing the long winding cry that pierces my brain like an ice cream headache. I was annoyed. I got her up, changed her diaper, and tried in vain to give her a pacifier. This scene repeated itself for most of the game. I remained annoyed.
But at some point in the 4th quarter whatever discomfort had been troubling her melted away, and she fell into a peaceful sleep. Finally some quiet.
The game ended and I walked over to her to make sure she was out. Her head was turned to the side, and she held on arm up towards her nose. The rest of her body was neatly swaddled up in a cocoon of blankets. Her eyes were closed. She looked beautiful, and I wished her sweet dreams and a long sleep. I had no desire to see her awake until the morning.
And I didn't feel bad about that at all.
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