Kids
The other night, I tucked our three year old into bed, and he went right to sleep.
This is a welcomed change. Previously, we’d spend upwards of 90 minutes resetting, retucking, restorytelling before being recalled again and over and over. Eventually, he’d fall asleep. Usually on the floor.
This not-really bedtime was annoying. But after only a few nights of its absence, I feel a void. Maybe part of me loved seeing him rebel against the night. Him fighting against sleep so hard he’d just collapse, exhausted. But now when I check on him, I’m looking at a little boy just a little bit older and a little less little.
It’s a weird time to be a parent. I understand some of my generation’s decisions to delay or not have kids. I’m happy we had ours, but I probably don’t sway anyone towards parenting when I talk about our sheer lack of sleep.
And beside the sleep, there’s what you give up long-term. Because choosing to be a parent is choosing to not be a great number of other things. Once the hospital sends you home after what can’t possibly be enough time to mentally prepare, you become a bit like Atlas carrying the world on your shoulders. And although there isn’t one way of doing it right, there is a minimum of doing it. And doing it involves a continuous cycle of best intentions and second guessing. Failing and learning. Attempting to do it better than whoever raised you, and then failing (again) at doing just that. You die to yourself daily. You let go of dreams, goals, money. You definitely give up time. And, importantly, you try to give it up without resentment. Because no matter how well you hide it, they’ll know.
Parenting is obviously hard. You’ve heard that already. It’s hard even when you have it easy. My kids have no significant medical problems. My wife and I have great jobs and good insurance. I worry more about them finishing their dinner than whether I have enough to stave off hunger. On the days where it’s difficult, I remember how much the stacked the deck is in our favor.
And I also think of how, today, when I look back on memories and photos of us pre-kids, the world seems to lack something. That void again, but different. Having kids has forced me to grow in some wonderful ways. This personal stretching, over years, creates a resilience that, so far as I can tell, is unique in the experience of adulthood.
And then there are the small moments that land large. The ones that fill you back up. An emotional booster shot. You’ll be sitting side-by-side reading a book, and he’ll ask you to stop, which you do, only for him to tell you he loves you. Or that time when you taught him how to use his flashlight to fend off the dark, giving him a bit of relief before bed. Or when you both co-discovered some new imagined game—where you riffed on pretend rules, changing them at your whim for the whole afternoon only to look up shocked that it was almost dinnertime.
Like everything in life, there are good moments and not so good moments. But what I’ve come to realize is that I have a front row, reserved, and one-time only seat to this little person’s life. And it’s a life that has already given me some of my highest highs and, if anything were to happen to him, I’m certain my lowest lows. A chance to witness all of this personality, potential, and passion. All wrapped up in my tiny lookalike, sporting a dinosaur t-shirt and missing one sock, who explodes with smiles when he sees me come down the stairs—greeting me at the top of his lungs with, “hi daddy!”
This weightiness of the responsibility and lightness of uninterrupted love that pulls me in like gravity. Imploring that I fully immerse myself in the world he’s building. And that I cherish the unplanned moments I find myself invited in.
I don’t always see these moments for the gifts they are. Some days the world can leave you with little left in the tank. But I try. I try hard. And I ask that you do too.
Because eventually, inevitably, and on one completely normal night, you’ll tuck them into bed, and they’ll go right to sleep.