I love my kids, I just hate parenting
Over the summer, when my son was still firmly in “baby” territory, I wrote about the Toddler Menace.
This past weekend, with my son now a toddler himself, my words came back to haunt me when we took our toddler along to visit some friends.
I almost had a heart attack from the stress.
Last week I wrote a lighthearted piece about my wife’s obsession with Halloween. And I posted this terrifying clip from “Twin Peaks,” featuring a character I truly consider to be the most frightening fictional creation of all time.
Those posts were meant to be fun, and so is Halloween. Being scared is fun (unless you’re my wife or my friend Suj or my older brother Mark) and eating candy is fun and dressing up is fun (especially if you’re my wife or my friend Suj). And having a little kid with whom to experience Halloween makes all of those things even more enjoyable.
Obviously, today actually is Halloween, and while this post may be violating the generally accepted tenor of the holiday, it seems an appropriate time to discuss one of the toughest aspects of being a parent.
It’s completely and utterly terrifying.
My son hit the eleven-week mark yesterday.
The bigger news is that he hit the 13 pound mark a few weeks ago. Upon crossing the 12-pound Rubicon (WHY DID THEY CANCEL “RUBICON”?!), our pediatrician told use that he was perfectly capable of sleeping through the night without needing to be fed. “Twelve hours. I know it sounds tough,” she said, “and it is, but you have to establish the routine.”
Apparently he needs to learn to soothe and sedate himself, even if it means crying himself hoarse, and it won’t be until he gets to college that he’ll learn all the fun ways to do that!
Until then, “Crying It Out” is the way to go…or is it?
I know I spend a lot of time on this blog talking shit about how having a baby is going to destroy my life. One week in and it turns out I am freaking Nostradamus: all of my fears are already coming true! No sleep, no sex, no social life. Blah blah blah. And it’s only going to get worse.
But there are some things I am looking forward to, and a lot of things I didn’t expect. Good things.
At the risk of getting all soft and sentimental, I’m going to share the most amazing and unexpected part of being a new dad. No, it’s not how much I already love him, or how little I care about being woken up when he cries, or how inexplicably colorful his crap is.
It’s something even crazier.
Of all the questions I hear most often these days – “How is your wife feeling?” and “When is the baby due?” and “Wow, have you been working out?”- the one that gives me the most pause is “Are you ready?”
Sometimes that’s followed with “to rumble?” and then things get real in a hurry, but usually it’s obvious that they are really just asking me if I’m prepared for the awesome responsibility of becoming a father.
Most of the time, I acknowledge the person’s superficial interest and half-hearted feint at concern by offering one of three quick responses – “Yes?” or “I hope so!” or “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess” – and then moving on to something else. After all, most people that ask don’t really care. They’re just being polite. And nosy.
The question is the dad-to-be’s equivalent to the constant “how are you feeling?” query that pregnant women are faced with, and – as I mentioned above – it’s easy to dismiss. But should I deign to give it some real thought, it can send me spiraling into an existential black hole that can only be filled with crying jags, drunken fisticuffs and some cutting.
Maybe I’m being too hard on myself. Is it even possible to really be ready to become a parent?