Yesterday, I wrote about how The
Pretender fought until the last second to avoid coming into this world. In the end however- we prevailed. For once.
The silly thing about this time, for me, was that I was
worried I wouldn’t be involved enough.
Emotionally, I mean. I was afraid
that I’d simply say: “Ah- a baby. I see.” (read this with a slight British
accent) And everyone told me not to worry about it, but I wasn’t so sure. What an idiotic notion. The moment I laid eyes on that kid, I cried
harder than I’d ever cried before and certainly since. Now I just cry when she kicks me in the
kidney.
Though the moment was, of course, happy, there was grief in
my tears as well. Grief at my
unworthiness in front of the absolute innocence of this little creature. Shame that I’d lived life up until then and
thought it was worth something without her.
Humility that such a beautiful tiny being had anything to do with me,
was tied down to mortality by my DNA.
So yeah, I sobbed.
Did I mention that my wife was attached to a metal table? That she couldn’t walk over and look at the
baby like I did? After all she had done,
the fact that I was allowed (no, required) to see The Pretender before my wife
seemed unfair and unbearably sad, as well.
It was a long day.
For someone who (my wife and therapists assure me) is uncomfortable
expressing emotion, you can imagine it was rather a watershed moment in my
life.
It was 9:52pm. A time
that I still keep as an alarm on my digital watch, as I have since she was
born. A reminder of the moment that my
life changed.
That sounds grandiose.
Melodramatic. I know. I can
hear my writing teachers telling me to be more specific and not to rely on
clichés. But how else can I describe
that moment unless I say it was beyond words?
That it reminds me of B.C. & A.D.?
That “those who walked in darkness have seen a great light”?
It is simply one of those moments that we each struggle to
put into words, that you understand once you’ve experienced it. I wish I could put it into words for parents
to be, whether that is imminent, or at some point in the future.
In a negative sense, it’s about responsibility. About how you can never think only of yourself again.
No matter the babysitter, no matter the situation.
But that’s easy. If
that were all there was, who would want a child, or talk about it in glowing
terms? Yes, there is that weighty
responsibility, but what is it that causes the metamorphosis?
I can say that as they get older, it’s the new perspective
they bring. That’s more the stage The
Pretender is at right now. Where she can
actually discuss things- even in her limited way- with us. In that way, she’s like a tiny spiritual
leader.
But when they’re still small, I think the thing they unlock
is a new, better part of us. Perhaps
it’s even the responsibility that is the key.
All of a sudden, all the painful moments, all the school-of-hard-knocks
knowledge that cost us so much to attain, all of those pieces of advice that
we’d squirreled away and forgotten about, float to the top of our minds as if
they’ve been tied with string to the bottom of a pond. And they’ve been transformed. They’re not painful or awkward parts of our
past, but they’re gifts we can give to this little bundle of human so that they
won’t have to learn that lesson themselves.
In that way, we hope (falsely, I’m afraid) that we can keep them from
any pain we have experienced.
And so, The Pretender grew in wisdom and in stature. And we learned some things. She didn’t like baths (again, the
coldness). She claims to this day that
she doesn’t. The funny thing is, once
she is immersed in said body of water, she claims the opposite, and refuses to
get out, until her fingers and toes wrinkle and we drain the bath against her
will.
She loved animals (aminals, she would tell you). Never has she been the least interested in
dolls (though she’s had them, including Barbies- she chopped off their hair and
quickly grew tired of them.) Instead,
she collects hard plastic aminals, and plays with them obsessively. Though less often, she’ll still occasionally
get involved like she was at age 3 or 4.
For hours. I’m not sure she can
even hear us when we speak. She’s with
her animals.
She’s not here right now, or I’d ask her, but it is my
suspicion that she’d still tell you that the greatest day of her life so far
was the day we got a big pink storage container full of these animals at a yard
sale. I believe we paid $5. for what
we’ve come to realize since that day must have cost an unimaginable sum. Figure it out, math wizards: the box was approximately 1 ½’ long X 1’ wide
by 1 ½’ deep. Each of the larger animals
is about $7. at the store. The bigger
ones- of which there were a few- are about $15.
Anyway, for The Pretender it was the deal of a
lifetime. Perhaps some slightly grubby
guardian angel was at work that day. I’m
absolutely certain that at least one of the “figurines” from that day is within
arms reach right now as I sit at the kitchen table. Oh, wait, those are Zoobles (sort of like
transformers but they ‘transform’ from a ball into… you guessed it- an
animal!) I have to admit, I’m a little
fascinated by them. Did I mention
they’re spring loaded?
But enough about Zoobles.
I want to get back to the change that comes with having a child.
In my case, the other great thing that changed in my life
the moment she was born is that The Pretender outnumbered me.
I cannot tell you how much I wanted a daughter, nor can I
tell you why. Ask my friends from earlier
in my life, or my Mom, if I ever talked about having a son. If I ever planned names for a son. No, I didn’t.
But a daughter? Yes. (Have I admitted something shameful,
here? I should probably also mention
that I had a doll when I was younger, until I cut his hair. Also, I think I may have learned to crochet.)
Anyway, the weight that dropped away from me when my
daughter was born was immensely freeing.
The first step of this loosening had come the day I got married. I could do whatever I wanted! I had a wife, now- who could question my
choices? Who could ever appeal to ‘what
girls like’? Nobody.
But a daughter was this times ten thousand. We now had not just the two of us, but our
own private universe. I could wear
knickers, paint my toenails pink, or anything else that came into my head. It was like my high school art teacher began
speaking inside my head in a way he hadn’t since he was really talking in
class.
Perhaps what I’m really talking about is acceptance. No slight intended to those who came before
The Wife and The Pretender, but my own, our own, family took acceptance and
love and support to another level. I had
a posse. I had backup. I felt like starting a band. Like singing in public. What did I care?
One more thought along these lines and I’ll wrap this
section up. Along with that freedom came
(comes) responsibility. I don’t say this
to tie back to my first paragraphs about responsibility. This is of a different sort. For lack of a better term, I’ll call it
feminist responsibility.
Yes, having a daughter and a wife got me in touch with my
feminine side. But it also brought with
it a continuing need to further educate myself about what it means to be a
girl, to be a woman. I went to a college
that brought up feminist issues in classes, but that was as distant as the
horizon compared to having a daughter.
Like a lightning bolt (I didn’t know it was a girl until the moment she
emerged, remember) things like the differing salaries women received compared
to men, the glass ceiling, Title IX, and Barbie took on a whole new level of
meaning to me. The former things are
still in the distance a bit, but the latter, and all that she represents, are
front and center right now. Are certain
toys for boys, and others for girls? Should a little girl look pretty everywhere
she goes, or is it more important that she wears shoes (as an example) that she
can climb and run and jump in? Can she
wear green? Blue?
And what about parents?
I’ve written about this elsewhere, so forgive me, both of you who read
that, but when a father is with his child or children, please don’t ask if he’s
babysitting. Or assume that he’s a
divorced man who’s got the kids for the weekend. I’m sorry some men have reinforced this
stereotype. I am. But that doesn’t make it any less offensive
for those of us who are really trying.
Finally, how do I treat The Pretender’s mother? This is part of feminist responsibility
too. I don’t blame anyone for how I grew
up but I still struggle against treating my wife like she should cook dinner
and do dishes and clean the house, etc. etc.
I don’t really feel that way at all.
Quite the opposite. But for The
Pretender’s sake, we work hard to model equality (of a sort) for her. That, too, is what it meant to have a
daughter.
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