I am completely obsessed with my baby. My baby has become my entire life. She is my true North. All my decisions are now guided by this little, tiny perfect person. I now cry before leaving the house for work. The thought of not being around her is awful, which makes sitting in a cubicle all day long that much more terrible. I get lost in the infinite universe that is her eyeball. When she looks at me and we stare at each other, my heart melts thinking about all of the wonderful things (and sad things) that will unfold in her life. I tear up thinking about disappointing her. Seriously, I’ve thought about me assembling her first bike, not doing it right, and then her having an epic crash. I know that’s odd. After I had done something wrong as a kid, my mom use to say, “I’m upset because you lost my trust.” I get that now. I don’t ever want to lose my daughter’s trust. I just want to remain a lasting, positive force in her life. I’m not naïve. I know I will have moments of failure along the way, but it is a worthy path to journey down.
I’m fully aware of the asshole I’m turning into. I’m the person I would have made fun of 10 years ago. “Look at that bald fuck with his baby tied around his gut and wearing sandals. He looks like a Land’s End model that gave up.” Yep, that’s me! And I’m documenting the entire goddamn thing on Instagram. I could not be more proud of myself, or that baby. I can’t stop photographing her. It’s like she’s my unwitting muse and I’m her moronic photographer that thinks yawning is a miracle. And I won’t shut up about my baby either. Three weeks ago I would have hated to get stuck in a conversation about babies. But now, I’ll fake listen to your stupid kid’s meaningless accomplishments so I can talk about how great my kid is. “Really, she’s going to the state tournament in soccer? That’s great. Anyway, my daughter is two weeks old and already her neck muscles are like that of a 2 month old. Yeah, she’s on track to be a MENSA member and an Olympic gold medalist. Very advanced, very advanced.”
My favorite pastime is being my daughter’s life commentator. I love holding my daughter and explaining Everything. I have walked her through making coffee in a French press, explained what a digeridoo is, and informed her why we look both ways as soon as we exit the house. “It’s just not the street you need to look out for. You have to have your head on a swivel and be prepared when you walk out the door. We could have neighborhood ninjas.” I love telling her about how to be a mindful person. Giving more, taking less. Using less, giving more. I tell her that happiness is a choice and always try to be a positive person. Don’t let the negative vibration of fear win. Let love reign but don’t take any shit off anyone either. Speak your mind, and be truthful. However, I also love saying horrible things to her when she’s in the middle of a good, deep cry. “Beck, if you don’t stop crying, your mom and I are going to get a divorce. Seriously, if we get a divorce, it is going to be your fault. I’ll be forced to reference your crying as the main reason. Please, if you love this family you’ll stop crying. I don’t want to divorce your mom!” She loves it.
I also resent my baby. I resent her for how much she’s made me love her. I love her so much, I’m scared of what my future would be without her. I don’t dwell on those thoughts, but they’re there. And I’m glad they are. It’s only because I care so much. It’s like I am nervous to be a parent and I’ve got those pre-parenting jitters. There are going to be so many awesome life events. Lindsay and I dominated Beck’s first bath, so I have no reason to believe that we won’t absolutely crush the rest of them. The first day of school, taking off her training wheels, and buying her first car are all events I look forward to. I just worry that we all have enough time. Time is the enemy and I am now forced to think about Every single scenario that can rob me of my time and my daughter’s time. I drive like an old man now because I’m scared to death of killing the entire family in a car wreck. I see every drunk driver and every dumb lady texting while going 70 down the highway. People say children are the greatest joy in life. So far all mine is done is force me to think of the most horrific shit. SIDS. Need I type more? It’s amazing how such a deep, pure love can make you think the most-wicked, sick thoughts. The next time I sit on the porch with Beck, I’ll try not to think about the likelihood of a car speeding down our street and plowing headlong into our porch, hitting Beck and I while we rock in the rocking chair. Instead, I’ll think about something fun I can do to embarrass her in the future. Like be in CVS together and shout across the isle and say, “Sweetpea, are you still having lava hot diarrhea explosions? Do we need more wetnaps?” That is what memories are made of. Horrible, scarring memories.
Currently, the most commonly used phrase in our home right now is between, “Gimme that goddamn baby!” or “That’s MY goddamn baby!” or “Where’s my goddamn baby?” It sounds like the most loving Jerry Springer show transcript. I love sounding like a redneck and talking about how much I love that little girl. Read the following in a redneck accent: “Hay! Whares at Got-Dammned baby at? I want that got-dammned baby. Baby, I love you so got-dammed much I’d quit huntin’ fer you.” So, if you’re looking for a late Christmas gift, I’d love a t-shirt that says, “I Love My Goddamn Baby!” It would be such a conversation starter. Or even better, “Ask Me About My Goddamn Baby!” I think that one is the winner. People would be like, “Is that a pro-baby t-shirt, or is he like mad about having a baby? Does he resent his baby?”
I absolutely hate her crying because I can’t do anything. Feeding is the only thing that calms her, and while I may have small, A-cup like breasts, I’m reminded once again of their utter uselessness by them not producing any milk. The other night she went on a tour de force crying fit and that makes you feel like a real piece of shit parent. Tears are collecting in her eyes and she’s just belting out high pitch wails. And all I can do is swaddle her while walking around the house with her sucking on my pinky finger. And she just keeps on crying. That baby cry is a powerful sound. Lindsay said that it makes her boobs tingle. I’ve heard other women say the same thing too and that sometimes it makes the boobs leak milk. I’d give anything to have the ability to audibly tingle a woman’s breasts without screaming directly onto her boob. Even though I understand that it’s all biology and it’s nothing personal, I still feel helpless when it comes to her crying. I feel guilty too because it’s ALL on Lindsay. She’s sleep-deprived and is literally having the life pulled out of her fifteen times a day. Holding a crying baby for an hour or two isn’t nearly as bad as having a baby suck milk out of your chest every two hours.
And those are my thoughts on three weeks-worth of parenting.