It was after midnight. All she needed was to be flipped over and given a pacifier. The wee baby is in a phase where sometimes, she’ll roll over, prop herself up, and then not know how to go back to a sleeping position. I had just wrapped up a lovely novel with a wonderful, satisfying ending (Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere), and wasn’t quite asleep yet, so I stumbled out of my sweat soaked side of the bed and went to tend to the little one.
About five feet from our room is hers. Between the light coming through our drapes and the little leds on her humidifier, the path is never dark (even after a good Neil Gaiman book). A quick flip and her Elephant WubbaNub had her out like a light. Rolled on her side (like her mother does) with pacifier in tow, you could just make out where her chest rose and fell with each breath. I looked down at this child in her crib and thought about the stupid soul-wrenching love I have.
It’s the same love that compelled my parents to cross an ocean in hopes of a better life, to make their way in a land that was foreign and inhospitable. The same love that compelled their parents to fight against communist radicals or devote a life to working the land under the beating sun. I only wish my love manifested in some nobler fashion.
For me, it’s just a ridiculous, inexplicable feeling. Like now, when I watch old episodes of Pokemon, I find myself getting irrationally defensive of Pikachu because it is roughly the size and shape of the little baby. Does that count as courageous parenthood? I’m singing along to these inane nursery rhymes and babbling an infantile baby speech that I once vowed never to employ. And most recently, it seems that I’m making another career change (or two) to take my best shot at providing for my growing little family. Is there some nobility to be found in a cubicle someplace?
At some point, I crossed a river and I don’t know that I can get back across. Some days, it feels like I’ll lose who I am if I’m not careful. In the past few weeks I’ve found myself pining for, praying even, for a job that the 20 year old me would be shocked to have. But if I could speak to the twenty year old me, I would walk him five feet down the hallway, point towards that little bundle sleeping in that crib and tell him to shut the f*** up. I’d pull him close so he could hear my voice behind his ear and tell him, “this perfect creature is in our care now and she deserves more than we have ever wanted. Not everyone can live in a bivy or a van. Not everyone can subsist on caffeine and paperback novels. We’re going to make her proud, but first, let’s make her comfortable.”