The Real Can't Sleep Love

            

             Lucas Robert Rudd entered the world at 4:30 P.M. on Wednesday, October 7^th, 2015. Eight pounds, twelve ounces, 21 inches long and every bit my son.  I’m roughly a month and a half into fatherhood. I’m locked in this job the rest of my life; no lunch breaks, no paid vacations, I can’t even get fired. It’s daunting, it’s challenging, it’s wonderful and it’s beautiful. Somewhere between treading water in another round of college classes and changing diapers hand over fist, I’ve searched for and occasionally found a quiet spec of time to contemplate what on earth happened and how it came so abruptly.

            Unfortunately for me, there is no reliable frame of reference to turn to in figuring out how to respond to this or how to properly handle it, like a fish figuring out how to climb a tree. There’s nothing in my experience that comes close to this. I can’t even begin to guess when coming home to see Lucas there will become “normal,” let alone the day he starts talking or uses the toilet. Witnessing his birth was so shocking I sobbed like I had never sobbed before. I wasn’t sad, I wasn’t ecstatic, I was … surprised? I had a full brain reboot in the delivery room for apparently no reason. It was helpful only in that I eventually stopped crying.

            I still had to walk around the bed to see him and love him and be his father for the rest of his life. When I made it around the nurses to see his face close up I was stopped dead in awe, for lack of a better word. I didn’t dare touch him for the longest time. What was never going to happen even a week before had come, and the transition to overwhelming, unconditional, all-encompassing love set in like I was always capable of it. 

            I saw so much of myself in him that first day in the hospital and I see more every day. At the same time I see equal parts Megan in his little face.  A miracle is the only way to describe the subtle hints of each of us that contributed to who he is. How does each cell know where it’s supposed to be? How does the body know how to come together and build little fingers and toes and ears and eyes? Having children is a divine, masterful miracle.

            Before I get too high-headed about this, I want to tell you that our family life is gloriously perfect and we‘ve had nothing but rainbows and butterflies and the heavens opening over at the Rudd home, but I can’t. It isn’t. We haven’t. The magic is fading and work, school and sleepless nights are creeping in. I’m still selfish, stressed, reluctant, impatient.  I love sleep and haven’t quite squared with letting go of my old life.

            Needless to say, I was not the best father figure the first night Lucas was still eye-popping awake at 3 a.m. I was angry, really genuinely mad at a boy less than two weeks old. He couldn’t control his bowels, let alone his sleeping habits. What was I thinking? I handed him to Megan, every bit as wiped out as I was, and threw myself onto the bed while she fed him. He still wasn’t sleeping when she was done; she handed him back. Summoning the courage to not lose my mind over lost sleep, I took him again and tried to rock him against my chest, no good. In a last ditch effort I got back in bed, Lucas still on my chest, and rubbed his tiny back. He was asleep in less than a minute. The calm that came over him was tangible compared to the fussiness of just a few moments before.

            Instantly my irritation over lost sleep evaporated. He fell asleep on my chest. I got him to sleep. The joy of that moment, not just to get to go to sleep, but to feel like Lucas was beginning to know and love me, will sound corny if I try to describe any more. I almost had whiplash from the mood swing; the guilt of ever having been mad on the one hand and the greatest happiness of having a son on the other. I was being hugged and slapped at the same time.

            While I stared at the ceiling, baby asleep on my chest, a thought came back to mind that I had often chewed on waiting for him to arrive. When we found out we were expecting, my first thought was blinding fear, mostly of the financial unknown. It moved to other topics as the months wore on, but always it was fear. Sometimes the fear came with the arrogant selfishness of “why do I need to completely give up my life for this kid? I love the married couple life and I hate the thought of losing it.”

            The unfailing response to that was the thought of my own parents. They had already given up the easy life for me. They already made the decision to have children over personal comforts or a heathy savings account, and through struggles I’m sure they haven’t yet begun to tell me, gave me my very life. If they who were so selfless and full of love for me before I ever arrived could do that, and willingly, how did I even have the right to deny to another what had been so freely and fully given me?

            Returning to the moment made me almost reverent, looking into Lucas’s sleeping face. What if he had never happened? What if I never married his mother? What if he was born in India or in 1950 or, God forbid, aborted? The thought felt like salt on raw skin.

            Lucas has grown too much in the last month and a half; he wiggles constantly and smiles at his mom and dad all the time. He falls asleep like a wet bag of cement and eats like a horse. But the changes in his little life are miniscule compared to what he’s done to his dad. He’s getting bigger, but I’m getting better.

            I think about him all the time during that day and he’s literally kept me up all night, which sounds a lot like a new song on the radio. Pentatonix wrote an original song called “Can’t Sleep Love,” which if you haven’t heard you need to listen to here. It’s the kind of love that you “dream about all day, the kind that keeps [you] up all night.” Even if it costs sleep and maybe a little sanity too, it’s the only kind of love really worth having. Having children is the real “can’t sleep love,” heart-wrenching, life changing, all-absorbing love. I’m sure he’ll be keeping me up tonight, and I almost look forward to it.

            

Gifts of a Parent

                When I answered my phone this morning I couldn’t have enjoyed my grandparent’s wheezy rendition of “Happy Birthday” any more than I did. I was told grandpa was singing in his best falsetto in the background. On a whim I decided that I needed to go visit for a few minutes after that call, so Megan and I drove right over. Something ridiculous and wonderful happened to us yesterday, and I thought they should know about it. The details of what happened are for me to know and for you to find out if ever you get the chance.

                Grandma nearly collapsed when she found out what the surprise was, made more wonderful because it was only made possible by my dad. In trying to figure out why on earth Dad did what he did, Megan noted that there was really no good way to repay the man for what he did and continues to do for us. Grandma then said what made no sense at first and would have never crossed my mind, “Burkley repaid him when he was born!” In words so perfect I couldn’t do them justice, Grandma expressed that parents are forever repaid, prepaid, for their efforts by just having children. The gift and blessing of children is forever and always superior to anything parents could provide in return.

                She attested with some emotion that the position of parenthood was a sacred, sacred thing, and even the struggles and miserable times of raising children were supreme blessings in the lives of the parents. She told us the birth of a child automatically and completely shifts the focus of the parents’ lives. Having children changes our perspective on the continuity of life. Up until that point we are the end of everything we do. After that first child we aren’t our own first priority anymore, and we don’t want to be. So, when I was blown away yesterday by the honest generosity and love of my dad, it wasn’t that much of a big deal to him; I had already been the kind of gift in his life he couldn’t repay me for. Suddenly the tables were turned, and I couldn’t believe I could be something like that in my Dad’s eyes. Here I thought we were indebted to him, not the other way around.

                Then I remembered the conversation he and I had on my wedding day. We were walking around the tables at the reception. The doors were going to open in twenty minutes. As we talked, all I could think about was how beautiful the place was, decorated with things that were not mine and were offered to us free. The food that was laid out was either bought by Mom and Dad or donated to the cause. Displays highlighting my life and Megan’s life were put together without me having to do anything. A giant quilt, handmade by Grandma, hung in the corner. I had almost nothing to do with the magic of the day other than enjoying it, but Dad had almost everything to do with it. I turned to him and told him how thankful I was that he had made the day so great; his response was, “You have done more for my life than I could have ever done for yours.”  After today, his answer makes much more sense.

                All of this has opened a new level of love in parenting to me I can’t yet understand. As Grandma also said, the kind of relationship she was talking about can only come by experience. I knew Grandma loved more deeply than most, but what I saw and heard today was something more reverent, something that took her whole heart to say. Of all the things I could get from Grandma on my birthday, nothing could have been more important or precious than what she taught me about love.

Who do I want Him to Be?

                

Last weekend marked the end (hopefully) of my first baby shopping experience. Megan and I spent hours cruising Idaho Falls, mostly to learn that the biggest things we needed we could get for hundreds less online. I managed to hang on until the bitter end though. We wandered through Toys R’ Us for an hour too long, being kids ourselves instead of looking for the things our kid needed. I came across some brilliant marketing from the Home Depot in my wanderings; A toy weed eater. Yes, a toy chore. Really, it’s genius. If we can get the children to believe early that trimming weeds is fun, having teenagers will be a delight. They will fight over who gets to use the real weed eater. I need to invest in a toy dishwasher, a toy garage to sweep out with a toy broom, toy clothes to fold, even toy bills to pay! Look how fun, kids!

                In a more serious way, this little baby trip has moved me closer to squaring with being a father. There’s only about a month left now. For anyone who hasn’t waited through eight months of pregnancy yet, enjoy the time you have without it in your life. Knowing a baby is coming, then having more or less nothing happen for eight months is about as fun as watching paint dry while sitting on a cactus, to say nothing of the ordeal actually carrying the baby is (as if I was qualified to say anything about that anyway). Over and over again we have wondered and worried about what our life will become when Lucas is finally born. The biggest and most overwhelming feelings for us have been excitement and joy, of course, but the package deal comes with terror, nervousness, inadequacy, and all the rest.

                More personally my thoughts have revolved around a single question: who do I want my son to be? Several weeks ago now I was talking with a coworker about the difficulties in her own life, and I pointed out that one of the hurdles for her to get over was figuring out who she wanted to be. If she could get a solid handle on that, all the other choices in her life would become pretty easy to make, at the very least the right choices would become easy to see. Getting that down sooner rather than later can and would make all the difference in anyone’s life. Being like someone isn’t quite strong enough either; finding an example to model is only preparatory to becoming something, only training wheels on the bicycle.

                I don’t want Lucas to be like me, either. I have plenty of flaws, and my interests very well might not be his interests. I wouldn’t want to keep him from something he might love for the sake of having “a chip off the old block.” The only things I would hope to see him emulate in my example are what I would show him from my own greater example. I want him to first be like the Savior, then become a disciple of Him.

                I want him to choose to do good, not be forced into it.

                I want him to be kind first, never cruel.

                I want him to be strong in the face of conflict.

                I want him to be humble and work hard for what he has.

                I want him to see learning as a tool and a treasure.

                I want to give my best to him. I pray my best will be enough.

                    

Something New From Something Neglected

You’ve grown a lot since the last time we met, readers:

                I am ashamed. I started the Open Mic last year with so many good ideas popping in my head, I was sure hardly a day would go by without me saying something profound to the world here. Hundreds, no, thousands of people would be blown away by the blog and schedule their mornings around my posts. I would become powerful and famous, get flown around the world, sit in on talk shows, basically be a one man boy band. None of that has happened, of course; I haven’t posted anything in seventeen months, struggling through work and school trying to hold my own, especially now with the prospect of a baby boy on my horizon. My mind has clearly and firmly been elsewhere for a long, long time.

                That being said, the Open Mic never completely left my mind in all that time; always there was a little nagging thought to go back and continue. Naturally though, there always seemed to be something more important to do. Only two things should have been more important, work and school, but instead everything else became so. I had plenty of free time to work with, really I did, but I wanted to sleep in some more, play another game, waste time here or there, anything other than what could have actually been helpful to me in the future.  The worst of it was that this was something I really wanted to do, but just never made time for. The only difference between the Open Mic and anything else I did with my free time was that anything else was easier. It’s demanding to come up with something to say, figure out how to say it, then hope and pray that it makes the right impact and has the right effect and doesn’t attract the internet trolls.

                I confess that I chose easy over rewarding, something simple over something stretching. Then came the experience I had last night, washing dishes in the back room alone, looking good in Subway green. Rolling my writing plans around in my head became rolling a snowball down a mountain; soon I was feeling the same way about writing as I did when the Open Mic began. Now I have a three-pronged approach to what I want to write and how I want to write it; with any luck and diligence this plan can carry me through right to the bitter end.

                The Open Mic was still there when I logged on today, just as I left it. Interestingly, seeing it again was a confidence booster, not the obstacle I was expecting it to be. It waited patiently all those months for me to get back around to writing. My renewed excitement really came from seeing that my ambitions did not have to die just because I put them on the back burner for too long; it would never be too late for me to pick up where I left off and start work on the Open Mic again. Unless I die.

                If you read the Open Mic before my hiatus, thank you so much. If you have come back with me, thank you again. If you’re new to the Open Mic (and there are going to be thousands of you, right?) I can’t welcome you happily enough. I think this time I’m here to stay.