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.
