On the Precipice of Parenthood

Anticipation.

Sadness. Gladness.

Joy. Trepidation. Preparation.

I’m ready. We’re ready. We can do this.

I’m totally not ready. Gahhh. Is anyone?

A new chapter. The page turns in 24 hours. What does one do with the final paragraph? I can’t make out the last sentence. Do I need a strong close? A ceremonial ending before the blank page?

Why is it harder to lose something known than to gain something unknown?

The story that has been written is a good one, but how shall we write what is to come? I have guesses, reasonable ones at that. But perhaps we don’t have editing privileges, just creative suggestions.

What we’ve created together is precious. He is already here with us. For the last 10 months, he’s been here with us. Somehow he already seems to have laundry, bottles to wash, and toys to organize. The items signifying his arrival proceed him.

All we’re missing is him!

The baby, the boy, the child, the man in the making. Who will he be? We can’t wait to meet him. (You hear that, buddy? We’re so excited to hold you).

As of this moment, you have no name. So much pressure to choose well. This label you must carry with you for all your years. There’s energy in a name, expectations as well. Judgments will be made. Does it fit? Is this truly your name?

You started as lentil and have grown into bubs. Why do we have one name for life? Why don’t we get to outgrow names as we age?

Will you like what mom and dad like? Art museums, prix fixe menus, beaches? Please don’t ask us to teach you how to play an instrument.

Family values. Do we need a mission statement? What about a mythic animal? The “Siehughel”?

House rules: clean floors, clear boundaries, consistent routines. Sounds good on paper. The “softy” inside of me will have to make space for the disciplinarian. Do I trust my own authority?

Sleeping in, a luxury. Staying out late, a luxury. Silence, also a luxury. Or so I’m told. Luxuries tend to become necessities and spawn new obligations. I’m ok with the unluxurious. I don’t want to take anything for granted.

The untold gifts waiting to be unwrapped in the space between parent and child. The look, the smile, the “mama” and “dada”. A cry begs for attention. An outstretched arm reaching for support.

What can I provide? As a man, no milk, no food.

Patriarchy says I should be a breadwinner. Nope, Claire makes the bread in more ways than one. #Sourdoughshiksa

Care. Protection. Guidance. Unconditional support of who he is and who he becoming.

When exhausted and overextended, where will my attention lie? Can I be fully present? If I cannot offer that, what can I offer?

Transitions are by their nature disorienting. Old structures dissolve. New ones have yet to be built. In the abyss, the ego screams and searches for certainty. Where have all my familiar supports gone! I feel the draw toward routine, towards stability, while also trying to create space for something someone new.

Equilibrium is motion. Dynamic shifts: the balancing act called life. Can I allow myself to be in motion when the next step feels like jumping off a cliff? — The precipice of parenthood.

Family being reshaped, cracking, opening, and getting ready for a dyad to become a triad. And for months we’ve been lingering at 2.5, neither here nor there. Integers are so much easier.

I’m waiting for love I’ve never felt before. I hear it’s pretty special. A son is born. At the same time, so are a father and mother. Three births. Maybe that’s the source of this special love?

Who is the “father figure” that awaits in the shadows?

We’ve been acquainted in my dreams. I felt his presence with a supportive hand on my shoulder. He’s told me “It’s going to be alright,” but I’m not sure if I trust him. He seems both so familiar and so foreign.

And there appears to be only one way to truly get acquainted — jump off the cliff.