So this is the first blog post I’ve written in a while, and I could give you dear readers any number of excuses as to the absence of pithy prose and dazzling wit over the past few weeks, but the basic fact is that the muse seemed to have deserted me temporarily. Either that or I’ve just been lazy.
Anyway, I am back for good or bad, just brimming with great stories and observations to share, but first – you knew there would be a “but” – I wanted to share something I wrote nearly 30 years ago.
. . .
It was love at first sight.
This was no mere childish infatuation, mind you. This was the real thing: a blinding, boundless, till-the-end-of-time type of devotion. Needless to say, it was all quite unsettling for a happily married man.
But then who would feel differently upon first setting eyes on their baby daughter? Concerns that a wife and son were using up the full quota of love evaporated in an instant, for birth brings with it a profound appreciation for the human heart’s astonishing capacity for love.
But new life also brings mixed emotions. Watching a brand new person struggle to adapt to a new environment makes you wonder what she will grow up to be, and what the world will be like then. Will she make it a markedly better place? Will her life be better then mine? Will she be at all like me? More to the point, will she like me at all?
And what of my life? How will she change me? Can I look at the world in the same way now? Can I even look at men the same way now, knowing my little girl will one day be a woman?
Will she alter my outlook on life, professionally speaking? Can someone who paces the hall with a crying baby at 3 in the morning still find humor in the human condition? Can someone who gently pokes a soft baby belly while making silly sounds still with a straight face skewer the body politic? Can the muck and mire of a nasty political campaign seem so bad after yet another dirty diaper?
Closer to home, what of the changes on the domestic front? Sure, major lifestyle alterations were made to accommodate my son, but he’s a guy. With a son, a dad can play baseball and basketball, wrestle on the floor, and begin to understand the mythic appeal of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. But with a girl….
With a girl, a dad has to adapt in ways radical and strange. You can’t just leave her to mom to raise; it just won’t work to say: Here, dear, you take this one and I’ll take that one and we’ll see you in 18 years.
No, a dad still befuddled as to the ways of women after years of marriage to one has to start his lessons into the mysteries of femininity all over. You have to learn, for instance, the difference between mauve and fuchsia, not to mention the fashionable implications behind the subtle yet limitless shades of pink.
Too, you have to understand the appeal of lace and ruffles, and why a person absolutely cannot get along pretty well in life with just the two pairs of shoes. You have to buy dresses instead of pants, blouses instead of shirts, purses instead of wallets, girl things instead of guy stuff. Goodbye Turtles, hello Barbie.
Already I’m looking down the road, and it’s with a great deal of trepidation. The years to come will be full of pigtails and freckles, headaches and heartaches, girlfriends and boyfriends, makeup and breakup and all the rest. How will she feel, I wonder, about not dating until she’s 21?
And let’s not forget sibling rivalry, with all the fights and jealousies and complaints. Then there is the threat of favoritism. As the brother of a sister, I know full well the pitfalls that parents so easily stumble into in futilely trying for evenhandedness in the face of feminine wiles, which are amazing well developed at the earliest of ages.
Surprisingly, my son is taking in stride this rather rude invasion of his hitherto peaceful and peaceable kingdom, over which he has reigned with serene sovereignty for nearly four full years. But then kids are awfully adaptable. And, like me, he’s fallen instantly in love with this beautiful, joyful, wondrous little girl.
Also, like me, the poor child hasn’t a clue as to the remarkable adventure upon which we have embarked.
. . .
Happy birthday to my little girl.