Oh, to be expecting. A magical time, really. Nine months of mystery in which parenthood is a locked door and you spend most of your time imagining what it’s like on the other side.
Having now lived nine months on the other side, I have some insider information.
My earliest memory is moving into the home I’d eventually grow up in. I was probably two, maybe three. I remember the kitchen counters being as tall as the Eiffel Tower and I remember the backyard was dirt.
That’s it. My earliest memory and that’s all I remember.
I don’t remember my mom or dad. I don’t remember diapers or teething. From age zero to age four, I don’t remember anything.
This is nothing shy of a tragedy. I understand that now. I understand that the hardest years of my parents’ life were the ones I don’t remember. At all.
So, Mom and Dad, accept this as a belated thank you. Because I understand now what you went through and it deserves recognition (albeit 32 years late).
Let’s be honest: the first few weeks with a newborn is strange. You’ve waited nine months imagining your new life ahead of you, and somewhere in that wonder world fantasy of flowers and rainbows was your doe-eyed newborn child sitting calm as a monk in a Moses basket. And every time you looked at her, you couldn’t imagine loving anything more.
The reality of this fantasy world is your house is a mess, your newborn seems to be forever crying, and that doe-eyed look is really just a blank stare that says, “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”
Hi. My name is HypeDad and it’s been two months since my last post.
Yes, this is the introduction to the erratic blogger’s therapy group. It’s been two months since my last post, which officially makes me the spasmodic blogger I said I’d never become. Then again, I said a lot things before becoming a father. Funny how parenthood changes all of that.
It’s no coincidence my blogging absence aligns with the birth of our first child. I’ve been busy parenting, which I’ve learned is not dissimilar to Fight Club.