Here’s What Surprised Me Most About Becoming a Parent
Hint: It wasn't the lack of sleep
The hospital’s birthing class assured my wife that going into labor wouldn’t be like it is in the movies. They explained that labor would be a gradual process that could take as long as two days, especially for first time moms. And that only around 10% of pregnant people’s water breaks before labor. Even when it does, it’s often just a trickle.
Then, a few days later, my wife’s water broke in a huge gush all over our living room couch. I frantically gathered our go bags and packed up the car (which took an embarrassingly long time because OF COURSE I couldn’t find the keys). And next thing I knew I was weaving through traffic at fifty miles an hour while my wife screamed in agony in the passenger seat.
Turns out that shit happened EXACTLY like the movies.
The “The Day You Were Born” Story
Growing up, my dad would tell me the story about the day I was born — how, when my mom was pregnant, he would sing to her belly. And the moment he started singing to me the night I was born, I began looking around the room for the sound of his voice until I locked eyes with him. Hearing my dad talk about becoming a father, it felt like an instantly transformative experience. It felt as if he took one look at me and was hit with a tidal wave of love and joy.
The day my daughter was born, I waited for that same transcendent experience — for that moment when my heart would fill to the brim, and my daughter and I would forge an instant and unbreakable bond. But that gush of emotion never came. At least, not the way my dad had described it.
Even as I type this, I feel a strong urge not to admit that. “What do you mean you didn’t instantly feel connected to your child in ways you never thought possible?” I can hear people say as a headline in the local paper reads “Deadbeat Dad Unmoved By Joys of Parenthood, Experts Say Likely Sociopath.”
I also hesitate to write this knowing that, years from now, my daughter might read this and say “What do you mean you weren't instantly awestruck by me!? No wonder I haven’t won the Nobel Prize in Physics* yet! You were practically an absent father! This is all your fault!”
*Or, [insert life goal that’s meaningful to her — I’m trying not to be one of those parents that sets specific expectations for their children]
Don’t get me wrong, the day my daughter was born was awesome. 10/10. Best day of my life. But that day and in the weeks after, I kept feeling like I should be feeling…more? I was happy, but shouldn’t I be feeling…even more happy? I loved this tiny baby, sure, but, like, I also love my cat? Does that make sense? Shouldn’t having a human child be more of a “My heart is so full it’s about to explode out of my chest” kind of love instead of just an “Aww, she caught a lizard, very impressive” kind of love?**
**To be clear, I’m talking about my cat catching a lizard, not my daughter. But if my daughter’s passion in life is catching lizards, I will fully support that. Again, not trying to impose my own expectations.
For the first few weeks of my daughter’s life, I kept wondering when that tidal wave would hit me. I wondered when I would start to feel like, this is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me, and I have finally found my life’s purpose, instead of just feeling like, yeah, this is pretty great.
That feeling made the harder aspects of caring for a newborn seem even harder. During sleepless nights, or inconsolable crying sessions, I would tell myself, yeah this is rough, but I just have to get through these first few months until we get to the good parts of parenting.
But other parents would tell me “Oh, you think it’s tough now, just wait ‘til they’re mobile” or “Just wait ‘til they’re teenagers” and I’d think, Well then when the hell is the “good” part??? Age 5-9? Is that it?
An Epiphany
Then, a few weeks ago, we took my daughter on her first trip — visiting my wife’s family in Puerto Rico.
The trip coincided with a weeks-long stretch where my daughter was crying more than she’d ever cried before (we were told this is common around the two-month mark) and wouldn’t fall asleep anywhere other than right on top of us. Which, given that she was sleeping 16 hours a day, was, you know, a bit challenging.
On the first night of the trip, after a long flight and running on virtually zero sleep, I was on the late shift — lying on the couch with my daughter asleep on my chest while my wife slept on a mattress next to us.
As I lay there, exhausted and trying desperately not to fall asleep but wishing I could sleep***, I thought to myself, This freakin’ blows. I really do not want to be doing this right now. I just don’t.
***We’re not co-sleeping with our daughter because we’re way too nervous we’re gonna roll on top of her, but that’s a topic for a whole other newsletter post.
Then, I thought:
Yes, this sucks, but I have to do this, because this is what my daughter needs right now.
Followed shortly by:
My daughter will never need me as much as she needs me right now.
And the coup de grâce:
Someday, years from now, I am going to miss when she needed me this much.
Which is when I started crying.
Mind you, when I say crying, I don’t mean like, one teardrop poetically rolling down my cheek. I’m talking, full-on, chest-heaving, ugly crying. Straight-up sobbing.
But, of course, I didn’t want to wake my daughter up. So I’m trying to stay completely silent. Which means I’m not wiping away my tears as they stream down my cheeks. Or blowing my nose. Or even sniffling. Which means all that snot and salt water is now just sitting on my face, congealing.
That’s when I went from crying to laughing (also silently). Because that was the moment I realized that I have never loved anyone as much as I love my daughter. Because there is nobody else in the world I would stay up all night for while deliriously jet-lagged and with a face covered in caked-up mucus.
My Magical Moments
That moment surprised me. I had expected parenting to be a mix of hard parts and great parts. But I didn’t realize that the two are not mutually exclusive. Sometimes the hard parts are the great parts.
The other thing I realized is that my dad’s parenting experience does not have to be my experience. His magical moments do not have to be my magical moments. The “when you were a baby” story my dad told me was about the night I was born. The story I will tell my daughter will be the story about when she was eight weeks old in Puerto Rico (why do all of my epiphanies happen in Puerto Rico?). And if my daughter has children, she will have her own version of that story.
Ever since my daughter was born, I’ve been calling my parents more often (though still not as often as I should). And I sometimes feel guilty when I call, knowing it’s just so I can ask them a question about parenting, or home maintenance, or how to juggle parenting and home maintenance.
But it’s nice to think that, when my daughter is the age I am now, she’ll still need me in some capacity, even if the chest to rest on is just metaphorical. And that feels like a good place to end this story. After all, I should go call my parents.
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this was beautiful man, and congrats. the hardest most good times are yet to come
I really liked this - thanks for sharing Carlos. Talking to a lot of other dads it seems like fatherhood - both the challenging and the transcendent - hits us all in different ways and it’s important to be open to whatever comes