I’m happy to report that I can finally laugh about my agony during those first two months of my daughter’s life. All those miserable memories have evaporated to the point I almost don’t remember what the big deal was. Perhaps I’ve been acclimated to this lifestyle. Perhaps the fresh wounds have turned into scars. Or perhaps I’ve really come to terms that the labor after labor is just another baptism of life that most people voluntarily go through, much like a hazing ritual of a fraternity, except I get a baby at the end, which is a pretty good deal.
With more sleep under my belt and more time to myself, I’ve got to admit, things are looking up. Now I wish I could slip a note to my past self along with some pictures to show exactly how things would improve over time because it sure looked like that dude had it rough and could use some hope. But on second thought, I probably should be more careful pulling tricks like messing with my own timeline. Plus, he turned out fine without any time-traveling intervention and so did his daughter. No harm, no foul. Hey, my friends were right all along!
Speaking of my clairvoyant friends, this journey wouldn’t have been nearly as possible if not for them, and more so if not for my loving, patient, caring, and long-suffering wife. Supported by these pillars and armed with hindsight, I am almost ready to leave the past behind and embrace what the future holds. Could now be the time to pack up the memories of ceaseless early AM “wake-up calls”, futile efforts to calm the gut-wrenching cries, and the paper cuts of confusion, frustration, and guilt and shove them all to the cellar, out of sight, out of mind?
For some reason, that doesn’t sit right with me. Sure, standing on this side of the fence, I can qualify myself to dismiss the magnitude of our affliction in those early days. I’m guessing no one will blame me for obliterating it altogether from my memory, either. In fact, those salient details have been slipping through my fingers all on their own. Yet as the edges of pain blur into smoke and the crushing weight turn into cotton candy, I can’t help with the compulsion to seize them all the more, as if they are valuable in their special way.
Or maybe it’s a disservice or even injustice to diminish their realness just because the affliction has relocated to the rearview mirror. Somewhere, another new dad is fighting the existential battle that is the thorough and unimaginable renovation of lifestyle. Somewhere else, a new mother is holding her inconsolable baby with warmth and gentleness that starkly contrast the persistent protest as she gets ready to write off another night of sleep. Someday, I will likely up the ante and relive my previous posts for yet another child.
To them, the struggle is visceral, fresh, and all-consuming. For their sake, I feel the urge to shamelessly volunteer as one custodian of these memories, so that if I have a chance to talk to them, I may offer something more helpful and hopeful than “It’s tough, but it’ll get better.” Hopefully, they can see in my eyes understanding, empathy, and solidarity, rather than the frantic summoning of a distant memory from oblivion. Perhaps, to someone whose life is being passed through a meat grinder, the worst thing that we can do is to make them feel dismissed, invalidated, or alone. Perhaps this blog can do the opposite of that?
~ Du
