Eleven Years in the Making

about the dude who made me a mom and then a dad

The Master of the Bacon Dance

Eleven years ago, our first son was born, and my wife and I became parents. It’s been a roller-coaster, which is fun when you’re in the mood for roller-coasters and terrifying when all you really want is a quality nap. In honor of this momentous birthday, I’d like to recap a few events that will hopefully stand out in my memory for a long, long time.

Before you were born, your mother and I would lay in bed together and talk to you about what was waiting for you. She read books to you through my belly. It felt a little silly, but we were so excited to welcome you that we couldn’t wait to share all of that joy with you. In return, you figured out how to stick one of your feet outside my ribcage. It wasn’t cute.

They had promised us you would be born on 12/12/12, and that seemed like an easy date to remember. I marked the calendar and counted days over and over. In the beginning it was excitement. Toward the end it was impatience and exhaustion.

My last day at work was a Friday. We went shopping that weekend, the holidays in full force everywhere around us, and we bought you a little stuffed friend to keep you company for when you arrived. We had postponed buying so many things out of the fear that something would go wrong, that we would have a house and a nursery full of clothes and toys and no child to enjoy them. First babies are a nervous event, and we were no exception. It had been such a rocky road to get to you, and that fear held us back. By Sunday night you made it clear that you weren’t interested in waiting until the 12^th. Maybe you just wanted to see that little blue elephant toy. Either way, you wouldn’t let me sleep. We stayed up together, you and I, while I tried to finish my environmental law final exam. By 10am we were on the way to the hospital.

I’m not going to bore you with the details of labor, but it’s worth noting that once you check into a hospital to deliver a baby, the nurses won’t let the birthing parent have any food. All I got was ice and the occasional popsicle, and seriously, I burned a lot of calories walking up and down the hall and using some of those muscles. Your mother, on the other hand, went to the restaurant across the street and got herself some really good Greek food for lunch. It smelled amazing. I might have resented her for that. (When your little brother was born, she snuck me some fries when the nurse wasn’t looking. I hope someone loves you that much someday, too.)

This is the part you love to hear most, so let’s focus on it for a moment together.

As soon as you were out, the doctor plopped you onto my chest. It wasn’t elegant at all. And there I was, slightly in shock and utterly in awe at the tiny perfection of your hand. It was curled up delicately, just where I could reach up and hold it between two of my fingers. You were the tiniest, most perfect thing I had ever seen, and the depth of love I felt for you in that moment shook me in a way I hadn’t expected.

You had a nice head of hair on that first day, you did not like the bath the nurses gave you, and your mother and I both held you against our own skin for hours and hours. When you cried, my heart broke until we could soothe you. When you slept, all I wanted to do was stare at your fluttering eyelids and wonder at those fledgling dreams behind them.

I also didn’t know what to do with you. Bringing a child into the world is this incredibly terrifying thing. Everything you do brings up a worry that you’ll hurt the baby or kill the baby, and even your overprotective nature can create new things to worry about. The world goes from being a normal, mundane place to a constant battlefield with sabretooth tigers on the prowl. Never before had I felt so terrified, so protective, so paranoid.

But even with all of those worries and sleepless nights (many, many sleepless nights), I also learned that my body was your safe place, that I could sing even after I thought I’d lost my voice, and that the rocking chair was more for me than it was for you. You taught me the bacon dance. We tried carrot sticks dipped in chocolate frosting on your first birthday. All the things I didn’t think you overheard came blaring from your little mouth at the worst possible moments. We all cried when you were teething. We all celebrated when you became a big brother. You did a great job holding still for hair braiding when your hair was still long. You are a menace for climbing all the wrong trees. I am in awe at your building designs and detailed renderings. And, of course, you grow the best corn I have ever tasted.

Happy eleventh birthday to the dude who made me a mom and then a dad. I can’t wait to see what the future brings for you.

Your Papi,

Robin