My friend without a wife (or children) recently asked me what it was like to be on the verge of having another child. I found it hard to select which parts of my swirling thoughts I would deliver.
I explained the guilt associated with being significantly less excited than the first go at it. The countless times I actually forget someone is growing inside of my body. I also explained the lack of mystery, I know what I am faced with and it will be hard. The labor, the healing, the fatigue, the emotional psychoticness of hormones readjusting along with all those misplaced insides shifting back into place. The crying, the diapers, the nonstop physical demands of a newborn are relentless and seemingly eternal.
Okay, I didn't go into that much detail, but I was honest. I fear I left him with a negative impression of parenthood. I regret not telling him about the fact that 'hey guess what this was intentional and a blessing that I get to do this all over again'.
I didn't tell him about the thrill of knowing my son will have a sibling. I did not explain the miracle of a sleeping baby's cheek pressed against the smooth curve of the inside of your shoulder. Or the sweetest baby breath only to be compared to the magic of pixie dust. I did not tell him of the miraculous moments you get to look into this tiny face and know you would stand in front of a speeding train to save its life. That love cannot be properly described. A love so different and unique that can only be connected to the love of your children.
I didn't tell him this because I often forget to tell myself
that after the fireball shooting out of my crotch,
it might not be as bad as I remember.
