 | Diary Navigation:
|
November 6, 2002
Julian turned six months last week, and the more fun and engaging he becomes, the harder it becomes for me to execute the morning exercise faced by the majority of dads: backing up out of his room to get to work. Days like this are the hardest, when I don't know how late I might have to work and he could already be in bed by the time I get home. I stand at his cribside, Steph asleep in our room, the house all dim silence, and I stare. I just stare. He lies there peacefully, in what we call the "surrender" position (head to the side, arms out as though celebrating some victory in his sleep), unaware of me, tiny and vulnerable and at the same time so big and strong and real, and I guess at his thoughts or dreams and tell him how much I love him, I say random things, I chat with this little person who is fast asleep, I try to convince myself he's real but he's too beautiful to be real, so I just stare, and if he's an illusion then I'll just revel in it.
I glance at my watch. If I'm going to make it to the office on time, I've got to leave right now. This second. Another minute and I miss my bus. Guaranteed.
I'm still standing here. Okay, I tell myself. Take one step back. Then another. Do this a few times and you'll be out of the room. Once out of the room, you're a third of the way to the front door. Not so difficult.
I lift my foot to step back, but it comes down in the same spot. Just one more minute. Okay, thirty seconds. Just to touch his hair, rub his cheek. Stare a little longer.
If someone asked me what I was thinking during these moments, my answer would be "nothing." A baby's perfect, innocent beauty virtually precludes thinking on an adult level. You feel things that are too profound, and yet perfectly uncomplicated, to be properly articulated, so your brain doesn't really make the attempt. You just hear a voice in your head saying simple, awed words over and over again: Wow. Wow. Wow.
Finally I take that first backward step, then another, and eventually I make it out of his room, depressed when the top of his little head disappears from view.
I make my bus because it's late this morning. Once crammed in among the other commuters, I start mentally preparing for my 10-o'clock meeting. But my thoughts are diverted. I start thinking about how Julian rode on my shoulders for the first time last night, holding small clumps of hair on either side and looking around from a new perspective, and how amused Stephanie was by the look on his face. I think about how his little pudgy legs barely reached around my neck and how his chin barely reached above the top of my head. That means his torso is about the same height as my head. This thought amuses me, and I let out a little laugh. A fellow commuter looks at me. I smile back.
I can't wait for the day to be over. And if he's already in bed when I get home, that's okay. I'll just spend some quality time at his cribside, even though he won't know it.
Not until he's a father.
 |  |
|
want to keep a diary on iParenting?
Authoring a diary on the iParenting network allows you to chronicle your family's story, preserving it for years to come. It's also a great way to get the most out of the iParenting community. Click here to start...
|
The iParenting Media Awards program helps parents find the best products for their families. 
