I distinctly recall when I first realized that parenting wasn’t going to be easy. And no, it had nothing with 1) boobs (or my lack thereof) or 2) poop.
Granted, there have many times I wished for functioning mammary glands but they were reserved for the nights when my lovely wife was working and the babies groped about in the dark searching for a warm breast full of milk. Instead they got a cold face full of razor stubble, which was never fun for either party involved and resulted in many restless nights.
Nor did baby bowel movements intimidate me. On the contrary I always found them quite entertaining, especially the force & volume with which they erupted! Any parent knows what I’m talking about: it is quiet, perhaps late at night; the babe is swaddled, the parent gazing lovingly at their offspring. All of a sudden a small gurgle ensues, the infant yawns contentedly…and then oh, sweet Jesus, the sound and the fury! As an uncle of ten nieces & nephews newborn blowouts were nothing new for me. To my poor wife however, who hadn’t spent much quality time with infants, they were quite unbelievable! As a matter of fact on that lovely April morn’ in 2001 when little E first erupted I’m fairly certain she thought some newborn’s gravely ill grandpa, fresh off a late night trip to Taco Bell, might have wandered into our bathroom. I have never seen another human beings eyes get so big! I was holding him at the time and even I thought for a second he might have exploded… or at least blown a hole in his diaper.
No, my lack of boobs and explosive infant BMs were manageable.
The moment I knew parenting wasn’t going to be easy was more, shall I say, primordial. Come to think of it there were two of them. The first one occurred when E was about two years old and was by then speaking in complete, very expressive sentences. One afternoon I suggested in my usual affable manner that it was time to help pick up the toys in the basement. He answered with “No, Daddy, you do it!” and immediately walked upstairs. Ah…say wha? Pardon me? Did I just hear, “No-Daddy-You-Do-It”? I felt like DeNiro in Taxi Driver: “You talkin’ to me?! You...you talkin’ to ME?!?” I was the Alpha Male challenged by the Young Up-and-Comer. My adorable baby had just flipped me the toddler version of the bird!
I guess I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.
The second incident was about a year later. Early in his young life E was introduced to his mother’s unfortunate habit of having dessert after every dinner, a practice to which I capitulated. This particular evening when E asked what was for dessert I feebly attempted to dissuade him from the usual ice cream or cookie. Instead I offered him some left over Brie that we’d had for dinner adding, "You know, in France they have cheese for dessert." Without a pause he shot back, "Why don't you go live in France then?!”
I was definitely not in Kansas anymore.
Please know that I think my children are awesome. I love them dearly but they are children. They sometimes disobey, yell, rebel, talk-back, push my buttons, yank my chain, etc., etc., etc. I am more immune to the effects of this emotional roller-coaster now than when it first happened. I expect it; it’s what children do. It doesn't make it any easier but at least I know it's typical behavior. Still I have to chuckle as I recall the fear I felt in those early parenting moments. I liken it to how a novice skipper must feel as he approaches his first storm on the open ocean and knows that there's no turning back.
Got your own, "Oh, shit!" moment? Feel free to share in the comments below...
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