Dear new parents: A sloppy homage
Yeah, all the pictures show happy babies or comedy. They show a cohesive and strong family core. Love, family, longevity…well, this is rose coloured glasses.
It’s tough, this whole family thing. This whole marriage thing…this parenthood thing…as it should be. Nothing so intentionally undertaken that is this rewarding/scarring should ever come easy.
What am I talking about? I don’t fucking know, I haven’t slept in 100 years. I got pooped on today. By two different people. One of them yells gibberish then looks at me like I’m an asshole when I don’t understand him. The other, well, she’s learned that if she shrieks as loud as she can, she gets attention. She is like a sentient air raid siren that only likes to warn people about her wonderfully awesome self.
Wait. I take it all back. All of it. No I don’t. Let me explain.
This thing I helped create, this hub of reality and genetic purpose…I’d rather not be doing anything else.
“Mommy always shows me her poop,” says a proud older brother contemptibly after I tell him I won’t show him his sister’s bowel movements.
I’ve traded in fiction for reality. I can’t make up anything more real, more emotive, more influential.
My writing becomes very segmented when I talk about my family. Sincere ideas plow into my thoughts as I try to do them justice. I’m just a fucking cog in a machine and I’m trying not to be ashamed of it. I look into my son’s eyes and realize I’ve found purpose. I look at my infant daughter and feel confident that I can translate what I have learned into her personal development. I look at my wife…my hero…dammit.
I look at my wife and think, “How can I properly thank you? I know I can’t, but I want you to know that I’m still trying to figure out a way.”
Then she says come to bed. She says I should be with her. Hold me. Let me hold you.
It is all so complex. Yet all so intrinsically simple.
This lucky fuck should go to bed.