I had the profound sensation this past weekend that my life had forever changed.
It was 5.30am on Saturday morning. Over the baby monitor I could hear Levi stirring, his sighs and yawns cutting through the haze of my sleep with annoying effectiveness. As I lay awake, eyes still shut so as to hide the unnatural darkness of early winter mornings, I debated whether I was going to leave the warm cocoon of our comforter (my wife likes sleeping with the window open so our room is consistent with whatever the forecasted low of that night is supposed to be) and collect the little boy who had woken much too early for anyone’s liking. His sighs soon turned to the baby babble inherent in the first attempts of the articulation of language, and I knew it was only a matter of time before those adorable sounds would soon transform into what I can only describe as a sort of variation of high-pitched squeals.
By this time Megan had started to stir (I’m never quite sure if she doesn’t hear him at first or if she has a greater capacity to selectively allow certain sounds to penetrate her ear drums) and there was likely some ensuing discussion as to who would get the kid and who would start making his breakfast. Understandably details are hard to recall as my level of consciousness was still minimal; however, I do know that I was somehow elected to retrieve the young charge from his undoubtedly perceived prison, and carry him from his room, marking the beginning of a new day.
In the following few moments I have a vague recollection of asking Megan to feed him so that I could make a pot of coffee (my morning ritual). While waiting for the sounds of percolation to cease I stared at the disaster of a kitchen in which I stood and realized that since Megan is now back at work, it was doubtful that I would benefit any longer from her attempts to keep order in our house. So, I dutifully began to organize dishes and fill the sink with warm, soapy water. The coffee maker beeped, indicating its finished process, and between scrubbing various pots and pans, and sneaking sips of Saltspring Island dark roast it suddenly hit me…
At 5.50am on Saturday morning, as I attempted to elicit some personal pleasure by hurriedly sipping coffee amidst a sink-full of dirty dishes, I realized that the birth of our son had resulted in a change of life from which I could never return (or at least not until he, and any other possible siblings, had grown and left the house!), where my needs would always be secondary to that of my son’s, where my desires would be overridden by the drive to care for, and nurture him, where I would have to learn patience, sacrifice, and self-control, where all my efforts could possibly go unrecognized…
And I realized I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
