Parenthood is often romanticized into something its not; the media has learned to do this to sell its books and magazines and toys and shows and products generally. Most of parenthood is holding down the fort, however; it’s babysitting, keeping things in order, ensuring peace among family members, watching that no one gets hurt, allowing oneself to have emotions, carting someone here or there or back, delivering or buying procurements, crafting schedules, planning educational schedules and playdates.
Tonight, I came home from a meeting and got to lie in bed with my daughter as she russeled herself to sleep. For about five eternal minutes, I looked into her eyes, quietly, and saw all of her future, her past, her present and her possibility. I saw in her eyes the love I felt for my parents at her age and the sweet, youthful gaze of assurance and anxiety, twirling around itself in endless emotion. She would turn and then I’d think about her future partner, who I desparately hope will love her as much as I. And then she’d turn again, pulling the covers over her a little, the sweet smell of her hair cascading over to me, and I’d feel honored to be in her presence, like some schoolboy in the throes of singular love. And then I’d watch her eyes close and I felt the universe shorten, the light dim, and my affection flow, sadly, awkwardly and randomly. It was hard to hold on to a singular feeling except I knew that this what people call love. My daughter fell asleep, restlessly at first then with some breathing, then turning away from me and curling into a ball and then calm and utter quiet and I was alone. All by myself, with her. I cry.
And here’s the rub: The magazines are right.