We’re T-minus four months until baby number three and we’re getting into 'go mode.’ Having kids is like a rocket launch, really. You prepare for months and months, strategizing swaddle techniques, timing yourself on diaper duty, and reading every possible birthing scenario. You’ve packed your flight gear (robe, nipple cream, and your favorite nature sounds playlist) and met the crew (maybe your doctor will be there, maybe they won’t, maybe they’ll be on the back nine at the country club).
But, like a rocket launch, you actually have no idea what the hell is going to happen and you’re literally embarking on an entirely foreign frontier. I mean, you’re adding another human to the mix, not a new toothbrush. Everything is going to be different in every single way—your life, as you know it, will never be the same again. At least astronauts get to come home.
And to tell you the truth, I’m not sure you ever “get good at it.” One simply cannot be an expert at caring for developing organisms that experience sadness, excitement and anger—sometimes all at the same moment. Yeah, there’s a general process, but I use that term loosely. There is no normal here, and I, as the dad, have a front-row seat to the madness. My second daughter was literally born in the hallway of the hospital coming out of an elevator on a gurney to a gloveless doctor. I’m pretty sure Journey was playing as we ascended the floors, shortly after the hospital staff realized we should probably bypass the 27 healthcare forms you fill out upon admission—I didn’t stop believin’. And there I was, holding the overnight bags, crying (also) like a baby.
(*There was a lot of emotions. She was due on Super Bowl Sunday that year, when my Patriots were going for their sixth championship in team history. My kid did the first solid of her life, popping out five days early. I often joke that if they ended up on the same day, my wife could FaceTime me. No one ever laughs. But I’ll tell you: me holding my very newborn daughter next to my dad, watching my man Tom Brady holding up the trophy: priceless).
There’s a plan, but it really just seems that nature wins out and everybody is just reacting in real time. You have to hand it to those medical staff that work in the maternity department of a hospital. They’ve seen some stuff and you’re thinking you’ve gone through some incredible experience with them. That’s just a regular Tuesday for them, man.
And then, just like that, the baby is here. You have no idea what to do. Go, raise a child. They are the most incredible thing you have ever seen, and you’re just thinking: I made this. I can barely draw a 3-D cube or build a bird house made of balsa wood, but I created a living being complete with a circulatory system, brain synapses and earlobes. It’s like getting the keys to a Lamborghini and not knowing how to drive stick shift (like yours truly; I know, very disappointing). You go seven miles per hour, just like on the way home from the hospital, and hope you don’t break anything.
But I could imagine once you go to space, you’re never the same. You see the world differently and everything that once seemed so important, now seems very, very small. And this is parenting. I could come up with another analogy finding parallels to reaching for the stars, but there are simpler words of advice.
Just hang on and try not to throw up.
Our second is due next month and I’m feeling much the same way - everything’s ready, packed and waiting, but I just know as soon as that baby’s here, everything’s completely up in the air and I’ll be flying blind once again!