Definitely Not Ready Already
Fear, humility and unprepared walk into a bar...
I’m lightheaded and panicking. The room is spinning and I’m fairly sure I’m going down, slamming my head on the corner of the new crib along the way. I’m staring at a newborn diaper, no bigger than a cocktail napkin, folded neatly on a changing table flanked by butt cream and an unopened package of baby wipes. Two thoughts cross my mind. First, this room will never be cleaner. In fact, it will soon be littered with toys, empty bottles and binkies, not to mention the overflowing diaper pail that you swear can fit…just…one…more.
Second, I’m about to do this baby thing one more time. Full disclosure, I’ve been fairly confident—borderline cocky—about this third round. It’s not my first rodeo and I have two fairly tame bulls to show for it. But I also just realized I’m a 38-year-old cowboy who groans far too loudly when I get up from a seated position and needs a nap after overly-busy mornings. It’s also been more than four years since I’ve swaddled, burped, shushed and rocked in the middle of the night, half conscious but fully operational. Somehow, those early days of fatherhood have faded over time, lost among the more recent moments of potty training, bike riding and dance parties.
But evidently, it’s all good. Neighbors, strangers and all too eager family members have assured me it’s “just like riding a bike.” Oh, perfect, but find me a bike that poops, cries, farts and screams at unbearable pitches. I don’t think you’d find that at the sporting goods section in Wal-Mart. Experience is often referenced as that intangible quality, one that elevates the superstar in the playoffs or calms the nerves of a pro in the toughest situations. But this is a human being. I have never been so scared of a 7-pound fairly inanimate blob, especially one that now bears my surname and will rely on me for the next two decades (at least).
I’ve also been lying to myself, thinking my other two kids will be award-winning assistants, providing clean diapers and cuddles on call. My 6-year-old has even posted signs around the house advertising her babysitting services with various rates based on responsibilities ($50 for an hour!?). Maybe she could be a great night nurse…then she throws a 20-minute tantrum over broccoli touching her chicken nuggets. My other daughter says she can’t wait to hold the newborn, showcasing her skills with a disembodied doll while spinning like a Tasmanian devil.
I’m in trouble.
My goldendoodle Charlie can sense my fear. He sits patiently in the middle of the nursery, ready to fetch my very pregnant wife to awaken her unconscious husband. He also knows he’s about to drop another spot on the totem poll. But he’s seen this movie before. Another baby. Another thing running around the house, pulling his tail, trying to eat his food. Of course, he’s handling all of this far better than me. Ah, the blissful ignorance of a dog.
I gather myself, take a deep breath, and pretend to have some semblance of courage. I can do this, I reiterate to myself. Hell, my daughter Ella says I’m the greatest dad in the world almost every day. Ten minutes later, she will also say she doesn’t love me and wants me to move off planet Earth. Comme ci comme ça! I had no idea what I was doing for my first two—they were only 19 months apart and I was sleepwalking through most of that—but they are both standing and the roof is still intact.
I may not remember how to swaddle, calm a cry or count the number of daily minutes we should do tummy time, but a younger version of Ryan figured it out. I’ve gained a few pounds, lost some cartilage in key mobility joints, and have become way too knowledgable about child YouTube stars. I’ve made more mistakes than I can remember, and I have become a girl dad first and a normal functioning human second. But I figure if I just hold on for dear life and keep my eyes closed during the hard parts, I probably will get through it.
Just like a riding a bike.