The Follies of Parenthood

When we were first-time, expecting parents, Yashy and I constantly heard about the big lifestyle changes on the way. Our sleep patterns were in danger, peace and quiet would soon exist only in our memories, if at all, since storing serene memories is not the brain’s top priority, and our transitory natures would be left unsatisfied. We found that some of the warnings were true, others exaggerated, and that some of our pre-baby lifestyle priorities just needed a little more imagination and effort to achieve. We did sleep a little less, but were fortunate that both kids inherited our slumber-loving genes, limiting the number of sleepless nights. We do still find a coveted hour of peace in front of the TV every night, and since Yashy made it a top priority to adventure and travel with the kids, we have become known as the crazy family that unfathomably travels a lot with kids; and we haven’t let parenthood alter the adventurous spirit that has defined and strengthened our marriage

But those are the big changes, commonly known, for which we were well prepared, but as a parent I am finding that most of my conversations with other parents centre on the little things: the day to day folly of parenthood, the small routines that need to be tweaked with kids around, and the new array of simple problems with complicated solutions.

Not sure what I mean?  Here is a scenario.

I must constantly guard my beverage container as carefully as I would the Holy Grail. Both kids are in love affairs with milk, the little man especially. He walks around the house raising his milk bottle like Rafiki holding Simba atop the mountain, pausing briefly to savour the vessel before gulping down his next helping. He must consider that milk to be the only elixir that keeps him feeling happy, and so he is fascinated with anything Yashy or I pour into our glasses. He wonders what keeps us happy. The minute I pour myself a mug of coffee in the morning, the Little Man becomes fixated. He calls it beer, which is unfortunate when I am around others in the morning. We taught him early on not to touch Mom or Dad’s beer, which only heightened the fascination. Wine, coffee, beer – all of these beverages are beer, and seemingly full of wondrous possibilities. Sometimes, I have to give in a little, pour myself some water and allow him to take a sip, by which I mean pour it down the front of his shirt. An especially interesting scene if there is ice in the glass, when, after a brief shock, he dives right back in. When we are out exploring the city, I usually treat myself to a Tall, meaning small, Starbucks, which is usually a chore since he will spend the next 30 minutes reaching out and yelling for the privilege of holding the cup. When I finish and hand him the empty container, he smiles and giggles like he just discovered magical powers. Fortunately, this will now serve as a distraction for the next 30 minutes (as I write this, I wonder why I never thought to ask for 2 cups).

These days, the beverage I am drinking travels with me. I must lift it from every table, transport it between rooms, and place a protective barrier about my glass at all times while sitting. This is a hard behavior to learn, but a few spilled glasses of beer, with the task of cleaning of the shattered glass and sticky residue left behind, has helped to reinforce my new responsibility.

Occasionally, I can’t help but laugh at the ridiculous behavioral possibilities of a three year-old, where sometimes the actions are straight out of a horror movie.

Watching his son, the father in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road reflects, “If he is not the word of God God never spoke.” I have read no better passage on the emotional impact of becoming a parent. For me, the God here represents the parent-child bond and the transcendent effect produced by a child’s laughter, but with God, comes the devil. I have seen the kids laugh through a whole day of unadulterated fun, as they exhaust themselves with friends at the playgrounds before enjoying a pizza party while they goof around and unwind. I have learned to watch out for these days. When we arrive to the confines of our home, a place with a big couch Yashy and I are eager to inhabit, the kids land through the front door like skydivers who forget to pull the parachute. Sometimes silent at first, other times riding the day’s high to the toy bin as they continue to expel energy in a more confined space, the kids’ clocks are ticking, and inevitably, the explosion occurs. They are now past the point of tiredness, have convinced themselves that they are not ready for bed, and spend the next 30 minutes screaming and occasionally squirming in convulsions in an attempt to shut out reality. Watching this, the father in this story, me, reflects on the time he watched the Exorcist.

On many days, I roll out of bed right after the little monkey has barged into the room, having already awoken her little brother, wrought with the issue du jour. Language skills don’t kick in for another 15 minutes and so the next few minutes are dedicated to the rapid fire questioning of a crying, screaming child, in an effort to determine whether she is hungry, had a bad dream, needs to go to the potty, is missing a toy, or is just generally not happy. Usually, she is just generally not happy, which means time is the only solution. So often in parenthood, it’s time, time is the only way the problem gets solved, but after its slow passage, the smiles and hugs at the end make it worthwhile.

What follies of parenthood have you encountered?