Welcome to The Club

When we had our first son, we joked that we were now "part of the club", because friends-with-kids we hadn't heard from in years were suddenly wanting to make dinner plans and instantly interested in our lives again after having been somewhat M.I.A since having their own kid(s). We now realize that these parent-friends of ours were partially hoping to live vicariously through our childless exploits, allowing us to do the things they couldn't miss a nap, a bedtime, or a feeding to do. They were too busy, too tired--but they wanted to know someone was still out there engaging in the acts of childless people (ex:staying out past 9, eating food while it's still hot, finishing a sentence with your spouse)

Joking aside, we also realized that it kind of is a "club"--that having kids creates (or re-establishes) a common ground between people like nothing else. Before I had my first son, I'd be politely interested when people would talk about their kids, but I was only really invested if it was a good friend. Now, I'm noticing how other parents (myself included) genuinely want to hear about your kid(s): 1) because whatever stage you're describing reminds them of what their kid was like at that stage and 2) it creates a segue-way into talking about their own kid. And everyone likes to do that.  It's amazing how that never gets old.

Now that we're part of The Club, we understand why there's so much "crying in baseball" (a family euphemism for the maternal tendency to be overly sentimental at random times). It's because baseball (aka, parenthood) is a buffet of conflicting emotions/states of being that never closes and demands that you fill your plate with several courses at once. You're happy to watch them grow and change--but then so sad to let go of how they were, getting nostalgic over having to put away toys they've out-grown or tiny onesies that can no longer accommodate their over-sized heads. You're excited about each new phase, but apprehensive and worried about all the unknowns the constant evolution brings. You're optimistic, imagining the person they'll become--but scared to death that something (illness, injury, delay, death) will ruin your plans. You're completely consumed in the minutia of sustaining this other being--the pees, the poops, the tiny socks--but no longer interested in the trivial details at work or social drama that might be happening around you. You are hyper-prepared on one hand, your diaper bag meticulously stocked for the apocalypse at all times, but then totally forgetful in other areas, missing deadlines at work because your head is just too full of what's important to you to keep it all straight. In a sense, you're more carefree, getting back in touch on a daily basis with what it feels like to be young--but more cautious, aware of how fast life moves and how quickly bad things can happen. You're patient, changing diapers in the middle of the night only to hear them blow another one out minutes later. But so impatient and frustrated when they're wide awake at 4 am after being comatose for most of the daylight hours. And you're tired, more worn out than you've ever been--but somehow doing more in a day than you ever thought possible.

It is the hardest, most demanding--but most rewarding job ever. Such a unique and yet common experience that it instantly bonds you with total strangers in the time it takes for you to whip out pictures on your phone, while deepening every day the level on which you relate to your own parents. Having a child reminds you of being a kid yourself, but also conjures a newfound understanding of what your parents went through. Just as siblings become gradually ageless as they advance in life experience, parenthood allows you to speak with your parents as peers and learn new things about them every time you do.  Now we ALL understand what a pain in the ass it was that I would bypass the bathroom just to wake mom up with the news that I was sick and then yak in her lap, and we’re united in our state of awe at the infinite degree of selflessness and love our parents employed to see us through to adulthood without fastening a handkerchief of their belongings to a sturdy stick and stomping off into oblivion.

It’s disrespectful to the depth, breadth, and value of the struggle to say “misery loves company”, because parenthood is so much more than the parts of it that sometimes—and sometimes often—leave us mentally, emotionally, and/or physically miserable in its wake.  But parents do love to see other parents both triumph and nose-dive in ways that are equal to or greater than their own past or present circumstances.  It allows us to feel hopeful, relieved, proud, and sometimes superior, when we compare ourselves to each other.  But even in our most prideful and judgmental moments, we know just how easy it is to fail at this job, how soon we’ll be in your sheepish shoes, and that even the sweetest success is fleeting in the ever changing landscape of a growing child.

 

So if you’re new to The Club—welcome.  Don’t be shy, but don’t feel obligated to identify yourself. We will know you by the caffeine-induced twitched in your left eye, by the collection of adorable videos maxing out your IPhone storage, by your increasingly cat-like reflexes evolving in superhuman increments commensurate with your child’s developmental level, by the range and scope of expletives you can almost inaudibly spew under your breath, by the way tears cascade inexplicably down your face during seemingly benign commercials about car insurance--but most importantly, by the way your eyes light up when we talk about our kid(s), mostly because it gives you a reason to talk about yours. 

And if we ever happen to encounter you, stomping along the side of the road with your belongings tethered to a stick slung over your shoulder--we’ll probably spend a moment in gleeful judgement, retracting a silent fist-pump in the name of all that’s holy for having dodged or overcome whatever circumstance compelled you to flee.  But then... we’ll buy you a beer, start scrolling through photos, and send you back home in time for the bedtime routine...tearful—and so grateful to be part of The Club.

Today's post is dedicated to my older sister on her birthday. It comes from a letter I sent her when the first of her two sons were born almost four years ago. Happy Birthday, Ree!