What they never tell you about fatherhood Vol. 1
Scott (husband of Amber C.) here again...
You can read my first blog for this page here, in which I discuss the fact that my son is an Alien. Today, we attack a different subject.
I thought that I was prepared.
During the long wait for my son to arrive I read blogs, picked up some books, had some long talks with others and meditated deeply alone on the prospect of fatherhood. I steadied myself for the particular challenges a newborn would present. I tried my best to understand the changes it would create in my marriage. I knew it would change my relationships with my friends. I knew that it would change my feelings about myself. I knew there would be change. Both emotionally and physically.
But I was not prepared for this:
My home is now a ridiculous and terrifying obstacle course.
Before the birth of Lennox, I could casually stride across the living room with a confident, strong swagger. While I was cooking dinner, if a particularly awesome song came on I wouldn't hesitate to dance (if no one was looking, of course), stir (making sure I was still not being surveiled), then dance again. If I needed to run back into the house to grab something that I had forgotten, I could do so without turning on a single light.
I knew the layout of each room like I knew my own smell. Navigating in the dark was skill I has practiced for years and had fully mastered. There is always a stack of clothes right...HERE. The chair has recently been moved and will be right about...HERE. Turn the corner, this hallway most likely contains a couple of boxes that must be avoided both HERE, HERE and...HERE.
All that work. All that memorization.
The almost Jedi like ability I had built towards for years is now lost.
I am now made to feel like a blind person in a saw factory.
It is not the small things either. Not the small toys. Not the multitude of stuffed animals that now live on our floor like some adorable zoo. Not the bottles that seem to run and hide when they have been emptied.
It is the large, reckless baby furniture. They are out to get me. I'm sure of it. There is a conspiracy between them. I am convinced that they have banded together in an attempt to get me to submit, falling to my knees and admit that they, and not I, are in charge of this house.
I was once able to confidently stride from one end of any room to another. But, now it is like going to war. If the Jumperoo does not attack from the right, the Joovy walker will certainly come for me from the left. If their advancement is not successful, the Baby Bjorn bouncer will come at me from behind. One way or another, I will find myself destroyed. Broken and bruised. It is a battle that I have finally admitted I can not win.
So, I come here with words of wisdom. You can not claim to be unwarned, as I was. Admit defeat early. Do not try to out smart the intelligence of the baby furniture, they have more knowledge and experience than you can possibly imagine.
You will lose. As I have lost.
But, with all that said...when I find myself sprawled across the floor, nursing a twisted ankle and my son rolls across the floor, smiles and plants a disgustingly wet kiss on me...it's all worth it.