(photo credit: Meredith Marek)
Only three quarters of the way through my daughter’s first year and already I recognise the error of my ways. At least the original idea that I’d do a moomyblog but from a dude’s perspective is just dead in the water.
The first few months were simply too exhausting. Before she was born, I had this romantic picture of sitting down to chronicle her development, as well as mine, in between feedings and the demands of daily life. I’m sure others have done such a thing and are still doing so, but it turns out documenting her development is done in starts and stops.
The other major development is that the best advice I got has become my mantra about the whole experience. My sister-in-law recommended a book written by a highly-regarded childrearing expert, and the greatest takeaway for me was:
There’s no other child quite like this one and you’re just going to have to figure yours out in your own time and in your own way.
Of course there are milestones that every baby seemingly reaches in a prescribed time. Nearly every new parent I’ve talked to has made it through this existential trial by fire with a constant question in mind, ‘Wait, is this next thing normal? How exactly am I supposed to deal with this situation?‘
However, the swirl of things that need to get done and the biological necessities that get in the way of sitting down and pontificating on bigger questions make the days long and the months short.
She’s waking up as I type this, and her impatient whimpers are my cue. I’ve been trying to find the universal in this and keep being led back to the particular of my perspective. My daughter makes me both wonder how everybody made it through infancy and simultaneously marvel at how her jaunty manner appears to have been the only possible way for her.
Another carnival ride like nothing I could’ve imagined.