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From the time a woman finds she's pregnant, her whole life changes. It's not just the birth itself, as people tend to assume. "Giving birth is such an amazing experience!" Somehow, that answer seems not quite enough. It's more because everything becomes about the baby. Can I eat this? Can I do this? Is this safe for my child? We're tired, our bodies do things we've never felt before. We cry or get angry when we used to be even tempered and cheerful. Things that used to taste good make us sick and things we hated we suddenly crave. Something is kicking our gut, something is squirming around in us. We have a hard time walking and sleep becomes a thing of the past. What the hell? Oh yeah, the baby. For nine months it's all about the baby. It's there every single minute of every single day.
On the other hand, life is...well, life....for dad. He may be excited or anxious. He may be sharing in the mood, food and sleep shifts of mom. But he can walk away. He can still sleep at night without being kicked, he can still eat what he wants. He can boogie the night away and bungee jump the next morning without having to think about anyone else but himself.
Things even out a bit when the baby is born, but it's still pretty lopsided. Dad may do diapers or childcare but if mom is nursing, she's still in high demand. She has to watch what she eats (so it doesn't affect the milk) and going far away for long is impossible. It's still all about the baby.
Fast forward a few years. The baby, now a boy, falls and hurts himself. Mom offers kisses, dad offers manly advice, "Suck it up. This won't be the last time you fall. Don't be a sissy. Be a man." Or something similar. Fast forward 18 years when Son has enlisted in the service. Mom is in a panic, dad says, "He's a man, he can make his own decisions." Huh? Where is that gut retching fear that runs from your toes to your head and that sits in a lump in your stomach like gluten free bread? Of course he's a man but does that make him immune to death or dreams of war which forever close off a part of his memory to everyone but his comrades-in-arm? This is our baby. How can you feel that way?
As I write I admit I'm angry at a father who chooses to play golf while his son moves alone. Son says, "It's ok. He can help when he gets done." But me? In my world his father should forget golf and help his son. What if he falls carrying the mattress down the stairs himself? What if he can't get the dresser around the corner alone? But maybe I'm expecting too much. I'm used to sighing and getting up to get my sons something to drink. I've been trained since I became pregnant with son #1. After 3, it's pretty much automatic. Apparently if you kick me in my sleep and make me throw up, I'll be in your debt forever.
I laughed at my grandma when she called Uncle Art her baby. I thought she was saying he was the youngest of her four sons. Today I realize I was wrong. She was literally saying he was her baby. When my sons struggle, there is still a part of me that remembers a two year old bravely dragging a chair across the floor...alone, trying so hard to be a man. No matter what he has accomplished, I still remember the saddest, most haunted eyes I've ever seen, the eyes of my 3 year old. Moms love the kind, gentle, tough, rough, stupid, intelligent men their boys become. But in our hearts, there is still the memory of his little arms reaching for us and our total dedication to his care and safety. And that's the way moms love.
