People and cultures the world over try to control individual
development through a series of rituals. We do Christenings and baptisms, or
maybe a simple “child dedication” to acknowledge birth and initiate the young
child into the religious institution of choice. We’ll celebrate birthday parties, and place
that first lost tooth under our pillow. We rigorously prepare, both child and
mother, for the first day of school. Oftentimes these rituals are only
compulsory vestiges of a shifting culture. The American wedding is by and large
meaningless, a formal recognition that two people will proceed to do what they
have been doing for the past year (or six), and the college graduation ceremony
is nothing more than a poignant commentary on the times that would be
terrifying were it not so depressing. I may elaborate on that in the future. Sometimes,
however, these rituals are successful in their aim. The baby shower, complete
with silly gender guessing games and half-baked advice, both provides some of
the physical accoutrements and the emotional reassurance a mother needs to ease
into parenthood. The funeral offers a chance to make a sorrowful but clean
break in relationships for the living, and may remind those left behind of why
they care for one another.
This attempt to control or lives is futile, of course. There
are moments that are expected and for some reason have no ritual attached to
them, moments like receiving the first driver’s license. The freedom to go
anywhere at any time, along with the trust the State places in you to move
yourself at greater speeds and with more power than the human animal was ever
naturally intended to wield, is unquestionably a more profound transition to
adulthood than any high school prom. Then there are the moments that sneak up
on you, moments that tear your world apart because
they were unexpected, or the moments that slip by unnoticed, but in retrospect
are recognized as the most important, revolutionary, devastating turning points
in a person’s lifetime. I think I saw one of those today.
My wife and I just welcomed our second child into the world.
This is of course a big deal to me, bigger than some might credit. Yes, we are responsible
for this tiny life and yes, we will fail in ways both subtle and spectacular,
and despite the love that brims and spills over in our hearts for this
beautiful girl, we will most likely be the source of some of her greatest pain.
This shouldn’t be as big a deal, though, because this is kid number two. We
have gone through all of this already, but this is in part what makes it so
complicated. Having two kids isn’t simply doubling down on the responsibilities.
Now we have to worry about our relationship to each kid and how our relationship to one affects the other. When he sees us
showering attention on his sister, is our son jealous? If we shuttle him
off to Grandma’s house so we can deliver the new baby, then rest and recoup, will he think we gave him up for that
new baby? It’s a little different for our daughter because she doesn’t have
anything to compare her life outside the womb to, but having an older
brother has undoubtedly already impacted her. We haven’t been able to shower
her with the undivided attention we were able to give our son in his first
hours, and we never will. It’s a negative synergy that leaves me feeling small
and scared and out of my depth. This has been my struggle over the last 24 hours, and my son's behavior wasn't helping much.
Our son knows about babies, though he doesn’t tend to find newborns
all that stimulating. They just sit there in their splotched red glory and
sleep. He ignores them for the most part, and in his sister’s case he had to
make a little extra effort to do so since she’s sharing his favorite source of
comfort (mamma’s boobies). Over the last day and a half he has managed to
explore every inch of the hospital room that we have allowed, and at least a foot and a half
that we haven’t. Mamma has been a little less active in his life than he would
like, but he has accepted the compensatory attention from his aunts and uncles
with enthusiastic aplomb. He has reveled in the helium balloons sent to
celebrate her birth, tried out a toy or two that she is not yet old enough to
appreciate, and examined her pink clothing with acute interest, but the thing
itself had been carefully avoided until late into this last evening hospital visit.
Unexpectedly, he held out his hands toward her and grunted his request. He
couldn’t hold her by himself so he pushed her away once I offered, but he did
cautiously touch her ear and feel her downy hair, and with a little
encouragement, kissed her head
Then he said her name.
He’s been paying attention. Though the full logistics and
consequences of the situation are beyond his experience, he knows what’s up.
His failure to acknowledge her was intentional, but I watched him change his
mind. It was a tiny moment. We hoped for it, but couldn’t force it to happen.
He’s too young to understand how to do ritual, much less why, and it didn’t
happen in a way that could be so formally marked anyway. Odds are he won’t
remember it at all, this life changing instant in which he accepted that our
family is about more than him. But I will.
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