I am a new dad.
Peter and Eleanor come into this world four weeks early, and our first month together is spent in the hospital. This is where I learn how to change a diaper, swaddle, and burp the babies. It is in the hospital that a nurse tells me I am a natural.
I am a new dad.
When the NICU doctor first explains the requirements for discharge, we nod our heads like it is the most obvious thing in the world. But when she tells us that Peter will not be going home with Eleanor on Thanksgiving, we are not so understanding. “What rights do I have as the parent to bring my babies home?” I ask. Turns out, not many.
I am a new dad.
At home, it becomes clear that two babies are more work than one. When Peter is eating, Eleanor is crying. When Eleanor is sleeping, Peter is crying. Our visions of perfect parenting – books and other stimulation, daily baths – vanish in a never-ending cycle of eat, burp, change, sleep, eat, burp, change. We go through dozens of diapers a day.
I am a new dad.
At night, when I hear a baby start to cry, I pause for a second in the hopes that Anne will wake up to check on them. At night, when I change Peter’s diaper, I sometimes skip the rash cream. At night, when Eleanor fights to take her bottle, I squeeze her a fraction harder than I should.
I am a new dad.
After more than a month at home, I realize how few times I have told the babies I love them. I notice only after hearing my mother-in-law say the words over and over again, while kissing the babies’ feet. I mostly just say “hi beautiful.”
I am a new dad.
During quiet moments I think of all I want to show my children in the world. Their first cheeseburger. Walking the perimeter of Manhattan. The Harry Potter books. During louder moments I have thoughts of locking myself in the bathroom with my phone. I do this more than I care to admit.
I am a new dad.
I take solace in the fact that my own dad learned on the job, and his dad before that. Maybe the reason it takes a few years for us to form memories is to give our parents time to work out the kinks. That I can’t remember the early years of my life does not mean they were perfect – the scar on my forehead is proof of that.
For now: Eat, burp, change, sleep, repeat.
Eventually: Who knows?
I am a new dad.