On several occasions, life has forced me to make dramatic changes in how I pass my days. None of these came easy. I had a clinically bad case of the “I’m special” bug that, I think, needed to be beaten out of me. When you believe you’re somehow exempt from life’s usual rules and challenges, change is hard.
Whether learning to exist for an hour without being desperately intoxicated, rebuilding my finances after serious debt, dating after divorce, or finally just giving up on a rat race that wasn’t right for my soul—I had no choice but to yield.
Despite how mature it might sound today, it’d be dishonest to pretend that my ego wanted any of this. Each change was thrust upon me, very much against my (initial) will. It was like God locked me into an intermittent series of jiu-jitsu arm bars and said, “The pain will worsen, the arm will break, and I’ll cut the damn thing off—or, you can give up now and see where that takes you.”
So, I tapped out. And at each step, much to my surprise, I’ve learned to adapt to a new way of being. We humans have a remarkable ability to change and evolve. This adaptability extends beyond neuroplastic networks to encompass the body, the mind, the entire psyche. I use the word psyche in the way the ancient Greeks did when discussing the part of us that is capable of spiritual and intellectual growth. There’s a survivor in all of us, a primal indefatigable force that never ceases. It’s that narrow yet elastic corridor in the heart that nods its head in recognition when the Dead sing, the music never stopped.
Nothing, for me, has highlighted this miraculous human capacity for adaptivity than parenting. I might be only two months in, but when people ask me what it’s like, that’s the first word that comes to mind.
What’s it like having a baby? You adapt. It’s as natural as birdsong in the morning, as a squirrel packing its cheeks with acorns, as the pearly fog dissolving off the golden hills of the San Francisco Bay in the late afternoon sun.
Or, if you prefer, to quote the Big Lebowski: the Dude abides.
Grace and I did a lot of prep for the attempted home birth but chose not to read any parenting books. We wanted to see what it might be like just doing it on our own, following our instincts.
For the first twenty minutes after my son was born, I didn’t even know how to hold him. It was hilariously awkward, trying to support his little head, that little head still so funny-looking after being smooshed through the birth canal. And there I was, his father, struggling to keep him properly snug, my emotions so feverish that my own mind couldn’t hold the moment. All I could do was let the love and the self-doubt reign over me.
Fast forward 48-hours, and I felt like a baby-holding pro. Something ancient in me found its voice and form, though notably it wasn’t immediate. You know when you buy a new pair of socks, they’re a bit tight around the ankles, but after a couple of days of use, they’re right as rain?
So it was.
Now, holding my son feels as natural as holding Grace’s hand, as obvious and unconsidered yet fully the stuff of life. He sleeps with us in our bed, and we often wear him about like a baby koala, so when our boy isn’t near us, he can get fussy.
But today, suddenly, I realize I can whip up a spinach scramble for Grace, use the loo any which way, or silently scuttle the trash out—all one-handed, with our little monkey dangling over my shoulder.
Before your child is born, there’s natural fear about the enormity of the lifestyle change. It’s true that you can’t live exactly as you once did, hitting the gym on a whim or running an errand just because. If you’re still detoxing from the “I’m special” mindset, this can be jarring.
But even this change feels completely normal. Our son is here, forever part of our lives. We were once two, with more freedom to be intimate and boisterous. Now we’re three. The music’s still playing, just with a bigger ensemble. We find a way.
This transition feels nothing like past dramatic ones where I felt forced into submission. It’s been effortless, which is not to say without effort; it’s been natural, which is not to say without challenges. But the adaptation process this time around has felt less like a pulling threat of amputation and more like a loving push.
When people ask what it’s been like, the second word that comes to mind is karmic. Boy, does this one cut deep. Compared to many, I was already teetering on the far edge of the woo spectrum. If you can’t tell by now, reading this, then I’m doing a good job at bridge building. But becoming a father to my son has officially launched me into the interdimensional stratosphere. My son’s first words might be “quantum entanglement” at this rate. Send help—or at least some sage.
Would you believe me when I tell you that I know, within my marrow, that this is not the first time I’ve met my son? That we’ve been doing this dance across lifetimes. He’s a very alert, very awake boy. I find a deep familiarity in him, a knowing gaze. Sometimes, I wonder if he was my dad in a previous lifetime. I take solace understanding that, if all goes well, if I can live the long life a younger version of myself couldn’t fathom, he will be there on my deathbed, holding my hand as whatever animates this body leaves this plane.
There’s also the mirror he holds up, showing me my insecurities, the way my thinking and behavior could be smoother. I had fears about his health before he was born. The normal kind. Like, ten fingers, ten toes, a pancreas that does whatever pancreases are supposed to do? But meeting him, there’s just been a deep settling into a comfort with how perfect he simply is.
He’s perfect, and someday, he won’t be. Because I’m not. If he’s anything like his dad, he might get into his share of trouble at a young age. But even when he’s no longer perfect, I already know, he will still make me want to be a better man. A better father. A better partner, writer, thinker, feeler, human, particle in this infinite dance the universe does for fun.
Karmically, he instructs me already. When I’m holding him too tightly, or not tightly enough, when I’m too caveman, when I’m not caveman enough—he’ll scream or he’ll coo accordingly. With every cry and giggle, he shapes me anew.
Speaking of cavemen: it’s been interesting to observe an undeniably masculine energy emerge from me. A strength, a power, a guardianship. At times, I’m compelled to lift him in the air and chant, Nants igonnyama bagithi baba!
Which is, of course, from “The Circle of Life,” the opening song of The Lion King, when Rafiki holds little Simba aloft for all the tribe to witness and worship their future king. I looked up the translation:
“Here comes a lion, father, Oh yes, it’s a lion.”
The animal kingdom then bows before Pride Rock. It’s not submission; it’s willingness.
Omg, i'm in tears . . . Incredibly moving. Congratulations Alex & Grace. And Welcome (back) to the World little one! 🩷
Thank you for sharing your story about the early stages of fatherhood.
One thing people get wrong when they think about becoming a parent is worrying about giving up all life's pleasures in the process.
Certainly, you give up stuff. But, most of what you cast off you don't really miss.
It's like throwing away the bell, tassels, basket, and saddlebags on your bicycle. You just pare down and become a sleeker, more aerodynamic version of yourself.
As you pointed out, the enjoyable things you do become more enjoyable with another person. Going to the park with your wife and kid is way better than just going to the park with your wife.
Cheers!