What I've Learned From My Child

I've been wanting to write about this topic for a while but I keep putting it off because I predict it will be full of cliches, which sounds boring to me, and because I don't want to write something that implies I think you have to have a child to be a complete person. I reject the latter notion and hope it is not the impression that the reader walks away with. Life works in all sorts of different ways, and I mean only to talk about my life without judgement or assumed understanding of anyone elses life, regardless of any language used here that might lead someone to believe otherwise. I recognize the experiences I've gained with Berkeley come with a loss of other potential great and enlightening experiences. End preamble.

Going into parenting my eyes were wide open to the fact that I'd get to learn all sorts of things about sacrifice. I'd get to sacrifice free time, sleep, money, sleep, time with Robyn, sleep. And did I mention sleep? I've probably learned more about sacrifice than I expected but I haven't felt any great revelation there--the fact that I can survive on 7 hours of sleep instead of 9 isn't exactly groundbreaking--and discussing that particular topic without stepping on a multitude of cliches is probably near impossible so I won't linger any longer there.

The thing about life, at least my life, is that there is so much of it I don't remember. Without thinking really hard I couldn't tell you much about what happened yesterday. I could talk about some major milestones from last year, but ask me about a particular date from 2012 and I'd likely look at you stupidly. What was high school like? The question conjures emotions more than specific events. What was it like to be a preteen? It has something to do with riding BMX bikes and playing kickball. Before that? I don't know. I can see glue sliding down paper, maybe I was seven, maybe I was six, maybe I was five. Before that? Nothing.

Barring the invention of a time machine, watching Berkeley is likely the closest I'll ever get to re-experiencing faint memories and stages of life I have absolutely no memory of. Granted, it's impossible that our experience were the same, but I'm sure there is a reasonably sized overlap. There is something primal about watching your child stumble their way through new experiences and language that, I think, goes beyond the love of a parent for a child. It's a glimpse into your own life, it binds you not only to your child but back to yourself as well, and possibly, on really good days, it binds you to all of humankind. It's not just me I see there playing with stickers or having a one on one conversation with a stuffed animal, it's my wife, it's my brother, it's my father, it's my mother, it's my friends, it's the guy who bugs me on the bus, it's my bosses, and it's billions of people I've never met. We were all once there, so new and so fragile. But even on the average day it feels like staring into a mirror that reflects my past. So much of my own forgotten experiences are grounded there in reality before me, and so I learn who I am by watching who she is.

The second thing I've learned about, though I don't claim to fully understand it, is a new aspect to the relativity of time. This isn't about how the individual days can sometimes drag along while the years seem to fly by, which is also worth noting. But it's about how even though I have substantially fewer hours in the day to get stuff done, I've somehow managed to feel more productive since Berkeley was born. It feels like the same paradox that is taught at church about tithing; somehow, by giving money away, you end up with more of it. And somehow, giving more of my time results in having more of it. My explanation is that this experience is like a crucible. It burns away excess, what is most important comes into great focus when the number of hours you have to yourself, to do whatever you want, is reduced greatly. I've put aside many things and now focus on the stuff that really matters to me. She's forced me take that look and to make those choices. Sometimes it's a conscious decision but it works at a lower level too; things have been intentionally put aside while others have fallen to the wayside almost unknowingly and it's surprising how little I miss most of them.

When did she teach me all of this? I honestly don't know. But I'm grateful for the chance to learn and the opportunity to be her father. I hope there is much more of this sort of thing in store.