Morals — Blog — Justin Mermelstein

My first daughter was born on May 12, 2009. The entire time my wife was pregnant felt like a dream. I was going to have a child. My DNA was going to be spliced with someone else's and a living thing would bear that mishmash for the rest of its life. Boy, that's a heavy responsibility. Your kid gets whatever sequence you inherited, minus a few hit-or-miss pieces. A crapshoot, really.

"I hope it has your eyes."

"I hope it has your nose."

"I hope it has your lips."

"I hope it doesn't have your predisposition for diabetes."

"I hope it has everything great about both of us and none of our terrible shit."

It'll have all that and more. Its own beauty. Its own flaws.

I read many stories and listened to many lectures, both by mothers and by fathers, and, oddly enough, by people who didn't even have children. What is with that? Women who've never carried so much as a sunflower seed in their stomach and men who've never had so much as a scare have the balls to toss in their opinion and advice. We had more experience parenting the moment we both looked at each other and said, "Oops."

I heard it all. Prevalent among the bunch was one sentiment that I seemed to hear once a day. "Your life will change the moment you see that baby." Right on, I thought. I'll see my child and my entire world will change. I will be a parent, forever entrenched in the love and adoration that comes with siring a child. I'll be her god and she'll be my protégé.

But that wasn't how it worked. Especially not for the first child. Not for me.

I was more worried about my wife's well-being toward the end of the pregnancy than my own insecurities. I'd read a story about a man who had lost his wife the day after she gave birth. The story stuck with me – not just during my wife's first labor, but throughout the last five years and into this last pregnancy. In fact, it was the first thing I thought of upon hearing that she was pregnant. It lingered throughout the months and came roaring back in the delivery room, where it was my responsibility to remain collected.

For the first baby, my wife was lucky enough to have a water birth. Our little girl bobbed to the surface like a buoy in the ocean, and I met her proper not a few seconds later. She was chock full o' vernix and her face was swollen. She was cute in the way only a mother or father could see. But she was ours.

I wish that I could say my first reaction was one of swooning and melting. But it wasn't. The feeling was certainly indescribable, sure. I was staring at my child. No matter how many times you see mommy's belly morph, it's still nothing compared to those first few seconds out of the womb.

In all honesty, she scared the shit out of me. I was never more petrified than seeing something so helpless for which I was suddenly responsible.

There's a difference between becoming an instant parental idiot savant and relishing in the adoption of a lifetime of selfless, unending responsibility. The former simply doesn't exist. The latter settles in once the anxiety of the gravity of the situation fades. Once you accept your new reality.

Shit is real. Let's do this.

Realizing that I needed to strive to be everything perfect in a father figure wasn't about a magical look or sudden jolt of reality. I'd had nine months to think about that. Realizing that becoming the perfect parent is not an instant reaction to seeing your flesh and blood was the jolt of reality.

By the time my daughter began to recognize me as one of the two main people in her life, I was beginning to recognize myself as one of the two main people in her life. I'd put in the time to see the seed sprout (no pun intended... a little pun intended).

Tonight at dinner, my daughter did something stupid, as all five-year-olds do. Stupid is the modus operandi of the five-year-old. And I, being the disciplinarian, put her in her place. Immediately after, she asked if she could hug me. Those are the moments of swooning and melting. That feeling of being a parent that I was told I'd feel the moment my daughter arrived.

I'm not the ideal parent yet. I may never be. But I'm closer to being one than ever before. Constantly moving forward and inching closer. Provided I'm doing that, and not moving backwards, I'm okay with it. And that requires work and dedication. And love. And faith that what I'm doing is best for my child.

My second daughter was born a week and a half ago, on July 14th, 2014. The feeling was different. The fear of becoming a parent was gone. That comes with the territory. Been there, done that fits the bill a bit more. And that's not a bad thing. Would you rather a surgeon who's standing there with a look of sheer terror on her face, or one who is confident, knowing that this isn't her first rodeo.

I'm a parent to my first daughter. But I'm a beginner yet again with my second. I have a slight advantage, but I'll still need to work my ass off trying to perfect the craft. Trying to earn that special title – Dad.

Shit is real. Let's do this. Again.

I've lived my entire life cursing structure and habit. Working the same hours and days. The schedule of school. How long I get to sleep before I am obligated to be somewhere for something. Despising it. Anyone that is close to me can attest to that. For a few days, weeks, and even months (rarely) I can live with it. Once I get beyond my tipping point, it's all over. It's like this innate inability to exist on a regular schedule handed out to me. I regress into a child, taking temper tantrums and screaming, "I don't wanna do it!" in my own head (and sometimes out loud). Most of the time, I do reside in my own head. No one really wants to hear me complain about something so frivolous, as important and as detrimental as it might be to me. And I get it. If you're not born feeling this way, someone is going to look at you and roll their eyes. After all, they probably have much bigger tasks to deal with. Nothing is relative to the person who's got it much worse, most of the time. That's understandable.

I get some of my best thinking done in the shower, which is fairly odd because I don't like standing in any one place for a significant amount of time. I get antsy and want to keep moving. But I find it very easy to concentrate in the shower. I imagine it could be the hot water (I practically boil myself) or the rhythmic sound of the water hitting the cast iron tub. I'm not quite sure.

Two nights ago, as I was scrubbing away the day's dirt and sins, I found myself disinterested in thinking about future books and art projects (which is what I consistently think about) and pondering why I am so mentally empowered while naked in a steamy room. Normally I'm anything but mentally empowered while naked and in a steamy room. I digress.

I started to think about my routine. I like to shower at night. I like climbing into a clean bed and knowing that I can sleep in a little longer in the morning because I'm ready to throw clothes on and start my day (side note: I've had many debates over showering in the evening vs. showering in the morning. I don't care what your opinion is, because mine is right. Unless you rub the cat's ass all over your face while you sleep, there is nothing that a morning face wash can't absolve). Perhaps it goes back to my hatred of schedules (and my love of sleep), but I love to manipulate my own terms around someone else's as much as possible without actually disregarding theirs completely.

Then my thinking went a little deeper. I went back about a month and milled over a few-days-long anxiety attack that hit me like a ton of bricks in the middle of March. Even though it was much worse at night for the length of the attack, getting into bed was the most comforting part of it all. The feelings of panic and anxiety nearly melted away strictly because I’d pulled up the blankets, took out a book or put on a TV show, and settled in. At first I thought it was because I was truly relaxing. But in reality, I'd been relaxing all day. I took it easy during that time, making sure I wasn't too manic and making things worse, which I have a very, very easy time doing.

Weeks went by and I didn't really give it much thought. The only thing that really struck me was that feeling of true complacency when getting into my bed had never actually faded. Even with the anxiety long gone, that overwhelming feeling of comfort (and not just because of the pillow-top) stayed and was more prevalent than ever. Now, here I was standing in the shower, and it hit me all at once. I loved the routine. The habit. The structure. Getting out of the shower, brushing my teeth (sometimes in the shower . . . very underrated experience) putting on pajamas, checking the days work on the computer (writing, web work, statistics, sales, etc.), feeding the cats (which I routinely forget to do – thanks Lyss for making sure they don't die and/or rip our bedroom door off its hinges while we sleep), spraying cologne on the door so the asshole cats don't rip the door off its hinges, shutting the blinds (probably should do that before taking the towel off and putting on clothes), and jumping in bed.

It hasn't always been this way. I used to be a night owl (granted, this still happens at 1 or 2am), but things have changed, albeit slightly. Yet, when it's different, and my routine changes or disappears entirely, there is another one waiting for me. Whether its how I make my morning oatmeal, the rituals I practice before I start my car and drive to [insert place here], what I do before sitting down to work (actually at work or at this art thing I pretend to call work), it's all a routine.

Note: this all occurred to me in about 30 seconds while washing my neck and nipples. Quite a time to have an epiphany of sorts. It goes to show how we believe the mundane things are insignificant, but just how important they tend to be – if only for sanity.

For you, Lyss.

Moral of this ramble? A big, stereotypical "enjoy everything" message. Embrace all of your favorite schticks. From the big, shit-eating-grin-feeling of reaching into the cabinet, grabbing a pint glass, cracking open the bottle, pouring, admiring, and sipping the first mouthful of your nightly beer, to the relief of seeing your favorite show has DVR'd correctly and that there is, in fact, a new episode of How I Met Your Mother this week.