Losing It

I freaked out last night.

Truly, I almost completely shut down.

I stared at my five and a half week old daughter on the changing table while she screamed at the top of her lungs, kicking her legs, wrestling some imaginary rabid black bear, and all I could think about was a beach somewhere off the coast of Spain, me in a hammock, cold cava in a crystal glass condensing sweet, sweet droplets of heaven onto my hand.

Through the night, she maintained this Gitmo-style assault on our senses, reeling back and doing her best banshee impersonation. This is what babies do, I had to keep reminding myself. They deprive us of sleep and our most basic human natures! Nothing worked, however. I couldn't pull myself from the slump.

It wasn't my proudest moment. It wasn't even my second proudest moment. In fact, I felt like shit.

I spent the entire night thinking that I couldn't do it, and I had let my wife and my baby down.

I don't know if every father has a moment like this. Some, I suppose, never have any other moments, and those are the ones we hear about running out on their children, on their obligations, on their progeny.

I suppose there are other fathers out there who become despondent, reclusive, and untouchable.

Each man takes to child rearing differently, but it's no easier for some than others.

We're still dealing in children, guys. We're still bringing up baby. We're still the one without the nipples, with the facial stubble, with the dreams of throwing catch.

I freaked out last night, and it lasted a few hours. But eventually, I got over it. She stopped her torment. She stopped crying and yelling and squirming, and her eyes, teary and perfect blue, transfixed on mine. And for that moment, nothing else moved. I think she recognized my goatee and handlebar moustache, and I pictured us throwing the ball around in the back yard with our dogs, my wife sitting under the porch umbrella clapping whenever our daughter caught the ball. I saw the swings on the playground, the dresses and braids.

And, what happened last night?

It was a moment of total and utter confusion.

Gentlemen, we don't sleep. We shouldn't sleep. The mother of your child is not solely responsible for ensuring the survival of the one person who will love you uncontrollably and unconditionally because he or she is a part of you. The best part of you.

As I stood there fuming, near tears, I had to force myself to recognize that my anger is coming from a paternal instinct to care for my child. I was frustrated because I couldn't tell what was wrong, and I couldn't fix it. I was getting angry with myself because no matter what she still cried. And guess what, that's okay.

In fact, these are the emotions we should have. We should feel like our lives depend on our children's lives. That means we care enough to make sure they survive. It's when we decide we have to leave, it's when we grab our car keys and go without looking back that we allow that one part of us to die.

So, fight for frustration because you don't understand. Fight for anger for your inability to calm her down at night. Fight for these emotions because they tell you that you're caring in the right way. Constantly remind yourself that these nights are going to be one in a million, and those other 999,999 nights are going to be filled with immense joy and boundless love.

Until she turns 15...