The Daddy Diaries: Stretch Marks

It's somewhere past midnight, and Gregory lays in my lap, working hard on a bottle of milk.

His blueish-gray eyes lock with mine while I gently stroke his wispy brown hair. It has been two months now since my wife went back to work and I have taken on the role of a stay-at-home dad. And while I'm thankful for this opportunity and I know these days are a gift, it hasn't come without some pain—or some "stretch marks," you might say. 

Let's be honest: babies are disruptive. More than that, they are demanding, selfish, inconsiderate, messy, irritable, unreasonable and often act just like, well, just like babies!

I'm a guy who likes to be productive, and I feel good about myself when I get all my "to-do" list checked off each day. But the needs of a baby are relentless, and it's hard not to feel resentful when I get to the end of a day and the garage is still a mess, I didn't exercise again, and there's absolutely nothing prepared for dinner. 

Last week I was stretched to the point that I resorted to calling my wife at work, asking if she could come home early, which she kindly did. But after the call ended I was so upset with myself that I slammed my cell phone down on the kitchen floor and busted it up pretty good. "I dropped it," I lied when the guy at the Verizon store looked at the phone and asked what happened. "You dropped it?" he echoed with a look and a tone that hinted he knew the truth. I have a new phone now, but I keep the broken one on my desk to remind me that I'm a man still in need of grace.

There are days when I'm really not sure I'll make it. More than once I have browsed the job listings on Craigslist, convinced we made a mistake by having my wife be the one who went back to work. Gregory comes crashing into my ordered world with all his tears and dirty diapers and rashes and late night feedings, and he's knocking down my house of cards and disrupting things inside me. 

And yet, somehow, I know this is a good thing. I've noticed a tendency in me that when life is uncomfortable or hard, I try to find a quick escape and perhaps "short-circuit" the growth process. And I suspect that is the real issue here.

When I stop and consider why I get angry, I know it's not the fault of my son; he's just a baby. I'm angry not because of Gregory, but rather—truth be told—I'm angry because I'm selfish and irritable and demanding and messy too. Caring for a baby brings the junk of my heart to the surface and confronts me with the embarrassing fact that, in many ways, I still need to grow up. As much as I'm here to help my son grow, so it seems he is here to help me too.

The bottle is not quite empty, but his eyes are closed and he is fast asleep. In a minute I'll get up quietly and lay him back in his crib. But not just yet.

Love is a funny thing. At this moment, as he rests so peacefully in my arms, any resentment melts away, and the things on my "to do" list seem so small in comparison to the love I have for my son. Yes, having a baby is disruptive, but this is a needed disruption, a welcome irritation, a beautiful mess. This little guy is stretching my heart.