Dear Spike:
How the little boy wound up on the top floor of my office building I’m not quite sure. He certainly wasn’t tall enough to reach any of the buttons.
In any event, when the elevator doors opened, there he was, sitting in his stroller, looking up at me.
“Well, hello there,” I said, for I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Perhaps he was a little confused, but he didn’t seem fearful at all. Maybe he understood that it had all been a mistake — that the doors would soon open and his mother would be there again.
But although I was pretty sure I knew what had happened, I didn’t know at which floor he’d gotten on, so I pushed each button and waited, floor by floor, for someone to appear.
The doors opened and closed 10 times before we all found each other.
Here’s what happened, much as I had suspected: The woman, with two young daughters and a son, perhaps 1 year old and sitting in a stroller, entered my office building from the parking garage on the bottom floor. As she pushed the boy into the elevator she turned to corral the little girls along — and that’s when he disappeared.
He only had been out of her sight for a few minutes, but it was enough for her to fear the worst. So when the elevator doors opened, bringing mother and son together again, she nearly broke into tears.
I can think of nothing in my world that, having been misplaced for five minutes, would cause the kind of anguish I saw in that woman today.
Except you.
I’ve heard that some parents stay up for weeks on end, after their baby is born, just to watch it sleep — to make sure it breathes, in and out and in and out. They worry about diseases they’ve heard of and illnesses they haven’t. They fear every noise, every tear, every hiccup.
I don’t know if I’ll be one of those kinds of parents. I have a suspicion that I might be a bit more rational, but then, what do I know? I’ve never had a child before. And, to be honest, I already worry about you constantly. I worry about how you are developing. I worry about making sure your mom gets enough food and sleep. I worry about making sure she doesn’t feel too much stress.
But I’m actually pleased to have these concerns. It’s indicative of a new kind of love of which I am learning.
It’s telling me I’m going to be a parent.
Love,
dad
3 comments:
hey spike's dad,
have been peeping into your thoughts like a "tom" and wondering how, to-be fathers, think.
and in your case with an american slant.
what i could sense under the words was, how biologically we've all been so similarly wired by the fellow upstairs.
it's wonderfully reassuring.
hey we're all the same!!!
and it's a world of that unity your child would step into.
rejoice.
"It’s telling me I’m going to be a parent."
No. It's telling you you are a parent.
I love this blog! As an expectant father, I am feeling the same things. Scary, overwhelmed and excited.
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