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I don't know what the worst night of my life was but whenever I wonder when that was the very first thought that comes to mind is when my girlfriend miscarried. We'd only been dating a bit over a year at that point so weren't planning on having children together, or even getting married; we weren't even living together since I was working on Jeju Island while she was still in Seoul and we only saw each other on the weekends. But one Tuesday she called to say she'd taken two home pregnancy tests and both said LOLOLOLOL GOING TO BE A DADDY LOLOLOLOLOL; and my response, for the first time in my life, was: Not the worst thing I've heard today! That Friday I picked her up at the airport and we went to dinner where we basically had our first date all over again, since that's how it felt being together for the first time as expectant parents. The following morning we went to the doctor's and got confirmation that the baby thing was real and then spent the rest of the day in a waking dream, simultaneously pondering the family life that awaited and settling into it immediately.
That very night, however, she miscarried. She'd gone into the bathroom with a pain in her stomach and came out scared and unsure of what happened, but we both knew. And even though we both knew we still lied in bed together pretending it hadn't while waiting for the morning light so we could return to the doctor's for a second straight day of good news. But the waiting: the waiting was torturous. I tried to fall asleep to make the hours pass quicker, but I just lied there feeling like shit listening to both my own thoughts and my girlfriend's quiet sobs. My own thoughts oscillated between accepting what I already knew and then kicking myself for having given up hope and then back to being pragmatic about what's real and what's not and then the self-flagellation again because it felt like my child died and I didn't fight, at all. My girlfriend, meanwhile, continued to sob, and in the morning we went to the doctor and he told us what we already knew.
The aftermath was obviously difficult since, like I mentioned, it felt like we lost a child. Independent of what you think about abortion - the onset of personhood, medical viability, and all the other parameters of that debate - there is another dimension to pregnancy that factors into your emotional vulnerability, and that is whether or not you welcome it and have begun taking for granted that your little bean is going to sprout. At that point a child is born into your imagination and might as well be real. We'd obviously planned to see this thing through, and even decided to get married because of it, so to suddenly have this little person we could see so clearly with our heart's eye even though we had no idea what she looked like, to have that little person suddenly taken away felt like something had been amputated.
We mourned in different ways. My girlfriend felt the loss more acutely and carried an air of somberness with her the next few months. My pain was more philosophical, as the miscarriage forced me to contemplate loads of uncomfortable questions about the nature of existence and randomness and how to either assign or extract meaning from any of this. What I settled on was that the child we lost, painful as it is to say, wasn't the one; that one day we'd have a child we wouldn't have had this pregnancy worked out; and when the child was born it would become impossible to imagine the alternative where our first pregnancy was a success and this one never happened. I'm glad I found that thought convincing because we tried, with varying degrees of intensity, to conceive the next three years, but nothing. At first it was no big deal since we weren't married yet and then just married and in no hurry to abandon our honeymoon, but after a couple years of letting them fly with no success a fear began to loom. We were at a crossroads then - looking back toward the miscarriage and imagining what life would be like with that child; looking forward to the other child we desperately anticipated - and it became ever more difficult to soothe the loss and regret with the comfort of a future promise. But we continued to cope, and then one day:
I'm relieved to report from the other side that I was correct, that Eden immediately swept away all the anxiety, fear, and pain that preceded him; and everything that built upon his arrival is a crucible I'd gladly endure again. I occasionally ponder the thousands of little things that could have gone differently, leaving us with someone other than Eden, and they all make me shudder. Yes, we would've loved whoever dropped out of that birth canal just as much; and it feels sociopathic to think, in essence, that we prefer Eden to the child my wife miscarried; but the feelings I have toward my son far outweigh the discomfort of any difficult paradoxes here. I've never loved anything more.
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It is absolutely disorienting to ponder all the decisions and events that led to this specific child being born. Had I or my wife done a single thing differently, then no Eden. Had my parents done a single thing differently prior to my conception, then no Eden. Had my wife's parents done a single thing differently prior to her conception, then no Eden. So on and so on ad adsurdum. Less ridiculously, I'll look at Eden and immediately think about the night I met his mother and dwell on on the innocence of my first hello, how I had no idea that would set off the chain of events that led to this child. From there it's right back to the hypotheticals: What if I hadn't gone to that party? What if she hadn't gone to that party? What if either of us hadn't randomly joined an ultimate frisbee league - a sport neither of us played before or since - since that was the reason for this party? What if she had liked the guy who commandeered her attention all night and decided to go out with him instead? What if he hadn't commandeered her attention all night, effectively preventing someone else from wooing her that night? What if I hadn't hosted my own BBQ the following week and had nothing to invite her to? What if I didn't look so good? And so on and so on ad adsurdum.
Each line of similar inquiry leads quickly down just as deep of a rabbit hole. What about before I'd ever met my wife? What if the relationship I had just before hers worked out? What if it worked out a little shorter or a little longer, the timing of which led to meeting someone else I'd eventually marry instead? What about the relationship five years prior? What if I had a bit more ambition and left Korea after two years like a responsible adult should? What if I'd been more proactive about the job search in Portland so never applied to a school in Korea? What if I studied math instead of English? What about all the similar parallel decisions in my wife's life? And so on and so on ad absurdum. Speaking of absurdities, the what if's also extend to the absolutely ridiculous. Masturbation, for example. I'm not sure if I did or didn't on the day Eden was conceived, but if I did then what if I hadn't? And if I hadn't, what if I did?
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Along those threads of serendipity, my son was also born my Holy Redeemer, since his birth transmogrified every good decision and every bad decision I'd ever made up to that point into the correct decision. Don't really care about the night I spent in jail now since if the police hadn't carted me off I would have either (1) gotten three ladies preggo that night, smooth talker that I was, and effectively confined myself to a lifetime of Ypsilanti, Michigan; or (2) gotten into a fight with a much larger man and ended up mostly dead. If any former regrets pop in my head I now dismiss them as a blessing in disguise, since if things had gone better for me then I wouldn't have Eden now.
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Eden's name has no special meaning aside from we like it and it's an English-sounding name pronounced the same in Korean, which was probably my number one concern. Korean pronunciation turns English names like Jeremy into Jay-ray-me, Michael into My-ee-kul, Andrew into An-duh-roo, Kristin into Kuh-rih-suh-tun, and Your Mom into Yo' Mom. Eden, however, is pronounced Eden, and if he decides when he is older than he is actually a woman then her name will still be Eden.
The little homie has two middle names: Lennard and Elago. Lennard is from my Great Grandma Lenna. Had Eden been born a week earlier it probably would have been spelled Leonard just because I'd only considered the name aurally, and of course that's how you'd spell it. Wasn't until I was taking a shower two days before he was born that the more appropriate IKEA spelling occurred to me. Elago is an Owambo name from Namibia and means lucky. It was bestowed by my old kuku there, though I'm still not convinced she actually did the naming. I had sent message through her daughter asking for a name, and her daughter, named Nelago, responded with Elago. Elago is the male version of Nelago, so we'll just assume she didn't pull a fast one on me even though half the comments I've ever received while in Namibia were along the lines of: "Name your firstborn after me."
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I look at Eden and am so relieved for his sake that he ended up with us as parents. There are probably better parents out there, but you look around at all the shitty things that happen to children - abuse, hunger, negligence, abandonment, trafficking, child labor, and even simple disinterest - and he's managed to avoid all of that. He instead has two parents who wake up five times each every night to tuck him back in after he's kicked his blanket off.
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I can't believe how paranoid I've become. Before you could have told me the house I'm sleeping in was on fire and I would've rolled over and gone back to sleep since that's the fireman's job to care, but now an impossible thought flickers through my mind and no way I can't not investigate. That's fine when it comes to normal parenting concerns like SIDS, as I'm not the only person who has dashed into his child's room 15 times an hour to make sure everyone's still breathing; but some of the scenarios that run through my imagination are straight loco, yet still have to make sure. The silliest of these was while my wife and Eden were staying in the post-natal spa the few weeks after Eden was born. I was sleeping over there as well, and one night around 3 am I started thinking about North Korean ninjas kidnapping newborns to sell into Chinese slavery. Ridiculous thought, obviously, yet the longer I lied awake the longer it seemed more plausible: we were in a newer development still under construction on the outskirts of town, so not much police presence; and security there was a locked glass door, beyond that three, possibly four 60-year-old women manning the nursery; and my child was especially cute so would probably command 10 times the normal asking price. Definitely leaped out of bed and speedwalked my ass over to the nursery half expecting to walk in on a real life ninja the exact moment he was lifting my boy out of his bassinet. Found an old woman passed out in a chair instead, snoring. Whatever, I think it was entirely reasonable to move my family from a tenth floor apartment to one on the first. I've listened to Tears in Heaven and know how that story ends. Two years into fatherhood and no one seems to care when I tell them I'm a better dad than Eric Clapton.
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I never want my child to be sad, but I also kind of like when he cries because it gives me a chance to hold and comfort him. My favorite is when he wakes in the middle of the night and I rush into his room, pick him up, tell him Papa's here, then he drops his head on my shoulder and drifts right back to sleep.
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A common answer when you ask expecting parents if they want a boy or girl is they don't care, they just hope their baby is healthy. Not me: I wanted my child to be cuter than all the others. I'm also glad he's healthy, but first thing's first.
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Everything's a gamble with your child. If you're strict with your children they'll resent you for not allowing them their space to learn and grow; but if you're hands off, they'll resent you for failing to provide discipline and structure. At Eden's age right now I'm either the worst dad ever if I don't let him drop his finger into his doo-filled diaper, but I'm also the worst dad ever if I do let him. This game has no rules and too many rules at the same time.
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I've had a dull pain in my heart ever since Eden was born and can't tell if it's from the constant fear something bad might happen to him or trying to cram all this love into a space built for much less emotion. Probably both.
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My biggest fear during my wife's pregnancy was that I was going to be a miserable, disinterested father. I went to all the doctor's appointments and made the right noises when anyone asked me about it, but was otherwise just a nine-month-long string of days with a larger than normal deadline looming, which worried me since I assumed the way I felt then was the way I'd feel forever. But then Eden was suddenly a real boy and I was a real father, emotions and all. Maybe I was just saving them for when they were truly needed.
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In Korean preggo class the dad is told to choose a song to sing to his unborn baby every night and again while bathing his newborn child just after parturition, the idea being that the baby will recognize the song and consequently recognize its father as well. I didn't sing shit to my wife's belly during the pregnancy but I did plan to sing to Eden during his initial bath, if only because I expected a stern marm of a nurse glaring at me if I didn't. The song I planned to go with was Amazing Grace, but when the moment came I started singing This Little Light of Mine instead. Tempo was set to halting since tears kept catching at the back of my throat.
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Almost got myself killed when my wife was four months pregnant. I was riding my motorcycle to a basketball game. Sped off at a green light and started to drift into the left lane. I'm usually religious about checking my mirrors, but I also generally get a large jump on the other traffic at lights so assumed no one was near me. No honk, no nothing, just a flash of black at the very edge of my peripheral vision the split second I crossed the white line. I leaned right just in time to feel a BMW race past, still accelerating. He kept going but I pulled over to hyperventilate a solid five minutes while thinking about my unborn son. I still think about that moment while watching him play with his blocks or go down a slide. I also still think about that moment while on my motorcycle calculating if it's worth it to pass this slow ass truck on the right. It's generally not.
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I feel a primitive joy whenever Eden mows through a waffle I made for him, probably because even the cavemen used waffle makers.
The great accomplishment of my life is that I'm the only person who can get Eden to sleep quickly. Not sure how or why, but my wife can't and I can, so even if I didn't feed him, dress him, change his diaper, or push him out of the way of a speeding bus that day; or even if I did all of those; it's still my exclusive responsibility to put his ass to bed every night. A blessing and a curse, certainly, since there are some nights I say to my wife - though not out loud - "Why can't you do it for once?!?!?!?" But then I look at him as he drifts off to sleep and think about how fortunate I am for these few moments, and that every other bond seems to be tilted toward his mama but this one is mine.
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Eden is a human Explosions in the Sky song.
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All the juxtaposed thoughts in a parent's head has made me slightly more wise than I was just over two years ago. It's fascinating to me the way I can go from wanting nothing more than to drop him off at nursery school so I can have a few hours to myself to feeling lonely on the walk home without him. Or how an hour of constant crying has me ready to murder at least 12 people and 20 minutes later he's asleep and I'm staring down at him with reservoirs of fresh love. Or how stressful it was that he wasn't walking yet to how stressful it was when he started walking and we had to monitor him all the more diligently. Or how I can't wait to see what he's like 20 years from now but want these moments to slow the fugg down. There's no middle ground between these feelings so only thing to do is grab onto both at once and hope they don't rip you apart.
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Eden's laugh is a crack rock. The dumb things I do just to hear it at random times of the day or to hear it again after he's stopped.
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I still can't believe this person is my son and probably never will. My capacity to wonder has waned as I've grown older but it returns with childlike vigor whenever I look at Eden and think about how ugly testicles are yet that's where this perfect little homie got his start.
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And that's all I have to say about fatherhood.
