When I was a kid, and I’d do something stupid (which happened a lot), my parents and I would always resolve it the same way: I’d break down and apologize for [insert stupid thing], mom and dad would chide me for [insert stupid thing], and we’d all share a joke and a hug. Then they’d say something I never understood. They’d tell me how much they loved me and that there was no way for me to understand what they were feeling until I had a child of my own. Of course, I was 13 or 14 then and the idea of having a child of my own was pretty creepy, much as was the idea that my parents didn’t know how they “felt” about me.
Well, now I’m old. I’m 30. I have a child. And, finally, I get it. Sophie’s adorable, and I love her to pieces, but that’s not it, that’s not what my parents were talking about when I was 13 or 14. When I look at that little girl, there’s something deep inside me that hurts, aches, tickles. It’s a visceral, quite physical reaction to something very clearly spiritual.
Sitting in a restaurant today, watching a little boy only slightly older than Sophie, playing with his mom. He was climbing all over her — and there was quite a bit to climb. He was having a grand time, but it was nothing compared to what was in her eyes. Just sitting there, like she’d been struck by magnificent lightning, wrapping him up in her arms and holding him tightly. She and I shared a look just then, and I knew everything.
Then my stomach started to hurt again, and I had to call home.
Parenting is a blast.