I'm grateful for colic and difficult teen years: they end sooner than I anticipated and once gone, I see what a gift they were.
Almost certainly, whatever you are going through now as a parent is something you will one day miss--and probably very soon.
30 years ago, just two weeks before Thanksgiving, my wife and I went to a routine OB/GYN appointment. After some basic tests, the doctor told us that the baby she was carrying--our first--needed to be induced right away, a few weeks early.
We were so very young, so untried and untested in every way. I'm not sure one is ever fully prepared for a first child, and less so for an emergency induction, but somehow, even on that curve, we were still so very green.
Our sweet baby boy--tiny, wrinkled, yellow from elevated bilirubin levels--was a miracle to us. Ultrasounds were not so routine back then, and it was not as common to know the biological sex of the child before birth, so everything was new and magical, exciting and miraculous in the most remarkable way.
The hospital stay was a bit longer than it would be with subsequent babies and I remember that time as being a very special time--there we were, a tiny family, freshly created. In many ways our family was new and fresh--and vulnerable--as that tiny infant.
We took him home, and, all of six pounds, his carrier dwarfed him. He was too small for even a small crib, so we lined and padded a baby bathtub with towels and blankets to create a soft, snug nest for him.
Caring for my wife and my new child opened new layers of meaning for me, opening the door to a new, higher plane of existence I had not fully imagined. I found connection and intimacy far greater than I had imagined could exist. This new life was--and would continue to be--much more demanding than anything I had known, but would be rewarding and fulfilling by the same degree.
It was quiet and peaceful, as if our tiny family was the only thing in the world, and nothing outside existed beyond us.
That lasted for a few days at most, however, for we had school and the term was drawing near to an end, which meant we had exams coming. And I had work, a job to which I needed to attend with more vigor than ever, as now two humans were depending on me.
Our sweet baby soon developed colic, and after a few peaceful days, his transition to this world was difficult.
By then we were playing Christmas music and the songs about a sleeping, quiet infant were in stark opposition to the reality we faced: our precious infant cried and cried, screamed and screamed in obvious distress. Nights were long and not silent, and the cradle in our house was empty since the only thing that helped was to rock our baby almost constantly.
That time is a blur to me, but I know we took shifts, each taking him until we could no longer manage to hold our heads up. We clung to that child and each other with all we had, for we--the three of us--were literally all we had.
We couldn't afford real furniture, so I fashioned a table out of a cardboard box and a blanket next to the rocking chair my parents had given us. This table held a tiny Christmas tree, bottles, formula, and the various remedies we tried--unsuccessfully--to relieve the obvious distress our boy was enduring.
This was an incredibly difficult time for us. We were overwhelmed and exhausted. When my mother-in-law came and took the baby, we slept for the first time and I remember what a feeling of luxury that was--a night of uninterrupted sleep. It was a wonderful gift, but it pointed to just how desperate we were for sleep.
The colic was so hard for our little one. It was difficult to watch his obvious discomfort, and difficult for us to endure. We were exhausted and had a screaming baby who was difficult to soothe. We were struggling with school and were incredibly poor. I worked extra shifts and took every extra hour I could, but money was scarce and didn't go nearly far enough.
We essentially disappeared from the world for 3 months--no longer going to church each week as we always had, collapsing whenever we had a moment. Work, school, staying up with the baby, work, school, staying up with the baby, work, school, staying up with the baby...
And yet, while I know these things were real, they are not what lingers in my mind. I know the difficult things happened because I can remember them in my mind if I try. I can recall the facts and circumstances, and even some of the conversations.
But it's not what first comes to mind. When I think of those times it's not the exhaustion--utter and complete though I know it was at the time. It's not the all-nighters, nor is it the stress of trying to provide for the family who was depending on me. It's not the fact that school was so overwhelming and such a blur that I can't even remember what classes I was taking then.
What do I remember? What comes to mind and heart without any effort?
I remember the lights of that tiny tree and the way it gave just enough light so that when I stayed up to rock the baby, it wasn't pitch dark. As I wrapped him in a blanket, I was wrapped in a soft, gentle light.
I remember humming and singing, holding that tiny body, trying to soothe him, but focusing on trying to will the powerful love welling in my heart to infuse each word and note, trying to make sure that his first consciousness would include a sense of love and safety. In doing that, I found that my heart had new levels and layers, a gushing abundance of love and selfless care that had sprung up out of nowhere. I remember the powerful layers of meaning that familiar carols suddenly had for me.
I remember the warmth of our bedroom, the soothing sound of the heater blowing warm air through the long nights. I remember--and sometimes ache for--the feel of that new little human on my chest, this life that was totally dependent on me, who helped me live for so much more than myself.
I remember a new sense of union and communion with my wife, who had wrought this miracle for us, the incredible woman who had brought this life into the world, who was now a mother, and who had given me the life-altering gift of being a father.
We now had something in common, something that united us, something that was now the most important priority for both of us. No matter what we disagreed and differed on, no matter the trials and vicissitudes we faced, things had changed in a significant way. We shared something profound and unique. Now, with time, I see that I was correct, but had no idea just how important this would be. Looking back, I see all the wonderful ways this would bind and link our hearts, minds, and souls together, the way this would define our lives.
Those weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas are imprinted in my memory, me with that baby and the amazing woman I shared this with.
In my experience there is a reminder that I try to keep in mind, a lesson I hope might benefit others as well.
Parenting is hard. And, as those babies get older, the problems get bigger. A few months of colic are simple and easy compared to what is involved in parenting teens during this moment.
We struggle through the teen years, enduring not only our child's adolescence with all that brings but carrying our own memories of those years as well. There is plenty to worry about, plenty to fear, plenty about which we can brood.
But that baby is now a man with babies of his own, as is the child that came next. The child that followed them both is also an adult, living a productive and useful life, bringing light and love to many vulnerable people on a daily basis. The next child is becoming an adult, moving from being a young man to simply being a man, his adult self unfurling like a flag more and more each day.
I still have one at home, one whose teen years are rushing past. The other day, I swear, I was talking about what to expect during puberty with a freckled, chubby-cheeked child. Now, I am asking this massive man to help carry things that are too heavy for me. I see each day more glimpses of who he is becoming—and see that process accelerate.
Is it vexing sometimes? Do I wonder why he can’t think more clearly before acting? Do I wish he’d take any number of things more seriously? Do I wish he would listen better to the parents who love him? Will I weep when he graduates in 18 months? Will I soon remember today and yearn with all my heart to go back to this time when he was near and present in my life and my home?
Yes, yes, and yes—undoubtedly.
Parenting will always have trials. Today will always be full of ups and downs, ambivalence, sleepless nights, stresses, worries, and fears. To parent is to be keenly vulnerable to new and ever-growing, ever-multiplying stressors.
But, the thing I have learned is this: at some point, no matter what is happening, I will look back and remember it fondly. At some point, I will yearn to have that child back in my home, living under my roof. At some point, even the most difficult patches of parenting will take on a gentle, golden glow--like the lights on that tiny tree so many years ago--and what I will remember, and even yearn for, is the joyful reality of connection, of love, and communion.
It is for this reason that I find gratitude to be such a gift. In pausing to be grateful, I am better able to enjoy the present, better able to enjoy and savor in the moment the things I will one day remember fondly. Gratitude allows me to love and connect more fully now, stocking up more fully for tomorrow the memories I will live with for the rest of my life. Gratitude is like a pair of brakes that allow me to slow down and savor the moments I will one day relive over and over in my mind.
Gratitude reminds me of this simple, but powerful truth: you’re going to miss this! It helps me be more fully grateful for and present today, because, almost certainly, time will make valuable the moments I am tempted to wish away.
Even struggles will one day be transmuted to gold through the alchemy of time and perspective, and most of all, the reality that children do not stay young forever. Colic fades and sleep returns—but when the colic ends, so do the long nights of holding that baby closely. Adolescence ends, and with it, so does the intense connection and engagement that come with raising a teen.
Happy parenting—and even when it’s not happy, it’s still meaningful and should be cherished—you’ve got this!
Sincerely,
Braden
This is so beautifully written, Braden! My oldest son was born Dec. 4, and yes, having a baby boy during the Christmas season is an incredible thing. (Our first Christmas wasn't peaceful either!)