I've Childproofed the House, but They're STILL Getting In

As I sit staring, dazed, at the blinking cursor before me, it is a battle to even remain upright. Sore, stiff joints, eyes glazed, so worn-out from the sleep deprivation that I simply cannot sleep by natural means, the only sound I hear is the computer’s cooling fan. My ears strain through the deafening silence. It’s coming, I just know. . . Any second, now. . .

The logical observer would examine the symptoms; pain about all the extremities, sleeplessness, paranoia, the claim that I can actually feel my hair growing, and realize that one of two possible scenarios has played out recently. They would say something like, “Since copious amounts of alcohol weren’t involved, we can rule out the subject’s renewed attempt at an advanced Physics degree, so there can be only one unequivocal rational: Congratulations!”

Yes, for the fourth time, now, we have experienced the wonders of childbirth, from the days of ridiculously horrid hospital food to the bountiful supply of pain medication. Our lovely little daughter was born via cesarean section, a gruesomely interesting procedure whereby the doctor removes the baby by placing the entire contents of the abdomen on the woman’s chest. Of course, the mother is awake during the surgery, though under the effect of a spinal block, allowing her to feel nothing but the pressure of the doctor’s hands as he/she operates. That is, at least, what I was told. Judging from my wife’s constantly changing expressions, however, it was probably a good thing her arms were tied down.

Gory details aside, though, the procedure went very well, and soon we were being kept awake in the wee hours of the night by the hospital’s nursing staff who had the impeccable sense to come in to check on my wife every time the baby fell asleep. Three days of this, combined with meals of starch and bulk carbohydrates, and a ‘father’s foldaway bed’ that was as comfortable as the average bunk of plywood had me longing for the scarce few minutes I would be able to spend in my own bed upon returning home.

It is, at this point, time I set the record straight on a few things. While I find waking up every few hours through the night a tad annoying, I do not, for a minute, think I am ‘too old for this’. As my one-child or no-child friends will, no doubt, find it in their hearts to tell me, we do know what causes children and, yes, I am aware that contraceptive agents have been around for a few centuries. People think it’s wonderful that you have children, but tell them you have more than two and they look at you like you’re the latest circus freak. It’s a puzzlement to them how or why anyone can care for such a family, when they, themselves probably came from a group of three or more sibs. Let me tell you all a tiny little secret. . . Once you’ve had two, any other additions don’t seem like that much trouble at all.

Babies are a smart lot, though. They know from the outset just who is in charge of your particular situation. They scream, you come and feed them. They cry, you run to change their nappies. It continues on through early childhood. My oldest daughter could con just about anyone into doing her bidding with the ‘puppy dog eyes’ routine. Couple that with the fact that she can just about figure out any mechanical item you place in front of her, and we have the makings of an evil genius, all by the age of six. Sure, they’re sweet and loving when you’re around, but turn your back for a minute and you suddenly have a particle accelerator humming in your basement, ready to turn your neighborhood to glowing powder at the flip of a switch.

To stave off the holocaust that could ensue at any moment, I try to keep them busy. My oldest son and daughter like to putter around with me in the shop for short bits at a time, and as the others catch up there will be more for us to explore and create. Little things I learned many years ago are so interesting again because, in their eyes, it’s all brand new. No, I’m not too old for this; I’m too enthralled to want it to stop.

Welcome home, little Sabrina.