This Is Cory

I’ve been seeing another woman lately. Fortunately, my wife has been around too, because for as long as I can remember, I have been incapable of lactating.

I’m speaking, of course, about my daughter, Naomi, who was born on Friday, July 11, at approximately one o’clock in the morning, when my typical activity is to not be awake.

Lyndsay’s labor began early Thursday morning when she awoke to some mild contractions, and by that afternoon we were in the hospital. We have heard childbirth stories wherein women are screaming and swearing and biting off their partner’s extremities, but Lyndsay is generally reserved, and would never do anything to draw attention to herself. She carried this same attitude while giving birth to Naomi, and until the more difficult end, appeared to be only mildly uncomfortable, as though she would have felt better with some Saltines, 7-UP, and an ibuprofen.

But it was still no picnic in the park. I am sure someone has thought of this before me, but if we really want to rely on abstinence programs to impress upon our young people the importance of sexual responsibility, and if we really want to prevent teenage pregnancy, then what we need to include in our curricula are live births. And I don’t mean on video. I mean field trips to the delivery room. No young woman in her right mind would witness a child being born, and then think, “Sign me up!”

I will admit that even the thought of my child entering the world made me start to cry while we were waiting for her to appear. When it actually happened–when my daughter actually appeared in the open air–I found myself weeping with happiness that I could now hold her, that I could look her in the eyes, that I could touch her little fingers, that I could hold her close to my face, and that my wife could drink alcohol again.

But Lyndsay’s diet is not the only thing that’s changed. Rather than using our dirty clothes hamper, we transfer clothes directly to the washing machine, which is constantly running. It is full of clothes, and sheets, and things called “burp cloths,” which are pieces of military-grade protective material meant to guard the baby-carrier from projectile spit. Plus, they are so cute.

Our sleep habits have changed, albeit not drastically since Naomi is such a great sleeper. Still, newborn babies need to be fed every few hours, which means that Lyndsay is up a lot, and I am cheering her on from my pillow with encouraging phrases, such as: “Lemeknowifuneedhelpwifsumfin.”

As a first-time parent, you become concerned about every peep your child makes while she is sleeping. There is a gurgle, and then a sharp inhale, and then some type of noise that sounds like she is doing aerobics. You wonder, “Can she breathe? Is she uncomfortable?” And you find yourself peeking into her crib every few minutes to make sure she is OK. And then, when there is silence, you peek into her crib because you’re concerned that she’s not making any noise.

The amount of diaper-changing I have been participating in has majorly increased, which is not as bad as it sounds, thanks to a contraption called the Diaper Genie. The Diaper Genie is a trash-can-looking container that houses dirty diapers in a smell-proof fashion until such a time as it is full, and then you waltz away, hoping someone else will change the bag. Changing the diaper is also a special bonding time between Parent and Baby, with special bonding activities such as getting the new diaper on before Baby can emit new bodily functions.

But the most significant change in my life is that there is a whole new person to think about. Taking care of Lyndsay and myself was a fairly simple task, and the cats ask only for food and some furniture to destroy. Now a brand new human is relying on us for nourishment, shelter, comfort, and waste disposal. I suppose that, for a baby, Naomi is fairly low maintenance, and I am convinced that when she does cry, which is not often, it is not really for Baby-related reasons, but about real issues that concern her, like the environment, and the corruption of politics. I know this because of the furrowed brow she wears that says, “This is a difficult world we live in, Dad.”

And she’s right. But it’s a lot better now that she’s here.