Death By Parenthood

A handful of years ago, I was in Peru, about to partake in some shamanic ceremonies involving a powerful vision plant. I was there with a friend who expressed interest in experiencing one of the ceremonies. During the course of our stay leading up to the ceremony, I spent 2-3 hours answering her questions, explaining what to expect, and what a ceremony "might" be like.

My friend had a very powerful, very mind-blowing experience, and afterwards, she said to me with a look of hurt, confusion, and a little bit if anger on her face, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Some things are so powerful it is impossible to describe to another being. One has to simply go through the fire of the experience to understand what it is about. This is how I imagine parenthood to be. One friend described it as "obliterating." Though I haven't yet been a parent myself, when she said that word, I could so feel the truth in it that I laughed. 

I watch Jenn's belly growing daily as she walks around in our new world. (And yes, she is still walking, as opposed to locomoting via the pregnant woman's waddle.) I find myself performing a series of intellectual exercises in an attempt to understand what I am about to experience and try to prepare for our little one's arrival. Honestly, I don't have a fucking clue what it will be like to be a father. I have held a baby in my arms cumulatively for all of 20 minutes. I know that my life is about to change, and the person I am is about to be transformed ... if not out-and-out buried. It feels like some sort of pre-birth funeral is in order.

All change seems to include a symbolic death, followed by transformation and, lastly, a Phoenix-like resurrection -- the requisite, metaphorical Victory over Death. In order to transform, one has to die. This transformation often involves some sort of trial--a boy is abandoned out in the wilderness and comes back a man; a Russian shaman submerges himself under icy waters for an impossible period of time; Native Americans go out on vision quests without water or food. I met a man who went through a rite of passage while living with an Africa tribe. He was staked down to an ant hill, covered in honey, and left there for hours.  To know this man is to know he was telling the truth. He was told by the tribesmen that if he didn't move, it wouldn't hurt. "It hurt," he said.

In the case of the author, my first rite of passage took place at the age of thirteen during an extremely Reformed Judaic Bar Mitzvah. Thankfully, I had the world's shortest Torah portion to memorize. I went through with it mainly at my parent's insistance, but also to rake in enough dough for a trip to Europe. It couldn't have felt less like entering manhood unless I had been wearing a tutu.

Earlier in my life, I witnessed a number of friends partnering up, having kids, transforming. With each one, I had a profound sense of loss and grief.  I wanted my friend back, but after childbirth their priorities--in fact, their very personalities--seem to change so dramatically that I barely recognize them. I took it all very personally, and felt abandoned, like a child dumped on the side of the highway. (Authors note: Fortunately, my childhood was so emotionally fulfilling--full of support and encouragement and love, that I am 100% sure that my reaction had nothing to do with my own tender years growing up. None. Zippo. Nadda ... Okay, maybe a little.)

So now I am about to become that, whatever that is. Here's what I imagine: Jenn and I will bring into the world a being who is going to take the man I thought I was and twist it into a pretzel. I will witness my best, most tender qualities, as well as the parts of myself that make me cringe broadcast across Time's Squarea for the entire planet to scoff at. I will learn what it's like to want to strangle the being I love most on the planet, and to have my heart broken again and again.

When Jenn and I first discussed whether or not we should have a baby, I struggled. At the time, I was faced with the decision to either give up the woman I loved--to somehow un-ring the bell and try to go back to the life I once lead--or to say "yes" to the idea of fatherhood, a concept which I had given up five years earlier.

I prayed for clarity.

What came to me was this: To say yes because being a father will teach me whole new levels of loving. In that way, becoming a parent is a profoundly selfish act.  I want to create even more room in my heart for love to overflow.  It scares the shit out of me.