Routine

A year ago Jamie and I were attending Lamaze classes in preparation for the birth of Ada. We were inundated with pregnancy and parenting advice from doctors, nurse practitioners, doulas, midwives, the internet, moms, grandmas, the president, the president's wife, and random co-op food shoppers. I learned quickly that breast milk is like 1000x better than formula, that breastfeeding is beautiful and allowed in public, that sleep deprivation is inevitable, that babies recquire a lot of skin-to-skin contact, and that "co-sleeping" is about as bad as murder.

When the early spring sun began to melt winter's ice into rivulets of brown, caustic water, I had become (at least so I thought) well-acquainted with the trials of parenthood. My diaper-changing technique was refined in regards to speed and minimal spillage. Bathing procedures were written down and mentally rehearsed--I knew to start at the head, gently wash the eyes, and work my way down  to the toes, making sure to practice my child-is-wet-and-extremely-slippery grip. So, sure, I was prepared to live, eat, breath, and bath in BABY. Therefore it comes as no surprise that nearly nine months in, I'm about to lose my mind. 

For what I wasn't prepared for and what everyone failed to mention was the power of The Routine (capitalized, friends). As hard as it is for me to believe, there was once a time in my life where I loved an old-fashioned schedule. I worked early. I read during breakfast. I exercised prior to work, accomplished my job, went to class, and studied into the late evening. On those rare days where I felt like "cutting loose", I met a friend at a bar for a drink or two. For many of you, schedules can be restricting. However, for me, I came to view my routine as protection against my natural proclivity towards procrastination.  Free-thinkers and anarchists be damned. I loved my planner! 

At least so I thought...

Because as much as I gushed about and received "energy" from my stead-fast habits and patterns of life, it was a rather selfish endeavor. For if I'm honest with myself, what I liked about MY routine, MY schedule, and MY planner, was that they were all MINE. I controlled them. I maniuplated or changed my day-to-day or week-to-week goals. I was rarely reliant upon the needs of friends or others around me. Jamie had some influence, but seeing as I had "responsbilities" at work and school, it was difficult for her to influence my life rhythms. 

Then Ada came. 

And now I don't even shower. I have to scrounge time to brew a cup of tea or butter some bread. Lunch is a battle and I'm often eating luke-warm leftovers out of a microwave. Exercise!? Ha. Self-preservation!? Give me a break. From sun-up to sun-down Ada dictates my routine. Even calling it "my routine" is a stretch--it's really Ada's routine. Period. My only role is to make sure she stays on schedule with naps, feedings, play dates, and diaper changes. If she's unhappy, my day is flooded with the ear-piercing screams of a person who can't express herself. She is all raw emotion. There is no such thing as interal self-control. In thirty seconds flat, Ada goes from having the type of fits only a Priest of Exorcism can appease, to smiling and giggling at her stuffed yellow elephant. 

She is like a child queen, ruling her court upon the whims of pleasure and want. I am her jester, her servant. She laughs at my plight and how pliant I am to her EVERY SINGLE NEED. 

I'm ensconed in the irresistably cute, but emotionally maddeing world of a nine-month old. All I can do is hold on and ensure that she gets her favorite squash soup at 11:30 sharp and that she has at least 15 minutes prior to breakfast to chew on her plush turtle. The world around me moves on. Friends get promoted, sample the latest beer, and attend music concerts. I'm left behind, like a manufacturing robot: my greatest worth is ensuring that the process is maintained and that Ada keeps on moving safetly down the child-development assebmly line. For someone with grand ideas about my career and "life calling," it's extremely difficult to feel so insignificant in the global community. 

I try to ensure myself that what I'm doing is "the most important job in the world," but there are days when this simplistic platitude is as heart-felt as a forced "thank-you" at Christmas. The Routine is the same each and every day. I now understand why there are parents' social groups, because, quite frankly, The Routine does not encourage a restless mind to think or reflect. And to be honest, I feel bored many days. As I sit, waiting for her to wake from her afternoon nap, I'm mentally prepping for the flurry of activity that will ensue: changings, bottles, baths, books, etc. And today feels much like yesterday. And yesterday is like tomorrow. And tomorrow is one more day off the calendar. 

I don't really know what the point of this post is. I'm not trying to complain, really. I'm just coming to the realization that parenting should not be an individual endeavor. It is best done in the community of other parents. And I'm hoping that at the start of the new year, I can begin to find calm and peace within the schedule of Ada. For the first time in my life, I'm really understanding what it means to sacrifice in the service of others. And I quite like it. It's a struggle, but one that is deeply enriching. Ada is making me a better husband, better father, and hopefully a deeper, more holistic thinker! 

Now if only I can figure out a way to get her to crawl....