In roughly four months, I will be holding a small child
that I am told is mine (Christa read that line before publication and did not approve). Her name will be Elizabeth Jane, and she has a Batgirl diaper bag.
So, I’ve posted before about how I fear the future like a acrophobiac fears heights (incidentally, I fear heights, too!), and this is no different. Will I be ready? Can I be a good role model? Will she have a good life? What will her world be like with Mark Hamill never playing the part of The Joker again? These are important questions, and ones I cannot answer.
It’s not that I think I’d be a bad role model, it’s just that I don’t know what it means to be a good one. I have my dad to look back on (and while teenage me would never admit it, grown-up me knows good and damn well dad did a fine job), and I have my friends’ fathers. What did they do? How did my friends turn out?
I’m scared. I’ll admit it freely. On the one hand, I somewhat look forward to the long, sleepless nights of a baby that doesn’t know I have to go to work in mere hours. On the other hand, can I handle the stress of holding that child in my arms and not knowing if everything will be okay? Yeah, this sounds sorta depressing, but I know I cannot be the first parent-to-be to ask these questions.
I do know that this little girl will know what love is. She will know what it means to have a loving family. She will know how to read, how to write, how to speak and how to recognize just how lucky she is to have those abilities. Beyond that, I can guarantee nothing, but I want to hand the world to this child and hand the child to the world and say “Go get ’em!”
I would dare to call myself a master cynic. I see the world and see the direction it is heading, and I wonder if it is worth bringing a child into this world… and then, I set my hand on my wife’s stomach, feel a tiny kick, and realize it sure as hell is worth it.