When news gets out that Laura and I are having our fourth baby, a co-worker walks into my office to express his heartfelt congratulations:
“Triggs, you are going to end up living in a trailer.”
He isn’t alone. Old buddies who once showered me with atta–boy growls and backslapping bro hugs are now begging me to exercise some self-control. Even my health insurance card is giving me grief by leaving no blank space left in the “dependents” column.
No, it’s not a “whoops” baby. Having each grown up with many siblings, Laura and I want to recreate the big-family experience. That is our dream—and as dreamers, we don’t account for logistics.
We assume, for example, this baby will be a girl. The universe wouldn’t dare give us another male creature—the last two have more testosterone than the New Zealand rugby team. We went through two broken TVs and two dismembered Buzz Lightyears, and are currently salvaging a baby tree that had half its limbs torn off. We deserve a girl . . .
“It’s a boy!” exclaims the ultrasound nurse. Laura shrieks in horror as our newest son thrashes and punches on the TV screen. I squeeze her hand to console her while contemplating a home insurance upgrade. The only person in the room enjoying this moment is the nurse: “Ohhhh he’s going to be a lively one!”
“We’re going for another baby” Laura tells me on the way out, “Mary really needs a sister.” I respond to that comment with absolute silence.
We also forget that as Laura gets more pregnant, she’ll have a harder time playing tag with our kids in grocery store parking lots. In fact, the lifting-and-chasing boot camp regimen ultimately injures her back by the third trimester. As a stay-at-home mother, she’s in serious trouble.
I try to solve this crisis by throwing toys at it. I set up our bouncy castle so the boys can jump themselves into exhaustion—they instead fight over the power cord. I buy squirt guns to get them out of the house on hot summer days—they use them to water our living room carpet. I give each kid a bike to ride around the driveway—each one rides off in search for a new family.
Picking baby names is practically impossible: our sons and nephews used up my favorites, and Laura won’t consider any names picked within our social circle in the last 5 years. The resulting procrastination is so bad, we end up asking delivery nurses for second-opinions.
And then he arrives: Dominic Robert Triggs. Welcome, little buddy . . . and good luck.
Our biggest challenge at the hospital is sleep. We both already have a deficit: mine is from a nasty cold and an overnight ER visit with David; Laura’s is from false alarm contractions. But I have a plan. I’ll power nap from 9 pm to 1am, and then care for Dominic so Laura could sleep in.
A NyQuil overdose knocks me out until morning. I awake to Laura discussing the baby’s health with a nurse. Feeling shamefully useless, I stagger off the visitor couch like a hungover college student, and join their conversation with the most intelligent question I can think of: “So . . . how’s Dominic?” They wisely ignore me and keep talking.
When it’s time to leave, reality hits:
I can’t maintain law and order with three kids. And even when we have a break from them at the hospital, I’m still was a zombie. How can I handle a fourth child? No wonder my co-worker and friends are freaking out.
But then my angst turns into resolve:
What if I became a little more patient and vigilant, and showed a little more grit each day. Just imagine what a difference it can make. I’ll keep the children outside longer, purge the fridge and cabinets of junk food ,and cut screen time by 80%. Cleansed of these demons, our kids will fight less and laugh more. Perhaps they’ll even do chores . . . CHORES damnit!
I return home a new man, determined to unleash a shit storm of domestic bliss.
Two weeks later, our TV is on a 24-hour cycle, the floors are overrun with toys and candy wrappers, and our laundry is so scattered that we could spontaneously change outfits anywhere in the house. Family dinners consist of three full kiddie plates getting cold while their owners burglarize the fridge and cabinets for tastier options. Meanwhile, the father wanders around in a daze as the mother, who is recovering from strep on no sleep, nurses a crying baby. My quest to regain control and show everyone that we “have it together” dies a miserable death.
And that is when something strange happens: I start wondering what “having it together” even means. What exactly is the criteria behind society’s report card on parenting? Wherever I look, I cannot find a logical answer:
My Facebook feed, for instance, is a highlight reel of vacation announcements, smiling family portraits, and childhood achievement updates, only to be interrupted by please-share! articles of grape choking and car seat asphyxiation. It all feels as if our children’s lives must be perfect and will end at any second. How helpful.
I always hear the phrase “start them early” when it comes to reading, writing, and sports. But “early” as opposed to what . . . on time? When they’re ready?
Budget experts call us chumps if we can’t save money for our children’s college. HGTV calls our homes dumps if we don’t use that money to renovate their bedrooms.
Schools say our kids must study around the clock if they want to succeed. Psychiatrists predict this will cause them anxiety and depression.
This cultural parenting manual is more arbitrary and confusing than the federal tax code. Yet I’m always stumbling over myself to follow it. The reason is simple: before children, I had been hardwired to measure my hard work with results: studying for high grades, training for big races, and networking for a dream job.
Parenting, on the other hand, is all work and no results: I clean a room and the kids trash it; I discipline bad behavior and they start a riot; I teach them “please” and “thank you,” and they yell “poop” and “penis.” I grow so desperate for that sense of achievement that mowing the lawn becomes the highlight of my week. Of course I know I couldn’t have total control, but I always feel entitled to some of it.
Once Dominic arrives, I finally lose all of it . . . and what a blessing that is: with no reason to think of my goals and plans, I finally start thinking about our children. Just them and all their idiosyncrasies.
It occurs to me while I always want experiences to go as planned, my favorite memories are of the ones that don’t. I enjoy good behavior during a grocery trips, yet I feel happier thinking of the time David snuck into woman’s room and locked all toilet stalls. My ultimate sanity relies on moments that drive me insane.
The same goes for how I expect my children to grow up: Mary is so sensitive that if I glare at her, she will remind me of it months later. The resulting drama is exhausting, yet that sensitivity enables her to sense if anyone in the house is feeling sad.
David’s aggression makes me want to shoot him with a tranquilizer—it also makes him want to skate with the biggest hockey players, read countless books, and memorize (to perfection) the dance scenes from his favorite musicals.
Matthew’s supposed to be our first “calm” child—instead, he’s a human jukebox chirping an aimless stream of consciousness, which has Laura and me laughing ourselves to sleep.
It seems my preferred “story” for each child, and my hopes and plans for each experience, is replaced by something better. It only took me four children to finally grasp that.
Trigger Topics 