What It’s Like to Be a New Parent

Are you a new parent? If so, I want to give you the real about what that felt like for me—a dad. But be warned! This ain’t the made-for-facebook version, meticulously crafted to present the most positive, look-at-how-great-my-life-is, you-really-should-be-a-little-bit-jealous-of-us-right-now take on how things went. This is the I-just-saw-something-both-remarkable-and-weird-and-now-I-feel-joyous-and-tired-and-relieved-and-scared version. This is how things really went. Spoiler alert: television, movies, music, and social media don’t necessarily convey that reality—certainly not for everyone. Definitely not for me.

When my wife told me she was pregnant with our first child, I gave her a high five! There were some brief moments throughout the pregnancy (mostly while sitting at a restaurant) where I thought, “Whoa, are we ready for this?” and, “Am I ready for this?” and, “Things are about to change,” but, by and large, I was feeling pretty good.

Even the day my wife went into labor, I was a pretty cool customer. There was no panic. There was no rushing around. There was no freaking out. She started contractions around 4 am, and by 6:30 am, we were at the hospital. After my wife settled in, she actually sent me out to get lunch. She couldn’t eat, of course, but she insisted I get some lunch. For all of you giving me the side eye right now, hold your horses! I would have stayed with her the whole time, but she wouldn’t allow it. According to her, she needed me well fed because I’m “no good to anyone when I’m hungry.”

Did it feel weird to leave in the middle of labor? It did. Were we assured that the actual pushing wouldn’t start for a few hours? We were. Am I a disaster if I don’t eat? I most certainly am. So, I went and got food. When I came back, we were still about four hours away from showtime, and five hours away from welcoming a new addition to the family. I was good—until the delivery process started. My wife tells me while women grapple with their parenthood the moment they find out they’re pregnant, and all throughout the pregnancy, men don’t really get there until the baby hits the scene.

When it comes to medical things, I’m not really squeamish. I’m a look-at-the-needle-when-I-get-a-shot, avoid-general-anesthesia-at-all-costs kind of guy. Standing there in the delivery room, holding one of my wife’s legs, watching the birth of my son, was surreal. I had never seen anything get…birthed. Wait, does watching Billy Crystal in City Slickers deliver that calf count? No? That’s what I thought.

“Hey, come here,” the doctor said. “That’s the head right there,” she pointed. So crazy!

Then, seemingly out of nowhere (and a lot of pushing!), our son was just…there. I cut the umbilical cord, and he was quickly whisked away for his first photo opp, some measurements, and a little cleaning. I snapped a few pics, then followed him over to my wife where he would enjoy the oft talked about skin-to-skin time. It felt like there were ten people in the room doing stuff to make sure our baby was in good shape. In reality, there were probably, like, three or four. One of those three or four turned to me and said, “Do you want to go stand by your wife and the baby? I can take a picture.” I looked at her, handed over my camera, and said, “Sure.”

The resulting pics were those that would probably get posted to Facebook with a caption like, “Our new addition. Mom and baby are doing great. We’re so in love.” I never posted that. Why? ‘Cause it wasn’t the real—at least not in that moment. If you look closely at those pictures, you’ll see a glistening layer of sweat on my brow.

This is the sweat of a man that just started panic mode. Thoughts were rushing through my head.

“What just happened?”

“What do I do now?”

“Can I handle this?”

“Who is this little person?”

“Why do I feel anxious?”

“Is that normal?”

“Is my wife okay?”

“Is the baby okay?”

“Is there supposed to be that much blood on the floor?”

“How do they clean that up?”

“Who cleans it?”

“Seriously, is it normal to be anxious?”

“At least these nurses are here to take care of our little guy and walk us through stuff.”

Then, just like that, the nurses left. They showed us a thing or two about swaddling or something (I don’t really remember), and said, “Congratulations! We’re going to let you all have some time with your new family.” At that moment, I remember thinking, “WHAT?! You can’t leave! You’re the only ones that know what they’re doing here!!!” Intellectually, I was happy. Emotionally, I was freaking out. When my parents came by a little later to drop off dinner, I conveyed as much. I tried to put on a brave face in front of my wife, but I failed. She knew my mind was racing. She could tell I was freaking out. What can I say, I wear my emotions on my sleeve!

The birth of my son was an incredible event, for sure. Far different from anything I’d ever experienced before—surreal, and wonderful, and jarring, all once. Seemingly in an instant, my wife and I went from being DINKS (dual-income, no kids) to being parents. We went from dining out five to seven times a week (including the night before), to being unsure when we’d find time to eat (at least for the first few weeks). We went from getting a full night’s sleep, to needing to wake up every three hours (or was it two?) for feedings. Our lives changed dramatically. But all those things are surface-level, superficial changes when I think about them. They were byproducts; after-effects. The deeper change—the one that got me riled up—was bigger than all that. It concerned my identity.

Never had I had an experience that so swiftly, and so fully changed who I was on a metaphysical level. You might say, “Duh, Greg, you became a parent.” The thing is, that’s just a title. It wasn’t until recently that I was able to conceptualize what that means, and why it’s such a big deal. It’s not just about what I call myself: husband vs. husband and parent. It’s about what my focus is on, what my responsibilities are, and what my driving force is now that I am a parent. Before my son was born, my main goals were self-focused. I was responsible for myself. I came first. After my son was born, my goals became other-focused. I (along with my wife) are responsible for him. He comes first (at least while he’s so young). The day he was born was the day my wants and needs had to be put on hold. Five hours earlier, my wife had sent me to take care of myself by insisting I eat lunch. In a matter of moments, that changed. The weight and quickness of that change is, no doubt, what hit me so strongly. What’s more, it wasn’t a change brought on by the gradual accumulation of skill, or ability, or experience. It was a change brought on by a singular event with no concern for my capacity.

As my new identity played out over the next six to twelve months, it was a struggle. As a dad, I felt helpless at times. As a newborn and infant, my son wanted his mom. She provided the comfort. She provided the food. While I was trying to make sense of this new identity of mine, biology kept me at bay. It’s a strange place to be. On the one hand, things had quite obviously changed. On the other hand, the person that changed things—the cause of my new role—wasn’t ready for me to fully assume my new position when it came to fulfilling his needs. I wanted to help when he was crying. I wanted to hold him and hug him. Still, biologically, he was programmed to prefer mommy. That’s a rough spot to be. Don’t get me wrong, that’s tough on moms too. The constant attention, feeding, snuggling, and holding can turn clingy in a hurry. But the bond between my wife and my son was much clearer in those early months. It wasn’t for lack of trying. It’s just that I couldn’t provide what he wanted or needed like mom could.

Then, there was the sleeping. There were so many nights of really bad sleep. In the beginning, there was a lot of crying, staggeringly frequent diaper changes, and, once, a middle-of-the-night car ride to give my wife two hours of snooze time in between constant feedings. When we started introducing bottles, my wife would yell out, “Can you come take over this feeding?” I didn’t want to leave the bed. I was so tired, but I knew three things: 1) She was even more tired than I was; 2) He needed food; and 3) He’d cry until he got food. As a result of this poor sleep, my brain wasn’t as sharp, I’d make mistakes at work that never were an issue before, my patience dwindled, and I started getting migraines for the first time in about fifteen years. It was hard. To make matters worse, no one talks about any of this—certainly not for dads. If you’re lucky, as a dad, you get a couple weeks at home with your newborn. Then, it’s back to work, back to life, and you’re somehow supposed to go on like you’re the same person.

While that battle raged on, something wonderful happened. My little guy started recognizing me. He also began to associate me with nourishment. He started cooing, then smiling, then laughing, then sitting, then crawling, then walking, then talking. With each passing day, we got closer and closer. He began lighting up when he saw me. To be clear, I always loved my son. From day one, he was an amazing little guy. As time passed, though, that love grew exponentially, my patience came back, my anxiety faded away, and I became more fulfilled than I had ever been before.

That first year was tough. It was one of the toughest stretches I’ve been through. The changes in both my identity and my lifestyle, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, were jarring. Still, each day gave me a refreshed appreciation for my purpose in life, and an ever-growing love for the person my wife and I brought into this world. As difficult as it was, it was infinitely more worth it. At the end of the day, love is passion. Sometimes our current culture loses sight of what that means. It’s not just about what makes us feel good in the moment. Sometimes, it’s about purposeful suffering; about putting yourself second, and going through something tough, for something or someone else. That’s what being a new parent is all about. We learn to put ourselves second, and, sometimes, to absorb suffering for our little ones. It might not feel great in the moment, but our work serves a purpose. Occasionally, when I have a brief moment of calm, and I look back in reflection on the first couple years of parenthood, I’m left with a deeper sense of love than I’ve ever had before, and a unique and peaceful contentment comes over me—at least until I hear a clank in the other room and see that my son has climbed up onto the table, grabbed the butter left over from breakfast, and started hurling it across the room! That’s what being a new parent is all about.