Having a baby has affected me in all kinds of ways, big and small. I don't like to talk a lot about it, especially to people who don't have kids, because I always found it so annoying when other parents did it to me before I had Lil Blossoms.
Having a baby is kind of like being on acid. Fascinating to talk about for you and everyone else who's doing it; pathologically boring for people who aren't.
(Do you already have an opinion about whether you want a boy or a girl?)
Anyway. I realized the other day that Lil Blossoms has had a profound affect on the way I address the world at very unexpected moments: when she's not around and whatever task I'm doing isn't even related to her. Let me explain.
When I'm thinking of not telling the clerk at the grocery store that she didn't charge me for the six-pack, I feel a little twinge. And then tell her. When I figure on cutting out early for the day and not taking on that extra project I told myself I'd do — yes, that's right, I get the twinge. When I see some garbage on the street and am about to pass it by, the twinge makes me pick it up.
I realized there has been for weeks and months an imaginary person watching over me. And that person is Lil Blossoms. And she's seeing what kind of man I am. And she's judging me. This imaginary Lil Blossoms sees everything. And she sees through everything.
The upside is that it makes me work harder. Makes me hold myself to a higher standard. Makes me want to do something I'm proud of and not slack off about it.
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Now, maybe this happens to everyone, men and women alike. But I
think there's one particular strain of this that's
particularly male. And it's this:
I'm super self-conscious about what I've accomplished. I.e.
I think Lil Blossoms will be disappointed in what I've
accomplished in my life. Sometimes I think she'll be
embarrassed by me when she compares me to her friends dads.
Sometimes I think she'll think I don't make enough
money.
But the very worst is when I have daydreams in which I think she'll know that I somehow fell short of the dreams I've had for myself. That I never quite became what I wanted to be when I grew up. And be disappointed in me. Or worse, pity me.
Now, I know this is no way to think. And I know it puts a premium on accomplishment that I, in more dispassionate moments, think is harmful, is one of the worst things about Americans (you're born nobody and you have to make something of yourself, that's America; instead of being born somebody and that being enough).
Does any of this make sense to you guys? Or should I have kept this confession to myself.
Sometimes it feels good to have a bag on your head.MORE FROM MARRIED JAKE:
