A Million, Billion, Trillion Tiny Feelings Pt. 14

Notes from a father's first pregnancy

October 3, 2017

We sit around our long dining room table, Emily at my side and our dear friends Joe and Gloree across from us with a small cake in between.

Gloree asks why I hate birthdays.                 

“You know,” I reply. “Dead moms. That whole thing.”

She laughs, having known my off-color brand of humor for many years now.

“Just another reminder that mom’s not here with us,” I say.

I point at Emily’s growing belly.

“As if this wasn’t reminder enough.”

“Yeah but you know what,” Gloree replies. “Someday very soon Emily and this little boy are going to make a big deal out of your birthday and you’re going to love them again.”

“Someday,” I say with a smile. “But for now I still fucking hate them.”

Thirty-five.

I am now as close to fifty as I am to twenty.

I don’t lament getting older. Rather I embrace it. It’s going to happen whether I like it or not and I don’t see the point in bemoaning the inevitable. 

Do I miss being twenty?

Sometimes.

I miss the beers and the nights that would never end and the cigarettes that had no consequence. I miss the aches and the pains that were signs of a good night out or a hard-played game up pickup basketball; aches and pains are becoming more and more commonplace regardless of whether I had a night out or played pickup. I miss the unshakable idea that I was never getting older. I miss the life where ten-bucks-an-hour was large living and the hangovers only lasted until we started drinking again.

I miss the women. I don’t feel guilty about that.

I love my wife ferociously and I am reminded a hundred little times a day why I chose her. I’m reminded a hundred times a day why I’m lucky that she chose me. I am reminded a hundred times a day that all of the women who came before lacked everything that she has, that the chasm between them and her is infinite, that without her I would be lost, rudderless in a cold and terrifying world. I wouldn’t trade a day with Emily for all of the trysts in the world. I regard our marriage in highest esteem and I try to be a better husband with each passing day. When I am away from her, I find myself staring at our wedding ring, gently turning it on my thick, bumbling finger. In fact, the only time I wear my wedding ring is when I’m away from her, to have that part of her with me, right in eyeshot.

I love our marriage. I love our life. I look at other women and think, “She’s not Em. Not even close.”

But I miss the women. Of course I miss the women. Those nights were perfect. How could they not be? They never had a chance to become unperfect. There wasn’t enough time. There wasn’t enough misunderstanding. When you know a person for just a night or a day or a week, there is no nuance. It isn’t real. It was never real. It was sex. And, if I was lucky, a great conversation. And that’s why I miss the women.  Of course I miss the women.

But not nearly as much as I love Emily. Not even close.