Patience is a virtue

Never have I had a more patience-demanding vocation.

The more little Sierra becomes not-so-little, the harder and more mentally taxing being a stay-at-home dad becomes. The last two days have been very exhausting, especially with Chrissy working long hours at the hospital. Not to mention, Sierra is still adjusting to the West Coast time zone after spending four days in Boston. Instead of waking up at her normal nine o'clock hour, Sierra has been waking up around 6 a.m., making my job about three hours longer.

Each morning I get up with Chrissy at about 5 a.m. to make her breakfast while she prepares for her day. This time is sacred. This is the only time I spend awake with my wife without the baby crawling here or there or putting something in her mouth or going to the bathroom right through her new cute little onesie. This is my time where I can be a husband and not a father. Someday, I'd love to be able to balance the two to perfection, but I can honestly say my juggling skills leave much to be desired after eight months of parenthood.

When Chrissy leaves for work around 6:30 a.m., I stay up and do some reading, do some of my own personal writing, or simply listen to music while straightening up the best I can. Like the time alone with my wife from 5-6:30 a.m., this time is also sacred. I need it to refresh myself. I need it to satisfy my own to-do list that never seems to dwindle. Lately, I haven't had this time. Just as I am about to open up a good book with my cup of coffee and a soft folk band playing quietly on my speakers, I hear it. Anyone who has had a child before knows what it is. It is that feint first sound of a baby beginning to wake up. It is that tiny whine that leads you to beg God for just another half hour. It is what turns to a cry before you can finish praying. It is what shifts the day from peace to chaos.

The living room is cluttered with broken-down baby barriers, rattles, squeaky dolls, and pieces of sucked on ribbon. Laundry from the day before is folded, but still piled (now toppled piles) on the futon mattress waiting to be put away. One look at the room and strangers will understand that the baby is crawling now. The living room has turned into a fortress lacking only a moat. A four-sectioned exercise mat blocks off Chrissy's desk, keeping the baby away from plugs, wires, and corners. A beanbag chair is stuffed against the television set and VCR. A baby swimming pool overflowing with toys blocks Sierra from going into the back rooms. A giant blue husband pillow prevents Sierra from hitting her head on the coffee table. It's like a little arena in here and Sierra still always seems to find a way over, through, or around my barrier.

Yesterday was a busy one. Sierra was on the move. Her ability to find everything in the house that could potentially hurt her is amazing. Every three minutes, I was picking her up and moving her to a safer location. As the day went on, Sierra got more agitated every time I would move her. I would say, "No," to her and by the end of the afternoon, she would stop at every utterance of the word "no" and cry. I would then pick her up and hold her, rubbing her back to make her feel better. Once she was back in the fortress, she would find her way out once again. That was my day.

When Chrissy got home from work, the house was a mess. I always hate leaving the house a mess, but I just couldn't keep up with Sierra yesterday. If I were Chrissy, I would have been deflated coming home from a long day of work to a house that looked like it did yesterday. To Chrissy's credit, she didn't show her frustration ... until later. That was when, tired and frustrated, I tried to take apart a large baby bouncer toy from Target and get it back in its tiny box to return it to the store because Sierra rarely plays with it. I got the contraption apart rather easily, but trying to place all the pieces into the box was a nightmare. No way was that going to fit. I stuffed and crammed and slammed the box in frustration. "Why don't you go to Ralph's, you know, just to get out of the house," Chrissy kindly suggested. I wasn't about to leave. I took everything out of the box and tried again. Sierra was now crying for food, or a diaper, or because she was tired, or because she was teething, or because "she might be sick" according to Chrissy. Bottom line was, we had no clue why she was crying. Dinner plates were still sitting out, pasta still needed to be put away, napkins with tomato sauce were on the floor after Sierra somehow got to them. Meanwhile, sweat beginning to dampen my forehead, I am stuffing that box like a Thanksgiving turkey. I'm pounding on things, patience about to completely fizzle. "Why don't you just go to Ralphs," Chrissy said more animated than before and rightfully so. I needed a break from the house. Chrissy could see it. I could see it, but was too damned determined to get that toy into that box. I was going to accomplish this task even if it took me all night. With Chrissy's help, we almost got the toy to fit. The box now sits in her car for return, even with the top bursting open with rain forest animals and plastic tubing.

After a short walk with Chrissy and Sierra late last night, we decided to head to bed. Somehow Sierra didn't get that message. She was up crying, squirming, twisting, and shouting even though she was clearly sleepy. She couldn't sleep. We fed her. We changed her diaper. We rocked her. We rubbed her back. We took her into our bed and held her. We put her back in the crib and rubbed her. Finally, Chrissy was able to get her to cry herself to sleep in the crib. Chrissy and I were exhausted. We almost laughed in bed about what had just happened. How do single moms or dads deal with kids? How do parents deal with twins or triplets? How can one eight-month-old child wear down to adults in the prime of their lives? Before any answers came, we were asleep.

If for only a couple hours. It was heard again around 2 a.m. and didn't stop for nearly an hour. We had to change Sierra again, feed her a little more, and bring her into our bed for comfort. Finally she fell asleep, leaving Chrissy only two more hours before that alarm would scream Thursday awake.

Raising a young child is the most beautiful job a person can have. To see Sierra smile and to hear her laugh makes up for an entire day of stress and chaos. It's a lot like golfing. I can hit slices and hooks all day. I can four-putt from 10 feet out. I can run over my 5-iron with a golf cart. But all it takes is one beautiful, soaring drive or an approach shot that sticks the green just a few feet short of the pin to make it all somehow worthwhile.