Disclaimer: This post has a lot to do with Finn–it also has nothing to do with Finn. That is, it’s not about him, explicitly, but it is also very much about him. Am I killing you with my vagueness, yet?
This past year has brought with it a lot of change: parenthood, home ownership, the loss of a lot of quality time between Sona and I, Sona turning 35 (which seems OLD–I’m sorry, everyone over 35, but I definitely feel like we’re tipping some sort of aging scale, here). There have been other things, too.
It has, in a lot of ways, been the best year of my life. Having Finn is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me, and I have not spent a single second–not even one–regretting our decision to have a baby. (At least, not since he was born. When Sona was pregnant, there were MANY seconds spent wondering, “What the hell did we get ourselves into?”)
But I have spent a lot of time, regretting, lately. I’ve spent a lot of time asking myself one question, over and over again: are we–am I–doing it all wrong?
As an English professor, I understand your urge to ask a bevy of follow-up questions: What is “it”? Wrong in what way? Who is this “we” you speak of? This is all frustratingly nonspecific.
Maybe I’ve just been spending too much time in my head, which is something I’m often guilty of doing. Or maybe this is just my version of a mid-life crisis. Either way, I’ve been feeling pretty forlorn, if you assess things generously–or pretty morose, if you are less than generous. (Sona would most definitely go with the latter.)
I’ve just had this creeping, overwhelming sense that we are doing all sorts of things with our lives that we are going to regret having done, later–or that we AREN’T doing things that will make us just as regretful about having missed.
This is the trap, I know, of being a working parent in our country. It’s The Busy Trap, as one of my favorite writers, Tim Kreider, notes. Nonetheless, it’s something that I’ve become so acutely aware of, lately, that I can’t seem to pull myself out from under the heavy cloud of regret that I know is a-coming.
I’m talking in circles, here, I know. I could try to be more specific. I could say that we’re working too much. That I’ve taken on new responsibilities at work and a job I usually love has turned into a job that’s a source of a good bit of stress. That our lives are consumed by to-do lists that never seem to end. That I’m spending a large chunk of the money I make while working, paying for someone else to spend time with my son. That we spend 80% of our days getting shit done and 20% of our days making memories. That we let the stress from all of those tasks overshadow any potential joy. That I feel like I’m constantly having to ask my wife to step away from her chores and just enjoy our little family. That my wife is always having to ask me for attention. That we have a beautiful home, which I adore, but this home requires that we work more and enjoy less. That one day we will look back and recognize that we spent way too little time having fun and way too much time worrying. That my nanny spends 8 hours a day with my son, and I get 3.
ALL OF THIS.
All of this, coupled with my own neuroses–a joie de vivre that is damn-near crippling. An incurable sense of wanderlust. A burdening desire to do something BIG–have a great adventure, give it all up, invent an entirely new life. An idealism that, though I come by it honestly, sets my expectations for my own life immeasurably high.
This waxing philosophical is annoying me–even as I type. It reeks of privilege and the run-of-the-mill middle-class, mid-life discontentment. I know how it sounds. I do.
But still, something is brewing–and something needs to change.
And, because pictures of Finn make everything better, here he is, nearly swimming in beans:
