Friends, I’m very happy to report that my daughter and firstborn child recently arrived into this world. The acute feelings of anxiety and then great relief at the birth itself slowly become replaced with the pleasant slight haze of the everyday. But since this journal is as much for myself as for my readers, I wanted to write down the thoughts I recall before they slip away.
Most people are more alike than they think. This is part of the reason why most heartfelt sentiments - whether joy at birth, sadness at the death of a loved one, celebration of someone’s birthday, and many others – end up sounding like clichés. The more important something is, oddly the more likely your feelings are similar to everyone else’s. Because of this, sometimes the repeated forms are okay for the important sentiments. As a friend’s priest said about Christmas sermons – if you’re hearing anything genuinely new in it, it’s probably heresy.
I learned this the hard way when emailing friends about the birth. I said something about how she’d been sleeping well and eating a lot so far, and joked that one could obviously extrapolate this out indefinitely. From one or two slightly snarky responses, I realized too late that, even in jest, this is a little like the newborn equivalent of those ghastly “My child is on the honor roll at XYZ Elementary” bumper stickers, but for a much more emotionally fraught subject. (Which painful door would you rather open? “I’m a bad parent” or “My beloved child is just difficult, and experiencing misery that I can do nothing about”? Por que no los dos!) I’ve refrained from bring up the subject since then, and just instead reflect on the ancient Greek observation that no man should be declared happy until he is dead. You have a well-behaved child once they’re married with children of their own.
Nonetheless, there was one part about my wife’s period of late pregnancy and birth that was quite striking, in a way that I wasn’t expecting.
There is a certain level of narcissism and egocentrism that is inherent to everybody. The way the Last Psychiatrist put it is quite memorable:
“The essence, the defining characteristic of narcissism is the isolated worldview, the one in which everyone else is not fully real, only part a person, and only the part the impacts you.”
I, like a lot of people, always wake up in my dreams just as I’m about to die. There is some fundamental stumbling block that cannot quite comprehend a world without me in it. If the only part of everything else that is real is the part that interacts with you, then your death is literally the end of the universe.
This much gets commented on quite a lot. One can intellectualise death, and imagine the world going on without you. But one cannot really feel it. It just doesn’t compute.
But the strange part, that I hadn’t really appreciated, is that something similar happens (at least to me) at the early end too.
Having my own child was literally the first time I’d been forced to contemplate in concrete detail what my parents’ life might have been like around the time I and my siblings were first born. The standard way this is described is that until one has children oneself, one doesn’t quite realise how much thankless work goes into changing thousands of nappies and not sleeping properly for months on end.
But at least for me, it’s more than that. I just hadn’t given much thought to the subject. I have images of my parents’ life before me, pieced together from photographs, and stories they’d tell with my uncle sitting around the dining room table after dinner. But these tended to mostly focus on the period when they first met, before they got married. There were some stories after that, about their lives, living with my grandmother, buying a small shack in the countryside and planting trees there, and things like that. But then there was a large gap, a chunk of the map shrouded in cloud, of what it might have actually felt like when we children were first born.
And I think part of the reason for this (at least with me) is the narcissistic tendency. People are only real to the extent they interact with you. And the part of you that counts is the part you can remember. In my case, the earlies memories are from around age 3. When I’m forced to contemplate it, I simply have no empathetic concept of me before that time. To consider myself as a one-year old, or as a newborn breast-feeding, or while in the womb, is every bit as alien to the actual narcissistic self-conception as to think of myself as being dead. I can imagine it. But there is simply no capacity to relate. Without memory and capacity for self-conception, the chain of "I"-ness gets broken.
Take away this inherent interest and understanding, and the parts of the characters immediately before I mentally appear on the scene simply don’t quite register. The stories my parents explicitly told me register, and those I feel warmly about. And indeed, I can think about times before I was even an idea, what my parents were like as children or teenagers. But the part that interacts with me, in the period where “me” is not something I instinctively empathise with, tends to be a strange and glaring gap.
Until my own child arrives. Then, I'm forced concretely to imagine all sorts of things I didn’t really consider. The scene of sea and sky suddenly inverts to a dizzying new perspective - one in which my parents are fully real, but I am only partially real, and only the part that interacts with them (since the part that is "me" doesn't yet exist). And one sees the whole path of the same scene repeating again and again. My daughter, currently totally helpless, having not the vaguest clue of what my wife and I do to keep her alive, and no real sense of gratitude or even contemplation, until one day, several decades hence, when (hopefully!) her own time comes to pay it forward with her own children, and the cycle repeats.
Thank you, Mum and Dad. At last, just a teensy bit, I
understand. I suspect you knew this already.
Welcome to the world, little one. We’re so glad to have you.
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