Why, hello there! It seems you’ve caught us at the start of what just might be the last peaceful stretch we will have for the next eighteen years. It is a time which I’m sure expecting couples throughout history have enjoyed, treasured and even obsessively clung to, knowing that something swaddled this way crawls. Though a few stray oddments and vagrant boxes continue to defy corralling, and a couple of light bulbs dangle uncovered from the ceiling, Katrin and I now consider ourselves to be officially settled in our new apartment. Had it not been for the industrious hands of our friends, who moved us from A to B in less time than it took me to build one IKEA bookshelf (and a simple BILLY model at that), and had it not been for the solid carpentry skills of my father-in-law, not to mention his pity for those who lack such skills, which provided us a kitchen countertop and running water, we’d still be adrift in a sea of stuff. And mighty thirsty, to boot.
And I’d also like to thank the Academy,
and Babyjesus,
and all the Little People…
There is not much to do now but sit and wait. It’s somewhat unnerving, this waiting. At the beginning, eight months ago, I imagined everything a lot differently. Katrin is pregnant. We’re thrilled. We’ll gather information. We’ll talk to friends who are already parents. We’ll pore over web sites telling us which car seats to buy and the best way to soothe a screaming newborn in the middle of the night. We’ll take the prenatal course together so when the time comes I’ll know when to coach Katrin in the short sipping breaths and in the long vocal ones. I’ll learn to change a diaper. I’ll be ready.
But, only five merciful weeks before I acquire the same thousand-yard stare which has replaced the playful spark in the eyes of friends who have fallen before me, I still don’t feel I know enough to have earned my Daddy license. Thankfully I won’t need to know everything myself. No average human can be expected to possess all knowledge – that’s what the Know-It-All Super Parents are for. When the mysterious functions of our little son have Katrin and me grasping for answers, we can just refer our helpless selves to any one of a number of omniscient semi-divinities hovering about our circle of acquaintances. It is their calling, as they see it, to dispense their child-rearing wisdom to a grateful public, like the Easter Bunny does with cheap chocolate eggs. Unlike the Easter Bunny, however, who has the decency to galumph through our flower beds only once a year, these spare-time gurus litter our yard with their profundity droppings anytime, anywhere.
Say, for example, 8 a.m. Wednesday morning, July 25th.
Katrin and I went to meet the landlady of our new apartment, a forty-eight-year-old with a five-year-old son, to pick up the keys. In the process we inspected the place for any pre-existing problems. We had only seen the apartment once before when it was still fully furnished, so we hardly recognized it in its current, bare state. I remarked to no one in particular how much more spacious it looks without furniture, which triggered in our landlady a snicker fit the likes of which I hadn’t witnessed since second grade. “Herr Bush,” she addressed me sympathetically, “just you wait until your little one comes. Then you’ll see just how much ‘space’ you have here.” Her snickering tapered off into a bemused sigh, and we walked out onto the balcony.
It wasn’t very big, but I pointed out to Katrin that there was still enough room for all three of us to eat breakfast outside on sunny days. A look of indignant terror seized our landlady’s face. “Herr Bush,” she managed to say without spitting, “you can’t let your child on this balcony!” I’d never heard of a law banning small children from balconies, but Germany is filled with verboten this and nicht gestattet that. Maybe I’d missed a bylaw while reading the city ordinance handbook. “Why not?” I ventured hazardously. I could see the storm of a sound lecturing brewing deep inside her. She had other apartments to show that morning, however, so I got off with a brief introduction to the amazing brachiation skills of toddlers. “Herr Bush, you must understand. Maybe they can’t pass between the bars,” she demonstrated with her child-size forearm, “but they just need to get a hold of one rail and whoop! over the top they go!” I half hoped she would demonstrate this as well.
We continued to the kid’s room. Our son has it made – 16 square meters (172 square feet) of bedroom all to himself. I had to share a room far smaller than that with my brother for fourteen relatively peaceful years. Still, whenever we went to the zoo, I envied the mangy monkeys in their solitary confinement cages. I bet they never had to sleep with all their stuffed animals to prevent kidnappings. As Katrin and I walked through the room, our thoughts wandered through the many scenes that were soon to play out here: singing our son lullabies, late-night feedings, early morning risings and afternoon naps. Caught up in the theoretical excitement and momentarily forgetting who was in the room with us, I confided to Katrin my hope for the near future. “You know, there’s even enough room here for two children.” Before my wife could respond with her own thoughts on our common future, our landlady, keeping true to her divine role, intervened in this snowballing parental disaster like Yahweh himself seconds before Abraham was to sacrifice his son.
“Herr BUSH!”
“Yes, God?”
“Herr Bush, this room is far too small for two children.” Her voice echoed off a distant wall. My raised eyebrows and slightly opened mouth, which were meant to convey annoyance, were instead interpreted by her as a desperate plea for enlightenment. She willingly obliged. “Herr Bush, you must understand. The times have changed.” They have indeed. There was a time when I didn’t know my landlady. Ah, the good old days. “Today, children require more things. Where will you keep your son’s twenty pairs of trousers? His thirty t-shirts? All his toys? This room is just big enough for the drawers and cabinets you’ll need to hold everything.” She paused for a moment, whether to catch her breath or to let my virgin ears accommodate the girth of her words I couldn’t say. I couldn’t say much of anything, in fact, for fear that my mouth would jeopardize a functional relationship with the person responsible for fixing leaky sinks and changing blown fuses.
But in that moment, I resolved not to let landladies, nosy-neighbor grandmas, overzealous friends, second cousins of retired midwives, concerned cashiers, do-gooder pedestrians or any other salty sages with a direct line to the Parenting Almighty lower themselves from their machines onto our little stage without an invitation. And a box of diapers. “Don’t worry, Frau P.,” I reassured her. “We’ll manage.” She sensed my irritation. “Oh, Herr Bush, you’ll do a fine job as a new father,” she appraised. “I just know it.”
I’m sure she does.
