It seems ridiculous
now, but before my godchild was born, I was genuinely worried that I
would hate him.
He wasn't my godchild
then, of course. He was the imminent spawn of two of my best friends,
and while I was legitimately excited for them, I also had a lot of
concerns. I'd never been around babies much before, and what I knew
about them didn't sound promising. They cried a lot. They pooped a
lot. They consumed their parents' time, thoughts, and lives. One time
when I was nine I held my neighbor's newborn and accidentally hit her
head against the edge of the dining room table, and I was terrified
of ever holding a baby again in case I broke it. My friends would be
obsessed with their youngling, and I would be unable to participate.
Was this tiny human going to ruin two of the best friendships I've
ever had?
A week or two before
the baby's birth, I was a jerk to my friends. It wasn't premeditated
jerkiness – it was just thoughtlessly being a shitty friend – but
it's the last thing you need when you're freaking out about your
first child's impending entrance to the world. Subconsciously, I
think it was a preemptive strike against the baby: you're going to
ruin my friendship? Screw you, I'll ruin it on my terms.
I'd also had more than enough of being around pregnant people, which
is a massive dysphoria trigger for me. Regardless of my reasons, it
was a lousy thing to do.
So
I was doubly nervous as I made my way to the hospital on December
11th.
Not only was I going to meet a day-old newborn who, as far as I could
tell from the Facebook pictures, looked and smelled and sounded
exactly as bad as any other day-old newborn, but there was also the
lingering tension of my as-yet-unatoned-for shitty behavior.
I
was lucky. I got two reconciliations that day. The first was apology
and forgiveness over lunch with the baby's father. The second was the
moment I took that tiny, sleeping person in my arms.
I
hate to be such a cliché, but meeting the person who would be my
godchild really did change everything. Leaving the hospital, I felt
as though the whole world was a little sparklier, a little more
special, a little more awe-inspiring. Before long, I was doing all
the things I swore I'd never do: changing diapers, shrugging off
spit-up, talking incessantly about the wondrousness of the baby. The
most amazing thing to me is just how much I
love him.
I've
spent much of the past year contemplating this love. It's incredible,
and it's frightening. I would throw myself under a bus for my
godchild in a heartbeat. I would wrestle spiders for him. I would
forgive him if he murdered my whole family in front of my eyes. My
love for him is vast, and it is unconditional, and it makes no sense.
Why do I love him so?
What has he done to merit such love? The answer: nothing, and because
he has done nothing to earn my love, there is nothing in all of
creation that can separate him from it.
I
believe strongly that, in the words of Les Mis,
“to love another person is to see the face of God.” I believe
that anyone who teaches you a new way to love is revealing to you
another glimpse, another facet, of the divine. My godchild has taught
me something I didn't know about grace: love that is unearned,
unconditional, yet in no way cheap.
I
had no idea I was capable of a love like this, and I believe that it
is the work of God within me. My love for my godchild has opened me
to new loves I had thought beyond me, manifest most recently in
romantic love and in the first steps of self-reconciliation. If you'd
asked me a year ago, I'd have denied that I had the capacity for
godparental love, romantic love, or self-reconciliation, but all of
these loves are or will be part of the ever-expanding, dizzyingly
vast cosmic Love I have only just begun to explore.
Happy
birthday, Jay. I love you with all the love God has graced me to
give.
