My wife, Helen, and I were in love. We had two beautiful daughters—three years and twelve months old—and I’d just returned from my third peacekeeping tour in Bosnia. The reunions are the best part of the tours. You get the opportunity to fall in love with your partner again. Six months of separation causes immense emotion. The plane ride home is long and filled with intense anticipation. The joy of that first hug is magic. This reunion was further blessed with the knowledge that Helen was pregnant. We had no worries.
Life can change quickly. Three months later the ultrasound technician asked us if we had a history of twins in the family. In shock, we learned that Helen would give birth to a girl and a boy—Sofia and Connor.
After the birth we quickly realized that the work was extreme. The twins’ routine was exhausting. My career had evolved and I was busier. Work was stressful and I was falling behind. And now Helen had four children competing for her attention. We both became irritable. We had no time together to make things right again. There was no time for anything but the children.
I dreaded the late-night feedings and came to fear the way I felt about the twins. When I came home from Bosnia I’d been looking forward to reconnecting with my wife. But Helen was absorbed with caring for the children. This made me feel even more isolated. She didn’t seem worried about our loss of our intimacy. I felt guilty and selfish. I felt useless.
Helen and I began to argue about little things—things that weren’t important. I lost my cool a few times when it was my turn to feed the children. I blamed it on work, but it was more than that. I’d spend the next day shamed by my lack of strength and wondering whether or not I really wanted to keep going down this road.
One night I arrived home tired and unhappy after a particularly bad day at work. One of the twins, Sofia, was sick. She woke up crying around four in the morning. Helen was exhausted and I knew she needed more sleep. So I scooped Sofia up from her crib and sat on a wicker chair in the nursery, rocking my crying child and thinking about how I was feeling. I felt like a failure. I wanted time to myself. I wanted it to be like it was four months ago. For the first time in my life I seriously considered quitting. I’m no good as a father, I thought. I wanted out. I wanted to throw my crying child down and run away.
And just then I realized the crying had stopped. In the low light I looked down at my baby daughter, and—I will never forget this moment—right then my sick, helpless daughter looked up at me and did something she’d never done before. She smiled. The first smile of her life, given to me as a gift when I needed it the most.
I cried and cried, and my tears fell on her face. But she wouldn’t stop smiling at me. I held her tight.
I slept in that chair all night with Sofia. In the morning I laid her back in her crib and snuck into my children’s rooms to kiss them and silently tell them I loved them. I walked outside and took a breath of the fresh morning air.
It took me a long time to share this story with my wife. The next time I tell it aloud, it will be to my daughter. And when I do, I’ll be thanking her for making me a better man.
London, Ontario