Lessons of parenthood arrive much too early

I noticed them when I pulled into the parking lot, a little late as usual, on my way to my youngest daughter’s volleyball game.

It wasn’t the way they walked that got my attention. They weren’t moving fast or doing anything out of the ordinary. They were just walking side by side across the parking lot of the high school, taking a short cut to wherever they were going.

What struck me, and made me give them a second look, was the expression on their faces. They looked so serious.

I guess when you’re 16 or 17, pushing a stroller, taking your brand new baby out for a stroll on a beautiful Saturday morning, a morning when you’d rather be sleeping in or hanging out with friends, life is serious stuff.

I could see that she was a pretty girl. But she was just a girl. And she was obviously trying to fit into clothes that she’d worn before the baby. Her top was low-cut and showed a lot of cleavage. Not the ornamental breasts she’d probably flaunted just a few months ago. They were heavy, maternal breasts.

I wondered if she was nursing the baby, learning the intricate dance of comfort and sustenance that should come so easily to us but doesn’t always. Or, if she was just waiting for the milk to dry up and go away, aching and tender and sore to the touch. Anxious for the body she’d once had to return and unaware that it never really does.

That’s what babies do to you. They change you forever.

He looked like any boy hanging out on the corner or walking down the halls at school. He was wearing a voluminous black jersey, stitched with flames. His sneakers were bulky and oversized. His legs looked thin and childish surrounded by all the fabric of his baggy shorts.

I decided they looked tired. Not unhappy or sad, just worn out. Starved for sleep and relief.

Babies do that to you, too.

I saw her reach out to him and take his hand. It’s what you do when you’re with someone you love. Someone you lean on. But they’d walked only a short distance before she had to pull away to maneuver the stroller.

That’s another thing about babies. It takes everything you’ve got to keep them safe and under control.

I should have been in the gym, watching my own child play ball, but as I sat in the car my eyes followed them as they moved across the lot. It struck me that the important thing was that they were together. She wasn’t alone, forever changed, carrying the burden of parenthood on her own. He wasn’t out with some new girl, free of the responsibility of fatherhood.

They were there together, tired, unsure of their new roles, but together.

The boy and the girl reached the end of the asphalt and stepped up onto a trail through the empty field next to the school.

Their arms brushed and he moved closer reaching for her hand. But the ground was uneven, and she was clinging to the handle of the stroller, struggling to make it over stones and brush and countless other obstacles. She didn’t see him reach out for her because her eyes were on the path ahead.

His hand dropped to his side.

I sat for a few minutes and thought about the young couple and the baby they’d made. They’ve all got so much growing up to do.

I hope they make it.

I hope the baby grows and thrives and survives the inevitable mistakes his parents will make. The missteps and wrong turns all parents make. I hope the boy and the girl stay in school and go on to successful lives. I hope they get enough sleep and get enough to eat and get what they need to do wonderful things.

I hope they figure out how to ride safely over the rough spots and still cling to one another.

I hope it all works out.