Was fatherhood a big mistake?
The Globe And Mail
Friday, June 16, 2006

I awaken to a familiar sound: glug, glug, glug. I open my eyes. Light from the street lamp outside the window creeps around the edges of the drawn curtains. I see two large eyes blinking over the bottom of an upturned sippy cup. I look at the bright red numbers on the alarm clock: it's 2:15 a.m.

"Daddy, come sleep with me," says my two-year-old daughter.

I sigh. "Okay, sweetheart," I whisper.

I know she'll repeat her request, only louder, if I don't get up right away, so I do -- I don't want her to wake her mother and five-month-old brother, who lie sleeping beside me. She offers her hand and I take it. We walk down the hall, past her old bedroom (which her brother will soon be occupying) with the crib she slept in just once, past the laundry room strewn with oatmeal- encrusted bibs and drool-soaked onesies.

I try to remember a night when I wasn't awoken like this. There had been a few, but not many, and none lately. Sleep was something I took for granted before we had kids. There were a lot of things I took for granted before we had kids.

We reach her bedroom and go in. She lets go of my hand and walks around the bed, to the far side. As I stumble toward the other side, I step on Larry the Cucumber and he serenades me: "A happy heart is a thankful heart. I'm glad for what I have, that's an easy way to start." I kick Larry to the wall. His heart remains happy; he sings again.

I climb into the bed. My daughter is standing, her right arm extended, waiting for me to take her cup. I take it and place it on the headboard. She pulls herself onto the bed and scoots over beside me. She pats me on the cheek and says, "You're my sweet little Daddy."

"And you're my sweet little Ella," I say. "Let's go to sleep."

"I love my little Daddy."

"I love my little Ella. Now, let's go to sleep, Okay?"

She lies on her stomach and I pull the covers over us. I wait a few minutes, then shimmy to the edge of the bed to make my escape. She thrusts out her arm to check if I'm still there. A finger lands in my eye.

"You still here, Daddy?"

"I'm still here, honey. Go to sleep."

I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. I think of all the things my wife and I did before Ella was born. One year, we backpacked through Thailand and, the year after, through Spain and Portugal. We tried new restaurants and went to movies. On Sundays, we would go on long bike rides, read the paper, watch 60 Minutes . Now, on the rare occasion when both kids are sleeping and we aren't, we rush to scrub the toilets and vacuum the rug.

I decide to wait a few more minutes before attempting to sneak out again. I listen to Ella breathe, waiting for the tell-tale snore. I fall asleep.

"Daddy, Daddy, let's play Polly Pockets!"

I bring my watch to my face and push the button that turns on the light: it's 3:45 a.m.

"Ella, honey, it's still nighttime. Let's go back to sleep."

"No, I want to play!" she cries and wiggles out of bed. I grab her and pull her back in.

"No, Ella, No! It's still nighttime."

She knows I'm not joking. She sits and thinks.

"I can have some more water, though?"

"Yes, honey, you can have more water."

She grabs her cup with one hand and brushes hair from her face with the other. She brings the cup to her mouth and tips it. Glug, glug, glug. She puts the cup back and lies down. We fall asleep.

"Daddy, Daddy, I need more water!"

I open my left eye. Ella is sitting, dangling her cup over my face.

"Okay, I'll get more water, you stay here."

"No! I want to come!"

"Okay, okay, you can come."

I get out of bed. Ella sticks up her arms.

"Carry me. Carry me."

I bend over, pick her up and shuffle to the bathroom. I plop her on the change pad next to the sink, turn on the tap and fill her cup. I give her the cup and she takes a drink. Glug, glug, glug. We trudge back to her room, climb into bed and fall asleep.

I wake up with Ella's foot on my nose. I lift her legs and gently push them toward the foot of the bed. She stirs, but doesn't wake. I fall back asleep.

I wake up with Ella's foot in my eye. I turn my head and look at my watch: it's 5:35 a.m. I consider going back to my bed, but the alarm on my watch will go off in 25 minutes and I think, "What's the point?" I turn over and go back to sleep.

Beep, beep, beep.

I pull my left hand out from beneath the pillow and turn off the alarm. I slide out of bed. I stand up, stretch, and look down at the little girl sprawled across the mattress.

I think about the picture of us at the park that she drew for me yesterday: she, a blue blob; me, an orange stick. I think of how she runs to the door and dances an excited jig when I come home from work. I think about us reading McElligot's Pool on the sofa before dinner today, when she put her arm around my neck and said, "I'm so glad you're home, Daddy."

Last night's crankiness fades away. I realize I'll get plenty of sleep when the kids are older. I realize the pleasures of leisure pale in comparison to the joys of fatherhood.

And I realize there are far worse things than being adored by an angel in Elmo pyjamas.