Tasting the Moment: The Chaotic Joy of Fatherhood
“What are we doing here?!” The words echo in my mind.
We’ve just escaped from the late-February Italian air into Osteria da Fortuna—a highly-rated, densely-packed restaurant that still has a few rays of fading sun tenaciously beaming into the room. I glance around quickly to see how the frenzied popularity of the place has caused the owners to try and squeeze as many people into the tiny space as possible. Barely two inches from our table, a couple similar to us in age shoots death glares at us.
The impatient guests around us are not forgiving to any disturbance that might affect their dining experience. All the guests have waited outside for nearly an hour to get their coveted spot, slowly shuffling forward in the 10 degrees Celsius weather. Their eager eyes have been glued to the window showcasing the perfectly-shaped strozzapreti pasta being handmade while they wait. Just out of reach, the sights and smells call to their hunger like sirens to their grumbling stomachs.
“WAHHHHHH!!!!”
My attention snaps immediately to the five-month-old baby in my hands. She is inconsolable even as I bounce her up and down, put a soother in her mouth (she spits it immediately back out), or shush her like I’m blowing out the world’s largest candle. None of it works. When I try to place a bottle in her mouth, she refuses to even contemplate eating as she is just too frustrated.
I feel the eyes of the other customers boring into me, their whispered words of annoyance drifting towards my ears.
“Who brings a baby to a place like this?”
“What the hell . . . is that baby going to cry the whole time?”
I feel my own shame and embarrassment flush into my ears and chest as I try in vain to quiet my daughter. Looking past her in my arms, I see the half-eaten food I am quickly scarfing down, savouring not even a possibility as I try to force my jaw to chew faster so I can hold her safely. Despite the food being made with passion, I’m unable to enjoy it because of needing to respond to my daughter—I would like to say in love, but as my self-restraint wanes I want to lash out at her, reaching for aggression as a solution. However, I know it would be a short-lived and harmful balm to my rising anger. As I feel my heart beat faster and my temperature rise, I breathe deeply and remind myself that she cries out of need, not just to annoy me.Countless meals have been sacrificed since she was born—most of them willingly—but this time I feel the resentment building exponentially. I look at my wife, and she looks back at me with fork in hand. Unable to speak with a mouth full of hand-crafted strozzapreti alla carbonara, her eyes tell me that she shares my concern.
While playing lion-tamer with my child, I think back to a moment of peace from last year, before our family grew by one. My wife and I enjoy food—the process of tasting it, savouring it, and appreciating how it’s made. It never mattered before if we had to wait an hour in a line-up in cutting cold wind, with tired feet and growling stomachs—we were willing to do it (as long as the food was worth it!)
Prior to finding out we were pregnant, I took my wife out for omakase—a slow fine-dining experience, where the diner is forced to follow the pace of the chef. The restaurant was quiet aside from the sounds of the sushi chefs using their precision blades, packing the rice with their hands, and clanging dishes as they prepared each course in front of us. In that moment, I was thinking of nothing else but the intricate ways each course was made with such thoughtfulness and skill.
When the fish and rice combination entered my mouth, I swore I could taste the individual grains of rice interacting with the soy sauce while the fattiness of the fish ignited my taste buds in pure bliss. My eyes closed involuntarily as I breathed in the moment, atmosphere, and satisfaction.
CLANK!
I’m pulled back into the present as I catch my daughter smacking the plate just enough for it to graze my cup. Swiftly moving the plate away from her hands, I feel my heart beating loudly in my chest as my breath quickens. The stress of this moment has been repeated many times in the past five months. Waking up at 3 a.m. and wrestling with her for an hour to get her to feed, speeding down pot-holed roads as she cries ceaselessly in the back seat, or bouncing her for 45 minutes, trying to get her to sleep. Chaos seems to have become the theme of my life ever since she smashed to pieces our carefully-crafted routines.
I remember the early morning moments of prayer and devotions where I sat on my heels quietly, undisturbed. My thoughts were rooted in the daily reminder of how the grace of God flowed through my life, and because of his sacrifice, I could live fully. These transcendent moments are now replaced with scrambling to get the milk heated up before my daughter cries past the point of no return. Now, I’m unfocused and panicked. My mind only faintly registers what that grace of God means as I try to emulate the same sacrificing heart to care for my family amidst the neverending crying of a newborn.
Yet, as we recently were in the Easter season, I think about the noise and chaos that surrounded Jesus as he carried that cross up the hill. The jeers, shouting, and mockery that came, and how he endured all of it for our sake. He knew that these were merely moments of necessity before the great glory would be revealed. I imagine that he may have contrasted these ridiculing shouts with the shouts of praise and thankfulness that came from his healing and teachings. I consider how often the noise of pain and hurt is all we hear and remember, forgetting that those moments are fleeting. Sounds of joy will come again and rest with us forever in heaven.
As I scramble in the pre-dawn, fumbling not to miss the bottle as I pour in the precious milk, the sounds of crying crowd my mind. I’m reminded of how I’ve often neglected or passed over sounds of happiness in my fatherhood journey, allowing the sounds of annoyance and frustration to take deep root within my heart. This is not the father that I want to be. Instead, I want to hold fast to the knowledge of what brings joy in my heart, that family is a joy, my daughter is a joy, and that being able to reflect God’s love to my family is a joy. The darker seasons come and go, but the steadfastness of the Lord lasts forever—a rock that my family and I can look to at all times for hope.
Suddenly, I look up from my plate. Multiple waiters with gigantic smiles have stopped in front of us. They see my daughter and exclaim,
“Mi Amore!! What’s wrong?!’”
For a few brief moments, they try to make her smile and laugh, just enough time to stop my brain from spinning a story of anger and shame. As thoughts of God’s grace come back to the forefront, I can hear the sounds of laughter and joy again. The negative thoughts fueling my anger and frustration fade. I look around the restaurant again, past the death stares, and see smiling and empathetic faces, and the most important face right in front of me: my daughter.
She sees me, and smiles.
Text: Kan Cheung
Art: Kyle Simpson