Writing fails

I’ve always believed in the power of writing. I’ve always loved to read, always loved to write, largely disagreed with people who think online interaction is shallower than face-to-face interaction, elevated writing somewhat over talking. Spoken words vanish into the air; writing lasts. Conversation is haphazard—the sound an orchestra makes when it’s tuning up at the beginning of a concert. Writing is what happens when the orchestra begins to play: purpose, meaning, melody.
    I’ve always known that writing can move hearts and minds. It can make you see things from another point of view and feel things you’ve never felt before.
    I even love the way the letters of the alphabet look on a page.
    But there’s one subject in which writing fails. Before I became a mother, no writing ever convinced me of how wonderful it would be to have children. And that is so strange to me now, thinking back. How could I not have known? I shouldn’t have needed to read something—I should have just been able to look at a child, for instance—but the thing is, when all else failed, writing also failed. The language that speaks best to my brain still couldn’t convey what happens when you hold your own baby.
    Actually, what happens is not at all complicated. It is this, precisely this:

 

I remember the way people described raising kids. The ups and downs. The exhaustion and the joy. The sacrifices and the rewards. In my mind, child-rearing seemed similar to the way I feel about exercise regimes or mountain climbing—most of the time it’s just a lot of work. Most of the time, you don’t even really enjoy it. It gets in the way of what you really want to do. But then you reach some milestone or some pinnacle and you look back and think, I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad I stuck to it. Arguably worth it—but not by a huge margin.
    That’s a completely wrong way of viewing it. It would be more accurate to compare life without kids to a world without color. Maybe it’s a wonderful world (I quite liked my life before kids), but it’s black and white, and life with kids is life with color. And when people talk about ups and downs, the downs in the color world would be, say, that some of the colors aren’t pretty. It’d be crazy to think a few ugly colors would be reason to prefer a colorless world. Or you could say that life without kids is like being in a wheelchair, and life with kids is gaining the ability to walk and run. The downs would be things like pulling a muscle or getting out of breath. Real things to complain about, but not reasons to prefer a wheelchair!
    That’s why it was hard to write after Zuzu was born. I wanted very much to address my pre-motherhood self, explain about motherhood, convince the girl I was to be more eager to take the leap. But if the first billion people to write on this subject couldn’t do it, I didn’t expect to be successful.
    That’s why it is still (curiously) a bit harder to write about Zuzu than about Bear. Because underneath the patty-cake songs and the discussions of pooping on the potty, I still have a trembly sense of awe over the way I feel toward my firstborn.
    I don’t know why Bear made it easier to write again, but he did, and I’m glad.