This post was written by Jason for Westminster Presbyterian Church's blog.
The scene of this blog posts opens with me, standing outside on our front porch, in the rain, trying my best to catch my breath. Inside, two boys were in their cribs, where they would be unable to find trouble, screaming at the top of their tiny lungs. While these lungs were tiny, they were quite capable of filling the house with sound. Unpleasant sound. Screaming for relief for some ailment that I could not identify. They had eaten. Their diapers were dry. And still they screamed.
In the first few months of life, there were a lot of nights like this. When Sarah and I were home together, it was mostly manageable. Man coverage, to borrow a sports metaphor. We could divide and conquer quite easily. But the problem was Sarah and I were rarely home together. I was constantly away for classes at seminary, or at work, or writing papers. When I wasn’t doing those things, I was home alone with the boys while Sarah was at work. This was where trouble lived. When one boy cried, I would pick him up and feed him and try to calm him down. But even at just a few months old, our boys were able to see when their brother was getting the attention they felt they more richly deserved. So boy #2 would cry. And then boy #1 would cry harder. And then Daddy would cry. Screaming became a constant friend.