The Way We Learn

I thought I was doing okay. I had watched every video I could find on how to swaddle. There are a thousand different methods, and I tried most of them. Eventually I found my rhythm. Got pretty good at it, actually. So good that Cassie stopped wanting to try, worried she’d mess it up. That was never what I wanted. I didn’t need to be the swaddle expert. I just wanted to help. But sometimes helping meant stepping in. Sometimes it meant stepping back. It was hard to know which.

There were a lot of moments like that in those early weeks. Cassie didn’t love the way I put on diapers. Or how I held the bottle—too much air, not enough tilt. I’d forget the lotion after bath time. Or I’d zip the pajamas wrong. There was always one more thing. And after the third or fourth correction in a row, it started to sit heavy in my chest. I’d feel that quiet frustration start to build, that whisper, “Why bother?”

I wanted to throw up my hands and say, “Well then you do it.” I wanted to walk away from the changing table, let her take over, let myself off the hook.

But I didn’t. Not once. Because what kind of father would I be if I only stayed when it was easy?

So I stayed. I kept changing diapers. Kept asking questions. Kept learning, even when it meant unlearning what I thought I already knew. I asked how she wanted the diaper fastened. Which lotion went on first. If the bottle should be warmed or room temp. That helped. It made her feel supported, and it helped me stop feeling like I was always one mistake away from being benched.

And slowly, she started letting me do things my way, even if it wasn’t perfect. She learned to let go of the little things. The slightly crooked onesie. The backward burp cloth. The bottle held just a little off. She started to see that it wasn’t hurting anything but my confidence when she corrected me. That I needed space to be in this. Not just watching from the edge, but in the thick of it with her.

It was a lesson we both had to learn. And relearn. And learn again.

We thought we were doing okay. Then came my accident. I was left battered and broken and I couldn’t do any of it. The swaddling, the burping, the late-night rocking, all of it slipped out of reach. And the ache wasn’t just in the broken parts of my body. It was in my spirit too. In the stillness. In the helplessness of watching her do everything while I sat, hurting and useless.

But even then, even in that forced stillness, something holy was unfolding. I saw her strength. Her grace. The quiet grit of motherhood. And I learned again that fatherhood isn’t measured in how many diapers you change or how tight your swaddles are. It’s in how you show up. In how you stay. In how you love, even when you’re sidelined.

We’re still learning the rhythm. Still figuring out when to speak up and when to let go. Still navigating the space between “you’re doing it wrong” and “thank you for trying.”

Maybe that’s what love really looks like in these early years. Not perfect teamwork. Not flawless execution. Just two tired people learning how to be parents together. Figuring it out. Holding on. Leaning in. One broken, beautiful day at a time.