LETTERS FROM HOME: READY OR NOT

March 24, 1994

Dear Mom and Dad,

Last weekend, DC and I babysat for some friends who celebrated their five-year anniversary with a night on the town in San Francisco. For 24 hours, their 3-year-old daughter, Inga, and 2-year-old son, Christian, were unwitting participants in an experiment intended to answer one of adulthood's great questions: Are we ever ready to be parents?

The conclusion is still unclear, but one thing's certain. I owe you an apology, or maybe it's just a debt. For the thousands upon thousands of hours of surveillance parenthood requires. For refereeing the constant jihads over who hit whom first. For not being too tired to care.

Oh, we had plenty of fun pretending to fish at the river, watching "The Great Mouse Detective" video 20 times, picnicking on peanut butter and pears on a blanket in the yard. Inga speaks willy-nilly in a language all her own, as if she's translating the native tongue of her cosmic origins into English. Christian is like a tourist who has learned only the essential words of this foreign land: "Jooz" (juice), "sip" and "more."

But when he says "Sahm" my heart swells.

The first concerns arose when they refused to take their naps. DC thought "Mouse Detective" would put them to sleep -- "Wayne's World" works for her -- but they kept right on watching.

At 6 p.m., just as we were about to scramble some eggs, their favorite meal, Christian lost consciousness, DC had to go see a patient on an emergency, and Inga finally switched to "Charlotte's Web." An hour later I got them to eat something, wondering just how bad that patient's pain could be.

DC had returned by 8 p.m. As she pleaded with Inga to get into the bathtub, I recognized the frustration in her voice as the same sound you used to make, Mom. I suppose it's axiomatic that after getting in the tub, they then would not want to get out. Like little others, they got on their stomachs to maximize the final splashes after the plug was pulled. I'll skip the part about the pajamas, but I know you can imagine.

My wife the dentist finally gave up on getting them to brush their teeth. We scooped them into bed, and following their mother's written suggestion and their demand I sang "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands." DC contributed "Feed the Birds" from "Mary Poppins."

At 8:45 p.m., I identified with the sense of relief you must have felt after putting three -- not two -- children to bed. As DC and I chugged a bottle of fine wine, we ruminated on whether we are willing to make the sacrifice quite naturally expected of parents. We were having trouble imagining ourselves doing that dance every night.

When we went outside the next day, Christian suddenly began screaming. DC heard him say "snake," couldn't find one. She just held him until he calmed down. Later he screamed "snake" at a twig and still later at an ant.

Most of us are scared of dying, but I think being born and being alive might be more terrifying by far.

Tomorrow is DC and my six-month wedding anniversary. She's more worried about the demands of parenthood than I am, but also more responsive to some kind of biological imperative to reproduce.

In six months, I have discovered that, like Christian and many of us oh-so-human beings, she is easily frightened -- most of all by the thought of getting the things she really wants.

Love, Sam