I started thinking today and was wondering if people find it strange that I work with kids as much as I do. If they ever wonder why I'm happy to change diapers and deal with snot and slobber and other gross things. Why I can sit and hold a baby until my arms go numb and be completely happy and content in doing so. Most men aren't that fond of children, not children that aren't theirs or family. But I'm not like most men. My reasons are both simple and incredibly complicated for others to understand. I've been around kids my entire life. I've been taking care of them ever since I was very young myself. Kids are what I know best. Taking care of them is second nature, it's like breathing. I don't have to think about doing it I just do it.
And yet for all the simplicity of that answer it runs much deeper. I would love to say that is why I enjoy hanging out with kids and teaching, just because it's easy for me and they are fun to be around and because I've been called to teach. It's not that light-hearted in it's entirety. The hours of MDO and nursery are more than just a paycheck. They are a gift to me. A time to experience things that I will likely not experience myself. While I teach and work with children that will be roughly around the same age as my children, holding and feeding and just laughing at babies as they discover their fingers and toes is a life stage that I will more than likely not experience as a father. I will miss ultrasounds and showing off sonograms and months of no sleep with a newborn. Though the last most people would find a blessing I would gladly trade sleep for even just a single night of waking at 3 a.m. to have the chance at feeding my son or daughter or rocking them back to sleep.
In just under three weeks I will have been being treated for Kallman's syndrome for eight years. Eight very long and rough years that seem to be far longer than the span it has actually been. That most strange deficiency inside my brain that has rendered me unable to produce testosterone and LH hormone among other things. It is those two that have altered my life to an extent that I wouldn't have thought possible when I was young. In case you didn't know both hormones are needed for a child to be created. Without them I'm defunct,broken, I cannot do the very thing that a majority of the world's male population don't think twice about, "father" a child. Eight years and that still hurts, it's still as fresh a wound as the day I found out at sixteen. I would absolutely love to say that since I know I'm going to adopt that it doesn't matter anymore but it would be a lie. Because it does matter, it matters every time I hold a baby, there are times it matters when I simply see one. It matters because I know that won't be me. It's not as if I'm just waiting to get married so that can be me. I won't have the chance. And while I find great joy in knowing that God has called me to be daddy to a child that doesn't have one and needs one it's still hard.
I've said it or rather I've written it several times that the thing that hurts the most is also the thing that helps. What I will miss out on is helped by being able to experience those things, even just briefly through work or with my family. I know that sounds strange. Believe me it doesn't make sense to me at all but that is the way it works. If by some odd chance this does make sense I ask that you would explain it to me because I don't get it. It's like that Kutless song the Disease and the Cure.
I don't see any revelation as to why God chose this for me in the near future and it is completely possible that this side of Heaven I might never see the reasons but my faith is in the One who created this life for me. He knows what He's doing, he gave me life both physically and spiritually when it wasn't medically expected much less deserved.
If for some reason you see this and you've had a kid at MDO that I've taught or played with in the nursery I want to say thank you from the bottom of my heart. To completely and effectively convey my gratitude is beyond my ability with words.
