Yesterday on a perfect summer’s evening, I leashed up my dog, Rose, for a walk to the park. As I was sprinting out the door, I ran into my next door neighbor, a first time Dad, as of a few days ago. He’s quiet, and we generally don’t chat much, we mostly nod in passing, but this was a special occasion. I asked how his wife and boy were doing, expecting him to be overwhelmed with the chaos of a newborn. He responded calmly (and he’s Austrian, so somewhat formally), “Very well. It couldn’t be better.” And he continued, with a reverential tone, “I feel complete. There was something missing in my life, but now with my son, I feel whole.” I believed him. I could see it on his face, which was uncharacteristically serene, the furrows of his brow were smooth, like the skin on a baby.
For a few moments, I stood in front of my house in awe. And then, envy. Was I less complete for never having children? Was I missing an essential something?
This was more than I could bear to contemplate on a balmy summer night, and I went on my way to romp with Rose in the park.