On Fatherhood

On my wedding anniversary, my daughter was born. I became a father (I suppose I was a father in some technical sense prior to that, but I didn’t feel like a father until I saw our child’s head crowning). What does it mean to be a dad? It is unlike anything I have ever experienced (and I’m sure those feelings only increase as my time as a father goes on).

Reality hit as soon as I saw her body—she was real, breathing, moving, living, and I had created her—we had created her. I knew in some abstract sense before then that I would be a father soon, that there was a child inside Cec, growing and living. But it wasn’t until I saw her, I looked on her, that I really felt that that was true. I’d felt her kick and move before, but always via Cec. All my interactions with her were mediated.

The doctors and nurses and midwives immediately placed H on Cec’s chest, skin-to-skin. I ran my hand through her hair, my finger gently touching her cheek and hands. We hung out in the delivery room for a couple of hours while the hospital staff finished their checks and work. I was in a daze, perhaps because I was starving and exhausted after twelve hours without food or sleep, but also just glowing with joy at the reality of our child. The moment was unreal—transcendent—moving beyond this reality and into some other plane of existence that feels almost like a dream, where emotions are heightened to an extraordinary degree.

We moved rooms and eventually, a few hours after she was born, in the late quiet of our hospital room, I held H—pressed her body close to my bare chest and sat in the low hum of the medical busyness that surrounded us.

As I sat and held her and looked at her, I felt bound to her. We are connected. Tied together forever. Inseparable. If this is love, it’s of a different sort than I’ve ever felt. I look at her face and am swallowed for hours. I am utterly and completely responsible for her and utterly and completely helpless to protect her from the whims of God or the universe or the world. And yet, we are bound. Nothing can cut the cord that binds us together.

She contains infinite possibility. Cec and I are here to help her explore and unlock some of that potential. We are the gardeners, to bring her the water and sunlight that she needs to grow and live and be. She could be anything, could like anything, could do anything. And will. And I hope to see it.

Is this how God feels? Does God look down on us and feel bound to each and every one of us? Does God watch me and feel responsible and helpless all at once? Does God watch me flail and cry and wish He/She/They could just explain in terms I understood what the point of everything is? Does God suffer when I suffer? Rejoice when I rejoice? Do I give God some inexplicable and deep, abiding joy? Does God smile when I do?

I’d like to think so.

I feel tied to H by something greater than either of us—we are bound, sealed, linked, tied, connected. Our fate is intertwined. I will go wherever she goes, a part of me will always be with her—holding, comforting, mourning with, watching, laughing, crying, being.

We are bound. I am responsible. I am helpless.

I’m in love.