I’ve been looking at this blank page for more than a few minutes trying to decide just which words to use. Trying to craft just the right message to covey just how cool it is to watch the birth of a father. I’m struggling. I want to get this right.
When Husband and I decided to get married, there was never any doubt that we would have children. Although we met and got married “later in life”, it was just a given that we would have a family. We were youthful – if not young – and idealistic. Life was good! [Life is still good, by the way. Very good!]
About seven years ago, Husband and I found out we were expecting for the first time. It was mid-June and just after our wedding reception.
[There's a running joke that we got pregnant between our wedding and reception. We did, actually ... the dates were like 3 months apart.]
We no sooner found out – and had time to get excited – than I miscarried. Six weeks – two days. We were devastated.
Not long after that we learned that we were expecting the second time. This time, we were cautious. We ran tests, prayed, and waited. At about 5 weeks, we knew that I would miscarry. The tests said so. It was Thanksgiving. We gave thanks and prayed that the tests were wrong. They weren’t. I miscarried at six weeks – two days. We were devastated.
I believe that faith and parenthood/fatherhood are necessary companions. We had faith. We had pain and grief and all that goes with miscarriage. We were scared, but we had faith.
The doctors assured me that it was likely that there was nothing wrong – that miscarriages are quite common. We took solace in that and decided to just be faithful and see what would happen.
Several months went by before we found ourselves expecting for the third time. This time we were just plain scared. We were also “activists”. We asked questions, learned a whole lot of medical terms, ran tests, and were cautiously optimistic. Then we started watching the calendar for the dreaded six weeks – two days. The numbers on the tests weren’t right, but the hCG numbers were going up so … we prayed and prepared.
Six weeks – two days. No miscarriage. Six weeks – three days. Six weeks – four days. No miscarriage.
I will never forget the appointment – the day when my OB said, “Looks like you are going to have to raise this one.” Never.
Just about 9 months (and several anxious moments of our own making) later, we were blessed with Little Man. In that moment, in that messy, scary, exciting, crazy moment a father was born as well. It was instant – a sort of rush of all of the emotion that comes with the journey to the moment. He had no idea what do to, but he was hooked.
Husband grew up the youngest of three kids. He never babysat and, until he met me, he’d not spent a lot of time with children at all. Now, he had a little one depending on him all of the time. I’m sure that it scared him to death. But, we never saw it.
Little Man had Husband uncovering feelings that he never knew existed. He was our little bundle of shock and awe. Husband loved him more and more every day and, today, they have a bond so strong that I can’t imagine a power strong enough to tear it apart. I am in awe of their relationship.
Roughly four years later, we decided that Little Man needed a sibling brother. We weren’t going to have another child – you can ask anyone. We were content. And, then, all of a sudden, we weren’t. And, then? Nah, we’re good. But, then? We really should. It was insane.
We really couldn’t decide. And then we did. We decided that we were read to do this crazy dance all over again.
The first month, I just knew I wasn’t pregnant. I just knew it. I didn’t feel pregnant. But, I checked anyway and uh, yeh … WRONG! So, we quickly got a grip and counted on the calendar. Our first healthy milestone was that six week – two day mark.
The doctors tested me out the wazoo – almost 40 with a history of miscarriage earns you a lot of needles in early pregnancy! I was on a business trip and bugged the sin out of the nurses at my doctor’s office. But, there they were – perfectly textbook hCG numbers and, then a strong heartbeat. We were going to have another baby. Little Man was going to have a brother.
Yeh, except that God had some other plans. Little Man apparently needed a sister. Who knew? And, as it turns out? Daddy needed a baby girl.
When we found out BK was not a boy there was some denial going on. Husband refused to buy in to what the nurses and ultrasound pictures were saying. She was a boy. What would we do with a girl? He already had the boy thing down.
But, sure enough, little BK showed up a tad ahead of schedule and full of healthy (if tiny) spunk! At 5 pounds 12 ounces, she was SO tiny and feminine – the complete opposite of her big brother.
And, Daddy? Well, if I am to be honest, I’d tell you that he was just scared. He stayed back this time … loving, but a little standoffish. He loved, supported, took care of … but didn’t really bond initially.
She was so small and so pink … and Little Man needed him … and she was so small and fragile.
Then, one morning in the first part of her second month, I looked over at the rocking chair and saw a father being born once again. In the quiet morning light with eau d’formula floating heavily in the air, I watched my husband fall completely in love with his daughter. I literally watched him fall. It was a precious moment that I will treasure forever.
BK is in love with her Daddy – as it should be. She thinks he hangs the moon – and the feeling is mutual. They have created a wonderful relationship that gives me such confidence in her future. I am in awe of their relationship.
My kids and their Dad are an awesome force. They love each other and hold nothing back. It’s pure and raw and real. They share bonds that will get them through the rough times. I am thankful for this to a point beyond expression. I wrote this post to honor the journey. The bond. The man.
Happy Father’s Day, Husband … and to all fathers everywhere!
We are beyond blessed to have you in our lives.I'll be hoppin' along now ...