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April 13, 2000
The night before you were born, it rained. In fact, it rained that entire weekend. Forgive me for invoking a father's conceit, but it was as if our patch of Earth was cleansing itself for your arrival.
A doctor’s page interrupted my Student Lab Assistant shift at school. The custodian on the night shift put away her cleaning gear and spirited me to the hospital to greet you. The drive was such a blur that I scarcely had time to gather my thoughts long enough to even become nervous about the weight of your arrival.
You were a month early, but still, like your old man, you opted to take your time in your own way. The doctors sent me home until they determined you were ready to make your entrance.
At home I thumbed through my technical manuals, retaining little knowledge in the tedious ritual. I didn’t even read the pages. My muscles were pacified by the repetition, but my mind was racing to find a scenario where I could see myself as an adequate father to you. I analyzed countless settings, and in each of them, I found myself unfit for the task.
I thumbed through that 300 page book in total silence. When I finished, I flipped the book over and began again, as if the secrets to parenting would be found through osmosis of a computer manual. I thumbed the pages, calculated more scenarios, flipped, and thumbed some more. I was cramming for the final exam of parenthood after months of procrastination and denial.
Each time I flipped through that book, I came to the same fearful conclusion; I was not ready to be your father. I was going to screw everything up.
I was going to fail you.
Slowly, painstakingly, I thumbed through the last page, then flipped the book to the beginning and began the process anew with fresh scenarios. I continued this bizarre ritual for hours.
When I was hungry, I microwaved a frozen meal. When I was thirsty, I drank a soda. I also remembered to shower, ensuring a good first impression when we finally met. But whenever my mind was idle, I blankly thumbed through that ridiculous book.
When I received the doctor’s page, I rushed through the rain to the bus stop, useless manual in-hand (for studying purposes). The trip required two buses. Fearful of missing your arrival, I skipped the second bus and took a cab with my last fistful of cash.
As it turned-out, there was no need to rush. You weren’t quite ready yet either.
When I arrived, your mother and her friends were having a slumber party or some form of female revival. Your mother's friends made good faith efforts to mask their loathing of my presence, as the cracks of your parent's strained union were self-evident months before your conception. Admittedly, her friends did their best under the circumstances, and their contributions were tolerable, and even pleasantly distracting.
The festive veneer slowly peeled away as the contractions came with greater frequency and severity. The doctor detected your heart rate slowing and urgently ushered us from the room to prep your mother for surgery.
As I found a spot on the waiting room couch, I opened my book of useless facts and began studying again. While thumbing through the pages, I formulated scenarios of how my life would never be the same once you arrived. I did this while vainly trying to block-out how my life would never be the same if you didn’t arrive at all. Colossal parental failure or not, I knew that I wanted to leave that hospital and walk into that night, protecting you from the hostile elements.
But if you didn’t arrive… if something went wrong... no, that was inconceivable.
I rapidly turned several pages at once to force the black clouds from my mind.
The internet protocol is a network layer protocol and... your mother... she was at risk too. Sure, she and I had our differences, but she was my oldest friend. I certainly didn't want anything to happen to her...
I rapidly flipped through the book, frantically searching for a distraction.
Hyper Text Markup Language is used on web pages and can embed scripting elements but... if you didn’t arrive… If you… didn’t make it…
I ripped several pages and dropped the book in disgust.
Refocusing my energy on staying positive, I knew you would make it. You had to. You were stubborn, like me. (At the time, I didn’t know if you were stubborn or not. I just willed you into that mold because we all know that stubborn people are persistent and tend to get what they want. So you were too stubborn to miss our first breakfast date. You just were because I said so and that was that.)
As the night gave way to the gray of dawn, the deluge outside was unrelenting. The doctor summoned me into a room with bright lights. Your mother was weak and barely conscious. She smiled at me between her snores and I held her hand. The bottom half of her was obscured by a large curtain, and judging by the sounds coming from there, ignorance is truly bliss.
I strained to ignore the sloppy cacophony behind the curtain and scanned the room for you. I didn't find you. I strained to hear your wail announcing your arrival. There was only the sound of damaged tissue being hastily restored to order.
I stopped searching and listening. I focused my gaze on the tile patterns of what had become limbo. Unable to hope. Unwilling to despair.
A few moments later, a woman in scrubs appeared from behind the curtain. She carried a tiny blanketed bundle. She handed the blanket to me and happily announced your arrival. I peered into the blanket and examined your eyes as you quietly sized me up. You seemed to know more than I did. Perhaps you did. I felt regret at meeting you at a time when your mother and I were so estranged and on the brink of parting ways, but I never regretted meeting you. Not even for a second.
I offered you my finger and as you tightly gripped it, I knew that I had just met the love of my life.
It was as if your searching eyes and tight fist awakened the best part of me, a part of me that I never knew existed. Something that I could have never found in a book of facts.
Suddenly, it became apparent that I would make many mistakes and screw things up royally, possibly on a recurring basis. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. Certainly, I was going to fail you on occasion. I was clearly not ready to be your father.
But after meeting you, I was ready to try. The simple act of holding you in my arms for the first time made me want to be a better person. Perhaps you willed it through your tiny fingers. I won’t try to understand it. I’m just glad we met.
Eight years have passed since then. Your mother and I parted ways, as predicted, and the acrimony and mistrust between her and I has adversely impacted the relationship between you and I (I won’t point fingers. Your mother and I both share the blame for this shameful dysfunction.)
Though our relationship hasn’t unfolded as I would have liked it to, nothing on this Earth has ever, and nothing will ever come close to the joy of meeting you for the first time.
Nothing.
Happy Birthday, Miss Muffet. I love you.
"To be a poet is a condition, not a profession."
- Robert Frost
My crappy blog: http://www.livejournal.com/users/eyes_of_mine/
Blind Eye Turning: My book
http://www.lulu.com/content/187759
My other crappy blog:
http://inevitabletruth.blogspot.com/
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