I was doing fine until the doctor mentioned a C-section. Part of me wondered what had happened to A and B. Apparently fatherhood doesn't wait for you to become less of an idiot.
My daughter arrived at 2:27 p.m., weighing 6 pounds. I'd heard plenty about the pain of childbirth, but I never felt a thing. My wife had a rather different afternoon.
I held Natalie and tried to look like someone who knew what he was doing. They were going to let us take her home.
The first few months exposed some gaps in my preparation.
For a start, I hadn't understood how much could come out of such a small person. You buy the tiny clothes and imagine a tiny amount of trouble. Then she shits with enough force to make you question the plumbing in your own house.
I used to wonder what parents did all day. Once you've changed the baby, fed her and changed yourself, it's nearly time to change the baby again. Somewhere in there, you're meant to wash the things you both just took off.
Sleep became something I remembered enjoying. On 2 hours of sleep, I'd stagger around the kitchen looking for a bottle.
And during all this, I was supposed to be the responsible adult. I could barely manage the washing machine without asking for help. Now a whole person depended on me.
That thought could keep me awake even when she didn't.
I wanted to be a good dad. The difficulty was that wanting it didn't get much done. Natalie still needed changing. My wife still needed food and time to recover. I could stand there feeling overwhelmed, but eventually somebody had to make dinner.
Some days I missed how easy it was to do whatever I wanted. I also missed wearing a shirt that hadn't been vomited on. I don't think either feeling meant I loved her less. It meant I needed a shower and perhaps a few hours of sleep before offering any opinions about my life.
Then there were the moments when nothing much happened. I was just sitting there holding her. She wasn't doing anything impressive. Neither was I, for once.
I'd look at her face and lose track of whatever I had been complaining about. That was an expensive little trick. She could get me through a terrible night without even knowing I'd had one.
Of course, she'd also head-butt my nose. There was no need to get carried away.
For now, my wife wanted supper. Kentucky Fried Chicken in chocolate sauce.
I thought the cravings were supposed to stop after pregnancy.