It’s January 29, 2017.
You’re due tomorrow. You may not come for another week a so, but you’re scheduled to arrive tomorrow.
Your mom is nervous. She’s nervous about a lot – caring for you, breastfeeding you. She’s nervous about our finances during her maternity leave. We’ve saved, but have we saved enough? She’s nervous about your day care once she goes back to work.
But right now, the thing she’s most nervous about, I think, is the labor. What is the pain going to be like? She wants to give birth naturally, but will she need drugs? Will there be complications? There’s a lot on her mind.
I’m writing this on our living room couch in our Chicago condo. Jessica Jones is sprawled out on a blanket next to me, and your mom is in her office working.
Your mom and I have been together a few months past five years now, and this is somewhat of a cliche, but it’s hard to remember my life before her.
I proposed to your mom in the dining room of our first apartment together on Campbell Avenue. If we’re still in Chicago when you’re old enough to walk and understand, we’ll probably take you by our old neighborhood sometime and show you where mommy and daddy spent their first few years together.
Can I confess something about my proposal? I didn’t really propose. Well, I did, but I didn’t actually say anything. I insisted she turn her back as I went into my office to get her “birthday present” (Her birthdays are a big deal to her, so I couldn’t think of a more special day to pop the question), and then I came back with the ring, got down on one knee, and told her to turn around.
And I remained silent, just holding up the ring in its case. I was silent because even then, even as I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, I couldn’t articulate the reasons why, me, someone who fancies himself a writer every now and then.
Luckily, no words were needed. She burst out in happy tears, and that was all the ‘yes’ I needed, but still, I stood up, embraced her and asked, “That’s a ‘yes’, right?”
A couple of weeks later, I was at a party and someone congratulated me on our engagement. She had seen the news on social media. I was a touch tipsy, so my words and thoughts were flowing more fluidly than usual, and it just came out, the reason I wanted to spend the rest of my life with your mom:
“I never feel more like myself than when I’m with her.”
That may seem simple, son, but it’s a privilege I never felt like I had in my prior relationships – to completely be myself. That’s not to say the women before your mom did anything to intentionally to make me feel that way, but the chemistry between two people, the reason people click, is a funny thing that all the science in the world still hasn’t figured out, and for whatever reason, thank God, your mom and I did.
Sometimes, I’m not sure I meet her equally. Sometimes, I’m not sure she feels able to fully be herself around me all the time. But it’s something I’m continually aware of and work on. That’s one of the most important things you can do in a relationship: Just keep trying to become better for the other person.
You’re due tomorrow. (Have I mentioned that?)
I have an idea of what it’s going to be like to be your dad, but I know enough to know, right now, it’s still really just an idea, and I won’t really feel the full weight of it until the first time I see your head on your mom’s chest, the first time I hold you in my arms. And like with your mom, there will come a time when I can’t remember my life before you.
I am excited and a little impatient for that time to come. I’m typing this, glancing over at your mom’s back every few moments, almost trying to will her to go into labor. The last couple of nights in bed, whenever she has shifted enough to stir me even just slightly awake, my first thought was to hope labor was starting, and you were on your way.
I know, I know. It’s selfish. You’ll come when you’re ready, and your mom wants a couple of days of rest at home (her maternity leave begins tomorrow) to prepare.
Patience is a virtue, and I hope I teach you that well.
Now hurry up and get here, son.