Becoming a Dad

So, I’m a dad. A father. I am responsible for a life, I guess. Is that how it works?

It’s weird.

My wife, Ali, was in labor for more than an entire day—and, on the day she went into labor, we sold our house, moved and signed the papers for the new house. Imagine, if you will, a very pregnant lady going through her contractions in the hallway of a house we just moved into (boxes everywhere, clothes strewn about, mass entropy) talk about a housewarming party—is that a dad joke?

We went to the birth center where we’d been going for the entire pregnancy to, y’know, welcome a baby. On the way there, Ali was facing backwards in the backseat of our 4Runner, looking out the rear window, commenting on how funny the world looked from that view. I couldn’t believe I was driving my wife to the birth center to give birth to our baby. I drove pretty well, navigating around potholes, accelerating slowly, stopping without a single jerking motion. I didn’t even hit anyone.

En route, I was struck by the people out and about, living their lives. They were going to bars, eating at restaurants, staring at their phones in the company of others. There was a level of nonchalantness in sight that made me envious. Also, I was hungry and had a nearly 42 week pregnant lady in the backseat whom I was positive might birth a baby and her placenta onto the floor.

“Yes, hi. Car detail place. Can you remove placenta juice from the carpeting of our vehicle?”