I am a 40-year-old journalist and in a couple of months, I will become what I have been dreaming of being for decades: a father.
I’ve started a nest egg for her. Where once extra cash would be handed over the counter to a bartender, the extra money now goes to a bank teller. We’re having a girl, Anika Isabelle, and thus it is also imperative for me to invest in a laser-guided rail gun for when she reaches her teenage years. That, or a pet tiger that we can leash to our home’s door.
Mostly, we cheer her on as she develops every sense, every body part, every neural function.
“Be strong,” my wife whispers to her regularly. “Be healthy and safe.”
“Be smarter than your dad,” I beg. “Don’t be a journalist.”
A thin line
Every day is a reason to fall in love with Isay—that’s our baby’s nickname. Every day, there’s something you want to buy, something you plan to do, some trip to look forward to. Your heart is overflowing with love.
But at the opposite end of all that love that glows inside you is the fear that is all too real. Every parent wants the best for his child. I am no exception. Now it’s Father’s Day and my fear has increased. When she is old enough to greet me during this annual tribute day to dads, what will she say? What will she thank me for? Will she even thank me at all?
Because sometimes, the line between love and fear is so thin. And crossing it becomes a lot more frequent for a dad whose precious little one is on the way.
It is difficult to be a father at this stage. Sure, you can do away with the pains and aches of nurturing and bearing a child. But you also feel like an outsider in the process, unaware if somehow, there is something you can do to make things easier for the wife and safe for the child. You wonder if she feels your presence at all or hears your voice when you speak to her at night.
You cannot possibly know what fear is until you inch closer to becoming a first-time father and the prospect of being a complete failure of a dad sinks its vile talons into the core of your very being.
This is what true fear feels like.
But after the overwhelming excitement of the first few months, a palpable sense of trepidation—icy in its coldness—has suddenly gripped my soul. My nights have become filled with moments of confrontation with a demon of a question: Will I be a passable dad?
In my search for answers, it has dawned on me that my career is already deadweight to begin with. Truth is something the world will never tell, justice something it will never dispense. So when your charge is to find truth and make sure justice is served, you are unfortunately locked in a race that is as endless as it is fruitless. Thus when it comes to anything that involves human relationships, journalists are at the same end of the spectrum where pond scum and dog lice reside.
The only reasons journalists are acceptable halves in a relationship are the people at the other end of the dynamic. A journalist is a good husband only because he has found a patient wife. He is a good friend because he has an understanding pal. And he is only a good father because he has a child that has been raised well enough by his mother to fully grasp the demands of having a dad willfully trapped in a noble yet unrewarding calling.
Planning
But my child is yet to be born. Who knows if she will grow up to be a fine citizen of the world and I may yet be spared the label of loser dad?
Life never offers guarantees, so you look for assurances elsewhere: You put in the extra work, hoping that the additional pay for the ungodly hours you burn now will buy more precious moments when the little one arrives. You plan for trips to parks, to foreign lands, in between worrying about the basics—food, shelter, education and health.
Truth is, I am very much in love with the child growing in my wife’s womb. Warnings about life-changing restrictions do not dampen the excitement of life-changing celebrations. I feel like a teenager caught in the spell of puppy love. I write sappy letters to the little one in a journal that I hope to give her when she turns 18. My wife and I have started buying her things that she will need and quite a few that she really doesn’t but we want her to have.
For every cloth diaper, feeding bottle set, nursing pillow and milk storage set, there are the cute baby Air Jordans and Nine West mini wedges, the summer dresses and adorable onesies.
I’ve bought her books, telling her how much it would mean to me to be able to read them to her soon. My wife plays Mozart and Beethoven for her. I talk to her at night and we do maths and a little science, that is whatever passable math and science a guy who became a journalist precisely to stay away from those subjects can muster.
Milestones
We celebrate every milestone: Hearing her heartbeat for the first time, watching her move inside the womb during ultrasound, seeing her face clearly for the first time, feeling her first kick.
It is the mother who gets first dibs at getting to know the child you’re having. She knows what foods make her kick for joy, how she chooses to sleep at night, what activities perk her up and what she hates. As a father, you can only watch in envy. Of course, it is the mother who suffers the most. She is nauseous a lot. She is tired a lot and almost breathless all the time. My wife loves working out and yet lately, routine walks leave her fatigued. Sometimes, little Anika Isabelle gets a tad bit too excited about something and it is mommy who feels the kicks and little punches.
But mommy Jo Anne smiles through the pain, living every moment because she says she will actually miss the hardships. As a father, you can only smile in awe and wonder.
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