Wife shouts.
Hospital call.
I grab the bag.
Keys.
Shoes.
And it begins.
You’d think you’d be ready. You’ve been counting down for weeks, months even. But the moment it happens, you’re not really sure what you’re supposed to feel.
We rushed to the car. I tried to look calm, but my hands were shaking just a little on the steering wheel. She was in the seat next to me, breathing deeply, saying, "I think this is it." And I nodded, saying "Okay," as if I knew what to do. Spoiler: I didn’t.
Parking at the hospital felt like trying to land a plane in fog. I circled three times, heart pounding like I was late for the most important meeting of my life—because I was.
Inside, it’s a blur. Waiting. Paperwork. Midwives. Monitors. That tiny room that suddenly becomes your entire universe.
And yet, everything still felt unreal. Like I was playing a role in a film someone else wrote.
I kept asking myself:
“Am I excited?”
“Should I be scared?”
“Am I even allowed to be calm right now?”
The truth?
You don’t know what to feel.
It’s a mix of adrenaline, fear, pride, panic, joy, and this strange stillness.
Like time has slowed down just to mess with you.
This was the beginning.
The first day of being someone’s dad.
And honestly, nothing I’d read, watched, or prepared for even came close.
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