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I saw something magnificent yesterday — you probably saw it, too — that has me quaking. Presently I will share it, but for the moment let me just offer this mundane personal fact: I am a father. Which says a mouthful. Mind you, we’re not exactly a rarified cohort; there are about 3 billion of us parents. But at the risk of being absurdly reductive, doesn’t it all come down, in no particular order, to this?
Joy, pride, worry, responsibility, hope and — never far from the surface — fear.
Oh, I don’t mean fear of sitting through another music recital, scarring to the psyche though it may be. Because life is so short, and 40 renditions of Für Elise are so long. No, I’m speaking of palpable dread. I’m speaking of heart-pounding, blood-chilling terror. I’m speaking of twist-your-intestines-into-a-clove-hitch fucking panic.
Because, from conception, there is so awfully much that can go wrong. Miscarriage, congenital defect, ectopic pregnancy, intellectual disability, preeclampsia, stillbirth. I am but scratching the surface. They say “we’re expecting,” but probably “apprehending” says it better. When the infant is delivered, ’til the digits are counted and the APGAR score tallied, breath and celebration are held back. It’s a long 60 seconds, and then relief, and tears of joy.
Unless something has gone awry. And then life goes in a different direction, not joyless of course, but with an expanded list of frightening what-ifs.