The first thing I heard was my newborn daughter's cry on the other side of the sky blue hospital curtain.
To be honest, I was scared.
A baby dinosaur-like shriek that was at once primal and endearing.
Along with the smell of my wife’s burning flesh.
My wife shaking uncontrollably from the anesthesia.
Myself nervous, astounded, confused, doing my best to be a supportive partner.
Holding hands. Stroking her head. Silently praying. Bewildered.
Intense.
Mari exited her mother’s womb via cesarian section. And just like that our lives changed, irrevocably placed on the path of parenthood, an institution that had been represented throughout my life in everything from movies to music to of course my own parents, that I was now part of. A new member of the club.
Accustomed to a life of late night movie binges, solo hikes, dinners with friends and generally obsessing over myself (am I on the right path career-wise?), my reality was now changing by the second. More accurately it was being ripped apart, like a muscle primed for growth. My locus of responsibility expanding to previously unimaginable depths. A part of me disintegrating, or maybe imploding is more fitting. The lone wolf. The part of me that selfishly clings to everything I perceive as mine yells out for dear life. My time. My career. My money. My wife. I said goodbye to him in the jungle, for the most part.
A new part of me emerges. The father. Dad. Guardian. Whoa.
Deep breaths.
A nurse held our baby above the curtain for my wife and I to see for the first time. It was like that scene from the Lion King. Simba was born, held high for all to see. Triumphant. Magical. The circle of life.
Our baby’s arms spread wide like she was attempting to fly off to somewhere quieter, warmer, darker, more womb-like and nourishing. Really, a lifelong pursuit for all of us. It was her startle reflex I later learned.
This was not like the movies. There will be blood. And waxy cheese stuff. And a large placenta. And a thick, gelatinous umbilical cord. Cutting it (I did the deed) was the first step toward my daughter’s independence in the world. Tomorrow a car. College. A boyfriend. Not necessarily in that order. But not yet. Today your mother's milk (actually colostrum). Baby steps.
I positioned my smartphone to capture the first photo of our newborn daughter. The first of many moments to be preserved in digital format, stored in the cloud and shared with the world.
She didn’t have a name yet. My wife and I had a shortlist, but decided to meet her before choosing a name. To see her in the flesh. My wife, numb from the waist down and having passed the first leg of her major surgery turned her head towards me on the operating table and in a tired voice said, “let’s name her Mari.” It sounded just right.
And so it was, Mari had arrived.