“A girl?” I questioned. “Are you sure? On a scale of one to ten, how sure are you that it’s a girl?”
“See that bone right there? And one there? And that one there?” She asked my wife as she manipulated the ultrasound wand. “That is definitely a girl.”
Just a few short weeks earlier, my wife bounced out of the bathroom, flung the blankets off me and squealed, “You’re going to be a dad!”
“I know.” I groggily replied, pulling the comforter back over my head.
I sometimes half-jokingly boast about how I know my wife so well that I knew she was pregnant before she did but I suppose I could have done a better job feigning surprise or at least jumped out of bed and spun around a few times. It’s not that I wasn’t excited but by the time she told me, I was already well down the mental road of preparing for another life in our small, one-bedroom apartment.
Days later, we walked in to the local coffee shop to pick up our drinks and my wife excitedly told the barista the news. We had gotten to know most of the employees there as we dated and had even stopped there in our wedding attire after saying our vows.
“I did it!” I raised my hand and blurted out, interrupting the obligatory congratulations from the baristas. Oh goodness, I really did just say that. I thought to myself.
After a bit of awkward silence, laughter burst out from both sides of the espresso machine. We grabbed our drinks and went on our way, some still chuckling and some congratulating us all the way to the door.
From the very beginning, I have been a proud dad and quickly became accustom to the phrase daddy bias.
“Look! She’s tracking me! Did you see that?” I proudly asked my wife as I held my daughter who was only about 36 hours old. I slowly tilted my head to the left and then back to the right as I cradled her in my arms. Although I would love her just the same, sighted or not, I was so thankful to be able to see her gaze following me as I moved.
Like any new parent, we gushed over every coo and would attempt to decode her baby jargon.
“Listen. She’s talking. What do you think she’s saying?” We would ask each other as we interacted with her, pretending to understand what she was trying to communicate.
Years later, I enjoy my tiny cups of pretend tea served with a side of plastic corn and a rubber hamburger. I treasure each caricature she illustrates, even if she gives me cat whiskers. I beam with pride when she says, “Daddy, will you play the plano wiff me?” as she grabs my hand and leads me to the piano in our home.
When I became a father, I understood, just a bit more, how much Jesus loves us.
I picture him smiling as he exclaims, “He’s tracking me!”
I imagine him saying, “Listen, he’s talking to me.”
I know Heaven rejoices when he announces, “He’s walking with me!”
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