What it's like having a daughter

I was going to write a story about the time I had ants in my pants in Ethiopia (sounds like a mad lib, but it’s true). But that’s for another week.

Today, I’m writing about having a daughter. This is what it’s like:

The first time I saw your face, you were followed by a deluge of amniotic fluid, and you had the umbilical cord around your throat. No, it wasn’t too tight. You were a little blue, but nothing too crazy. The nurse pulled it off with her blue-gloved finger.

The doctor asked if I wanted to cut the cord. I didn’t. I don’t understand why that is a thing. Is it ceremonial? I’m not a doctor. Outside of circumcision (which I also will not be asking to do on my son when he is born), I don’t know of any sacred operations performed on babies so what is the point of this one?

You screamed, and we were happy to hear you screamed. The nurses were afraid you’d swallowed meconium (which is another word for your poop. Your poop, not mine. Babies have special poop and sometimes in the womb you eat it. No I don’t know why, I’m not a doctor). They said you wouldn’t be able to scream because the meconium (poop) would make your lungs stick together.

But you screamed a beautiful scream.

I’m telling you all of this because this is why my first emotion when I saw you was HWAHHHHH!

I was really worried about how I would feel. So much of my theology (which is another word for who we think God is) is based on what I believed would happen in my chest when I saw you for the first time.

They put you under the heating lamp like you were a baby turtle. Then they put you on your mom’s chest.

“She still looks a little blue,” the nurse said.

Back to the heating lamp.

Then the nurse told me to sit on the couch by the window. It was just after 11 a.m. when they put you in my hands. You were wrapped up like a burrito, your face now thankfully red, and you had on a little beanie like the ones your great-grandma knits for the newborns up in Johnson City.

You opened your eyes and looked at me, and my theology changed; whatever I knew about God before this was wattle and daub. You looking at me was like songs going up into the vaults of a cathedral that is infinitely high and filled with so much light.

Now you’re old enough to only pick up the things I don’t want you to pick up. You like story time (if you have your milk), and you bounce and smile when I say “I love you, kiddo.” I don’t know if you think the words sound funny or you know what they mean, but I don’t care. It makes me happy.

You laugh when I laugh during the animated Robin Hood movie. You hate wearing socks to bed even if your feet will get cold at night, which will wake you up, and your mom or I will have to rock you to sleep. And you’re developing stranger danger (good girl, don’t ever trust boys), but you’ve never met another kid you didn’t want to make into your friend (I’m serious, watch out for boys. They can only think about one thing. Right now it’s dirt. Later it gets weirder).

And your brother is coming soon. Yeah, he’s a boy, and he’s going to eat dirt. But he will have you to look out for him, so I’m a little less worried.

Love you, kiddo.