I pulled our silver Maxima to the hospital’s front door and put it in park. I got out to open the back door. My wife handed me our newborn son and I gingerly put him into the car seat. “I sure hope I installed this darn thing correctly,” I thought as I buckled him in. Then I helped my wife into her seat and put her luggage into the trunk. I walked around the car and got in, turned the key and looked in the mirror.
There, turned rearward, was my son. My child. My firstborn.
I have never felt such euphoria and fear at the same time in my life. “What do I do now?” I thought. I looked right and left and right again as I prepared to pull out in traffic.
For the first time in my life, I was truly responsible for another human being. “Please don’t let me screw this up,” I prayed.
I drove UNDER the speed limit all the way home.
Fatherhood didn’t come naturally to me. Still doesn’t, to be honest. But I accept now that kids are tougher than I thought that day. I wish they came with instruction books stapled to their butts. They don’t. Each of my sons require me to be a different dad.
But my first son was my education. And 15 years after his birth, I think I figured out the secret — give them copious amounts of time and love.
I had all three boys in my car today as we drove near Dogwood. Traffic was horrible and I looked in my mirror again. I realized I had precious cargo in my car. I started to feel that same feeling again. And then I smiled.
If I could go back to that day when we pulled away from the hospital, I’d tell myself to relax and enjoy the ride.