A Young Father

On Wednesday, my wife and I, along with many family and friends, welcomed our firstborn son into the world. Ira was born at 10:26 AM, weighing in at 8 lbs 3 oz. Both Agata and Ira are in great health, and labor went easily as far as labors go (well, you might have to verify that with her...). We named him Ira for a couple of reasons. My Puerto Rican maternal great-grandmother was named Iris, and we toyed with naming a daughter that before we knew he was a boy. Also, I think we just listen to too much NPR. Ira Glass and Ira Flatow now have a namesake. We aren't Jewish at all, but we did like the name.

Of all the thoughts and feelings coursing through my body these past few days, one has stuck out to me: like the song says, what a difference a day makes.

In my past, I had often pegged the then-future moment of fatherhood as that point in life when I will finally put away childish things, when, at long last, I will feel like an adult, like a man. I imagined it as a point of no return, something completely new and wholly different from any event which came before. Now, much of that I find true as I sit across the room from Ira, silent and wide-eyed at the world around him. But, simultaneously, I feel just like I felt on Tuesday afternoon. No sweeping change has come over me, no new sense of responsibility or purpose has dawned. When talking about this with my great friend Greg, he hit the nail on the head with: "It's just like, you have some more stuff to do now." Exactly. I'm still the same man I was last week, but now I have some things to do: get Agata some water while she breastfeeds, change a diaper in the middle of the night (or two or three), bounce around with milk-drunk Ira in my arms, wash the cloth diapers, find his hat which has fallen off for the eighth time this hour, support his head, let him suck on my little finger.

The whole affairs reminds me of my Confirmation back in high school. Here was the big moment, the exact moment, which the Holy Spirit would descend upon us. 3...2...1...boom!<

Nothing.

I don't really remember what I expected: maybe some wisdom, maybe some fortitude, but I was still just high-school Chad. As a once-Catholic, I never quite got the baptism in the Holy Spirit, speaking in tongues thing. I never quite trusted those emotions.

Now, as a young, bona fide father, I think back on change, on newness, on expectations. We humans are slow to change, slow to evolve, both literally and figuratively. There was no point in our evolutionary past where we were different from one generation to the next. Parents have been having babies which are as genetically similar as I am from Ira for millions of years. And yet, here we are. But how different are we really? The strong still oppress the weak, the haves exploit the have-nots. We are primates armed with nuclear bombs.

Perhaps I do feel a new sense of responsibility. Now I don't simply desire to mold the world for its own sake; now I have somebody whom I love who will live through the world that I leave behind. I find myself putting aside my nightly novel and reaching back to my non-fiction section. I find myself more motivated to get involved, to educate my students and the public, to build something that will help Ira and his generation save the world.

Nothing is different, and yet everything is different. No father-gene has kicked in an started building father-proteins. I only have one extra day of experience than I did yesterday. And yet, no day will be same hence. I look forward to all of the other changes Ira will bring my way, and I hope that I will be able to pass that change on, leaving this old planet a better place than I found it, leaving this country more equitable and empathetic than it is now, leaving a world which, seventy years from now, I can show Ira with pride.