How an Anxious Man Becomes a Father

The best and worst parts about becoming a father are the infinite possibilities.

When I first found out that your mother was pregnant with you, every thought was of the positive possibilities.  My immediate thoughts were that you would be a girl.  You would grow to be a teenager with challenges similar to my own.  That you would be someone who never accepts "that's just the way it's done," and would never be afraid to speak up and disagree with someone if you felt they're incorrect.  People would label you rebellious, recalcitrant, nihilistic, or disrespectful.  But I would know you better.  I would know this was the sign of a talented brain pushing the boundaries around it.  And I was thrilled at the possibility of supporting and cultivating these features and turning you into a successful leader in a STEM field.

But as every parent likely already knows, it ain't that simple.  Life has other plans.  After all, at that point, literally anything was possible.  Those three words - "anything is possible" - meant very little to me beyond their cliched, dictionary definition.  But my anxious brain had 8 months to start figuring out precisely what that meant.  When I heard on the news about a troubled teen committing a violent act, could that be you one day?  Will you be another victim of the opioid crisis?  How will you be prepared for the inevitable contraction of our workforce as technology replaces more and more jobs?  When I watched TV about someone with self-injurious behavior, or struggling with depression, or just struggling academically, could that be in your future?  How would I handle these problems?  Can I handle them?

So I started making explanations to myself as to why this won't happen to us.  I'm enlightened, I told myself, and will be alert to the signs of these problems and will never let them grow to that point.  But then common sense takes over, and I realized most parents think the exact same thing, and right now are no better at solving these problems than I am likely to be.

These were relatively small problems compared to what I was seeing at work.  Becoming a father, even to merely a developing fetus, completely changed my perspective at work.  Every child I saw in the office became you.  "The pregnancy was completely fine until..."  Gulp.  "It all started when we got into a car accident."  Nervous sweat.  "It looked like nothing, and the doctors thought it was reflux."  Panic.

And so with every medical challenge, I started to wonder how our small family would handle it.  The infections.  The seizures.  The medical equipment.  The need to completely restructure our lives.

And these thoughts led to the less obvious: that our lives will be restructured no matter what.  No longer can we simply take an Uber to the airport.  Any group activity will be forbidden until your little immune system is ready to handle people.  Vacation days may no longer be for vacations, but for when you get a fever and can't go to daycare.

But nothing will stop me from watching hockey.
Priorities.

Sleep?  Forget about it.  Those Arabic lessons I've been waking up early for?  On hold, indefinitely.  The home I've been nesting - how can I hammer, drill, or saw with a sleeping baby in the house?  The social life we've finally built in our new community, is it going to be baby- and family-friendly?  My personal growth goals - the books read, the races run, the publications published...

I'm told this mourning process usually happens after your baby is born.  But the anxious mind doesn't wait.

It wasn't all bad.  Getting to know you, slowly, in little bits over those months was thrilling beyond words.  First, we found out there was just one of you (your teta was hoping for twins!).  Then your mother could start to feel you move, giving us a glimpse of your personality (you moved a lot more during hockey games!).  Then we found out you were a girl, and we were overjoyed.  Then you had a name, Aya, for reasons we can't wait to tell you.

With each of these steps, some of those unlimited possibilities were whittled away.  The overwhelming infinity of possibilities becomes a slightly smaller infinity with each passing day.

I didn't realize that was happening until today.  Because today, I finally met you.  And I realized in one life-changing moment when you were placed in your mother's arms that so many of my fears were for nothing.  At the same time, I saw all of those infinities in your curious eyes.

I love every last one of those possibilities. 

Whichever one of those possibilities becomes you, becomes your life, I will love it that much more.




Welcome, Aya Lucia Smith.  Your anxious parents are in love with you, and looking forward to a lifetime of loving and worrying about you.