Four more years

Happy birthday Maala

I’m writing this early on the morning of Maala’s birthday. The house is steeped in the quiet, pre-dawn pause. 

Every parent will tell you the years fly by but it’s always surprising just how fast they do. 

As I wait in earnest for an idea to spur today’s writing session, my mind wanders back to the night Maala was born. 

The details of that evening remain surprisingly clear.

Mel and I were watching a movie on the couch in our New York City apartment. Ironically, the movie was Jordan Peele’s Get Out and I guess it worked because as the credits rolled, Mel’s water broke.

Game time. 

After calling the doctor, I poured a double nip of whiskey and wrote Maala a letter. The few paragraphs I’ve pasted below hint at the mix of emotions and nonsense I was trying to capture as I scribbled down my thoughts. 

I really don’t know what else to write right now. This is a surreal feeling of excitement, calm, anxiousness all mixed into one. 

We have to wait until the contractions reach a certain point - 4 mins apart, 1 minute long, and for at least 1 hour straight—then we go to the hospital. So we’re just sitting here waiting… 

I put on a party shirt for the occasion. I figure I have to show you my true colors the first time we meet. 

It’s weird to think I’m writing you a letter as you’re still inside your mother but on the way out. In a matter of hours we’re all going to meet… I hope you like us… ;) Unfortunately, you don’t have a choice. Either way, you’re stuck with us.  

I remember staring out the window and feeling the change that was happening. The end of one chapter, the beginning of the next. The only thing rarer than these moments in life is your awareness of them so I made sure to drink it all in. 

The next time I’d sip whiskey, I thought, I’d be a father.

Mel applied some makeup because she wanted to get dolled up for the big show. In a photo I took, she’s giving me a side-eye look that suggests I should think twice about making a comment. 

As we left our apartment for the hospital, I thought about how the next time we’d be back here, it wouldn’t be as a couple, but as a family. Two become three by the end of the weekend. 

I remember having to prep the Uber driver. “Tonight’s your big night, pal. Keep the car running, my wife’s in labor!” I gasped at him before running back to the elevator to help Mel walk between the contractions. 

20 minutes later we were at the hospital and the driver said “Have a good night!” as we closed the doors behind us. I always thought that was a strange thing to say to a woman in labor. 

I wheeled Mel to the maternity ward, handed over a box of chocolates and snacks to the maternity nurses, and settled into our delivery room. 

18 hours later, I remember holding Maala for the first time. And life’s never really been the same since. 

That was four years ago. 

Now I’m waiting for Maala to wake up and open her birthday present—a Frozen-themed acoustic guitar. Afterward, we’ll have to convince her to eat breakfast, brush her teeth, put her toys away, go to the bathroom, get dressed, do her hair, put a jacket on, put her shoes on, get in the stroller, and head to school. Each step will be a test of wills. 

“The days are long, but the years are short,” they say. 

Too short if you ask me.

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