The delivery room was filled with an almost electric anticipation. My wife, Emma, lay on the hospital bed, her fingers gripping mine tightly, her face a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. The rhythmic beeping of the monitors, the hushed voices of the nurses, and the soft words of encouragement from the doctor all blended into a surreal moment.
This was it. The moment we had been waiting for.
Nine months of excitement, of picking out baby clothes, of feeling tiny kicks in the middle of the night. Nine months of imagining what our baby would look like—would she have Emma’s golden curls? My sharp cheekbones? The dimples that ran in my family?
A sharp cry filled the room, cutting through everything else. Our baby had arrived.