I am someone who always knew he was going to be a father.
Sometimes it seems our culture presents dads as men who fell unexpectedly into parenthood, as if it was a ditch we didn’t see coming on the road of life. The natural drive, the sense of destiny — that’s often reserved for women, with the “urge” that apparently overtakens them to the core. Meanwhile, dads slink along until parenthood hits them over the head like a sledge hammer, sending animated tweety birds circling their heads while they slip on their Baby Bjorn in some infant-induced haze.
Of course, reveling in my natural daddy-drive was sidetracked by Vampboy’s medical drama that occupied every breath of every moment of every day for years — YEARS. Even recent memory, while we’ve moved into survivorship mode, has been filled with the stagnant sense that our vision for family life would always be dictated by a very special episode of ER. It has been hard to get beyond — to take a risk by allowing a sense of hope and possibility residency back in our universe.
But eventually, you have to turn the page, and find a new space to bring forth words that summon the future.
We are adopting a baby.