Goggling henceforth carries one powerful and cheerful image to mind: the miraculous advent of my newborn rug rat. Despite our five-year moratorium on childbirth, my God-given seed colliding with mama’s earth is now cautiously composing a physical orchestra of teensy-weensy limbs, lungs and life–all of which obey the seemingly indecipherable genetic code so complex only a Celestial Scribe could have penned it.
Though gazing through a thick glass of tears, seeing “Baby Tuna” first puff its breathe, hearing his/her hollers of existence and touching Tuna’s skin–as smooth as a calm ocean–will only rush a joy so surpassing all human knowledge and feeling that it can only be felt by moms and dads in that birth-moment.
The subsequent hours will be no small thing. As I muster up all the superficial empathy I can find, I’ll lay next to my bride as she’s restored slowly, of course being aided by the sight of our tot. She’ll certainly hear my tidings of joy: that she labored marvelously, never quitting or losing one-millionth of an ounce of her striking beauty. She’ll have increased in loveliness, actually. We’ll chat endlessly about everything Tuna and slip into a needed rest, only to be awakened by our baby (or some annoying hospital worker).
Frankly, I can’t wait for parenthood, where my bride and I collapse over lack of sleep, cringe over mid-night wailings and thrash out over who’s next in wiping Tuna’s dirty butt. As forcefully trying as it will be, it must be worth watching the outstanding progression of our lad or lady. And a half Italian/half Salvadorian baby can only mean one thing: piping hot baked ziti with bits of chorizo mixed in.