I’m A Little Nervous About Becoming Your Father

Winner of The Letter Review Prize for Nonfiction

I

A few months ago, I started cleaning the house in a frenzy. I ran in circles: into the kitchen, down the hallway, and through your bedroom (your mother’s sewing room and a workout space at the time).

It wasn’t that the house was messy. Maybe a few things could have been tidied, and the carpet in the living room needed vacuuming. As you will come to understand, Elsie-Mae’s fur has a tendency to lodge itself in every fiber of the house. In that sense, the living room always needs vacuuming.

I was trying to be cute, and it worked. It made your mother smile.

I organized envelopes on the counter, sorting the mail into a neat pile for her to review. I collected shoes and arranged them in matching pairs under the bench beside the front door. Elsie’s plush animals I plucked from the center of the living room floor and stuffed into her fabric box — the little one that has a dog print on the front and says “STUFF” in cute letters above it (Your mother dislikes the toy box. In her opinion, the wicker basket we were using worked just fine. You know, if you weren’t on the way, your grandma would have us swimming in a sea of dog toys). After that, I rinsed the dishes in the sink, put them in the dishwasher, and began dismantling the coffee maker.

She knew I was being cute, but I think my willingness to continue cleaning confused her. Admittedly, it was an odd way to act after the conversation we just had.

Your mother followed me into the kitchen and asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m cleaning.”

“I can see that,” she replied.

“Our house is a mess,” I exaggerated. “We gotta’ get this place straight before the baby arrives.”

I didn’t hide the grin on my face as I bent down to toss the spent grounds into the trash. Her smile went ear-to-ear. Doing eccentric things to make your mother happy is one of my favorite things in the world.

We had decided to allow a child’s presence into our lives; your presence. We weren’t trying to make it happen per se (I’ll explain this later, much later), but we weren’t preventing it from happening either. If it happens, it happens; that was the motto.

There was something about the timing that finally made sense. Until that moment, we resisted the idea. Many things kept us from taking the subject seriously. It was mostly ourselves getting in the way. We often brushed it aside and said things like, ’Babies are gross,’ or ’Kids suck the life out of you.’

We considered these mantras to be absolute.

To really drive our opinion home, we would rationalize the mantras when we would find ourselves in the presence of actual human critters. This usually occurred at a friend’s birthday party or when we RSVP’ed to one of the socials at church. They had kids. They started early, and they loved their offspring.

Gremlins, I would hear your mother sometimes say under her breath. Of course she was kidding. I tended to agree with her, but the nicknames were a subliminal attempt at convincing ourselves that we weren’t ready.

At the get-togethers, the children would bounce around wildly, shove food in their faces, and whine to their parents about all the noise and all the people surrounding them. I watched it happen with aversion, and I studied how our friends would dismantle the situation. Your mother was watching too. Parenting looked difficult. It did not convince us that we were missing out on anything spectacular. Children did not seem to provide the spark of endless joy as commonly advertised.

We had a ritual every time we left one of those gatherings. It usually occurred on the car ride home. One of us would turn to the other. After a brief eye-lock, we would understand completely.

“Nope. Still don’t want ‘em,” we would say to each other.

But now things were different.

We finally went on that honeymoon, three years later (No offense, but we didn’t want a kid slowing us down as we traversed the Scottish highlands. Maybe we’ll take you back with us one day). I also learned to ski. Your mother was impressed by how quickly I picked it up. What can I say? (Don’t be surprised. Impressing your mother is difficult!)

Meanwhile, your mother took the time to get some extra credentials behind her name on her business card (you know she has to be the best). She continued to push her career forward, attending networking events, leading the local mentorship group for young professionals, and she still found the time to read a hundred books in a year. Her speed reading is what I find extremely impressive (I read so slow. You’ll see).

At that time, things were changing. We checked a few boxes. The to-do list was getting shorter.

While things were different, I went to the city in the mountains for a weekend. Your mother stayed behind. She wasn’t invited to the bachelor party. She accompanied the ladies to the bride’s shower instead.

The group of bros wasn’t made-up of the type who got drunk and yelled at random strangers on the street; although, a couple of them wanted to be those guys. A devilish pair bought an excessive amount of Mai Tai’s, and tried to convince the groom to chug them. He wasn’t into it, and I wasn’t either, really. Tiki bars aren’t my thing.

The groom and I share a special bond in a few ways. Our friendship blossomed towards the end of our time together in architecture school. Still, we often discuss our shared passions for good design, professional soccer, and partaking in the oh-so decadent beverage that is whiskey. The topic of having children has never come up.

We tipped a few glasses that weekend (some good ones at that!). I sat and sipped mine neat. He liked to add an ice cube to his glass, just to take the edge off.

At night, the others drank cheap beer and began throwing ping-pong balls at each other. As more alcohol was consumed, the more out-of-control the beer-pong contest became. We wanted to pretend like we were all in college again. Those were good times; stressful, but good.

Although the happy couple got married a few months later, nobody was thinking about the wedding during the bachelor party. We were just having fun being guys. There wasn’t anything holding us back. We had all the time in the world.

Needless to say, after a weekend of masculine energy, I wanted to go home and rest. First, I had to endure a two-hour carpool. There was so much chit-chat. I hate pointless conversation. It wore me down even more than I already was.

Back in town, I dropped-off the groom at his apartment. We promised the bride that we would bring him back in one piece, and we did well to stand behind our word. He wasn’t even hungover, which probably meant we could have had an even better time (but we were a boring bunch of thirty-somethings).

I said goodbye and drove myself home. It was a relief to finally pull into the driveway and consider the trip over.

I walked through the front door with a deflated air mattress under each arm. Luckily, they didn’t smell like the beer that was tossed around the night before. Your mother was in the kitchen. She was cooking something. There was steam in her face. It must have been pasta she was making.

“Oh, you’re home,” I heard her say, like she was nervous to see me.

“Uh huh.” I could barely manage spoken words, I was so tired.

I put the mattresses down in the foyer. There was more to unload from the truck, but a kiss was required. After a weekend apart, there is an order to how you do things. Kiss. Unpack. Shower. Rest; before the next work-week begins.

As I walked into the kitchen I noticed the room had been tidied. Dishes cleaned, counters wiped, and the pile of recycling was gone. I hugged her, looked around, and said, “The place looks nice.”

“I cleaned,” she said to me.

“I can see that,” I said.

There was a pause before she delivered the news. In our embrace, she looked up into my eyes.

“I cleaned, for the baby.”

II

The weeks go by so fast. First you’re just the size of a few molecules, then you’re a sesame seed.

Not long ago, I reached into our spice cabinet and retrieved a small jar from the shelf. I shook some of its contents into my palm. You were there, in my hand, a hundred times over. I put all the seeds back, except one. I looked at it, and showed your mother. You were impossibly small; I couldn’t believe it.

“Look, it’s our child!” I said.

A sesame seed lay in the palm of my hand. It was almost invisible beside the paleness of my skin.

“Yes,” she said. “But I hope it gets bigger than that.”

You did get bigger, and it happened quick.

From a seed, you became a chickpea. Then you were a kidney bean, a grape, then a kumquat. That’s when we told your grandparents about you.

Your growth happened quickly. The feelings overwhelmed me, and I didn’t want to admit it. Part of me still doesn’t want to admit how scared I am, but that’s probably just the natural male tendency that runs in our family (one of the traits I hope to make better in you). From time-to-time, I struggle with the seemingly impossible task of becoming a parent. There’s a lot swirling in my brain, and none of it would stop you from growing in your mother’s belly.

No big deal, I told myself. We’re just bringing life into the world…

It’s a thought I’m sure every first-time parent considers, but for somebody who needs to be prepared, your presence made me nervous. Once I became honest with myself, the little voice in my head spoke some scary words: maybe I’m not ready.

For some reason, I thought everything would change. I imagined my new status as a soon-to-be-father would make life straightforward. With a new perspective, perhaps my mind would paint clearer pictures, new doors would open, and the sun might shine brighter. Of course that didn’t happen. The traffic didn’t magically clear, and the issues with the house were still there. Alas! The fact my honey-do list hadn’t shrunk only added more weight to my shoulders.

It was a tad disheartening that nothing marked the occasion; but honestly, I don’t know what I was expecting (a sign from God, perhaps). There were minor shifts. Life became about waiting and preparing; but above all, life became about hoping and praying.

That is to say, I’ve rarely prayed in the tradition method. I don’t get on my knees and talk to the big man up above. Instead, I talk to myself and let the inner voice speak back to me (perhaps powered by spirits unknown), and I listen to what it has to say. The natural feelings of my soul can be challenging to grasp, but I try not to blanket the truth. They are my emotional response to the swirling thoughts. Accepting the results is the first step to fulfilling an understanding of self. Simply put, I try to listen honestly (does that make sense?).

The issue was, I was hearing myself say some troubling things. It gave me pause, and (for a moment) I began to doubt the choices we were making.

Is it too late to accomplish the goals I had for my life? What was it exactly that I wanted to do before a little gremlin of our own showed up?

The sense of freedom I once had at a bachelor party was gone. The clock was ticking. I was running out of time.

As the weeks passed by, I found myself staring at small morsels of food. The chickpeas and the beans would later be surpassed by apples and avocados. You were growing, and my anxiety was swelling.

I carried these thoughts with me to our first visit with the midwife. The appointment was scheduled at noon. Your mother drove herself from home, and I came from my office in Uptown.

My mind raced, which distracted me. It took twenty minutes to park because I couldn’t read the little signs outside the impressively large parking decks. I found myself in the valet section of the hospital, but a parking attendant saw I was flustered and let me keep my truck where it was. I walked briskly inside the clinic and took the elevator to the fourth floor (as I was instructed). Your mother was sitting in the waiting room. When I took the seat next to her, I immediately started complaining about the confusion in the parking lot.

“Where is the visitor parking at this hospital?! It’s not obvious. I drove through the Emergency Room carousel because I got lost. Somebody needs to do a better job of providing signage around here.”

She looked at me and said simply, “It’s going to be alright.”

Your mother should have been the nervous one, but she was helping me chill out. Anxiety levels were high. It was an important visit for many reasons, but our main concern was you.

“I just want one baby, growing where it’s supposed to.” That’s what your mother said to me.

“No twins, please,” I agreed, like we were ordering from a menu. “Just one for now. Let’s start there.”

I didn’t expect an ultrasound so early in the process, but it was the first thing we did when the nurse retrieved us from the waiting room. Your mother laid on a table and exposed her belly (still normal-sized during the first trimester; although there was the start of a tiny “pooch”). The nurse rubbed some of that jelly-stuff on the bottom of her abdomen and at the end of the device wired to the computer. It happened quickly, just like everything else.

Then, with the help of modern technology, there you were.

You weren’t a chickpea, or a kidney bean. You were a tadpole; a tiny thing, with a big head, and the smallest appendages that were the beginnings of arms. It was remarkable. Something about it seemed too easy, like we were cheating the natural way of things. I had a sense that we weren’t supposed to see you like this, but there you were, on a screen for our viewing pleasure. It was slight, but we could see you move for the first time, and I was stunned.

The nurse explained it was too early to hear your heart, but she could tell it was beating. “The monitor shows a heart rate of 170. That’s a good sign,” the nurse said.

“170! Wow.” I was amazed. I had (and still have) a lot to learn about child development. “Our kid will be a track star if they can sustain 170.”

Your mother smiled. I think the nurse thought I was being stupid.

After only five minutes on the table, your mother got off and wiped the jelly from her stomach. The nurse printed an image from the ultrasound for us to keep. Before she did, she pasted the word BABY next to your shadow. It was our first picture of you.

I held your silhouette in my hand. I was excited, and I couldn’t believe it. That’s when a wave of doubt rushed over me.

This kid can’t be mine, can it?

I’m not mature enough to be a dad.

How do I do this?

III

‘Nobody is ever ready. You’ll figure it out.’

The typical advice isn’t always the most helpful.

It’s strange to think there are billions of people in existence, all born to a mother and a father. There are just as many parents walking around this planet as there are children. Surely, one person has actual useful advice that the others don’t have. I wasn’t so sure I would be able to find that person and ask them the questions piling high in my head.

As a father, what are you supposed to do during birth?

What do you say to the child when it comes to understand that you’re the one responsible for keeping it alive?

How do you make sure they don’t turn into a bratty teenager?

If you can’t tell, I’m a little nervous about becoming your father.

It wasn’t sudden. I saw it coming.

Slowly, I watched myself sink under the oncoming task of parenthood, and with each passing week, the ticking clock that was your mother’s expanding stomach reminded me that I wasn’t ready. There was so much to learn, so much to read, so many tasks left unfinished, so much to explore that had yet to be explored. I had passion projects I wanted to pursue, side-hustles I wanted to start, and interests that I hadn’t yet gotten around to investigating. What was I to do first?

For much of your life, you sit around worrying about the challenges that may, or may not, lie in the path ahead of you. It’s easy to allow flimsy thoughts to dominate your decisions. Tomorrow is always available; the weekend perhaps; there’s always next summer. These things you’ll say in the wake of doing something meaningless, like scrolling on your phone or watching another sports game on TV.

You have to understand, my personal time is something I cherish. It’s a limited resource that needs to be maximized to fulfill a life that’s exceptionally well-lived. That’s why I felt stupid to have wasted so much of it doing meaningless things. I had boxes left unchecked, but I also needed to prepare. When you arrive, I have every intention of giving you my time — whatever is needed — but that was soon coming at the cost of forgoing the goals I had previously pushed away. Your mother was already a couple of months into her pregnancy, and you had a due date. Suddenly, there was a limit on my most valuable resource.

Was it time to start a family? I asked myself. Had I done everything I wanted to do before having a child? You know what they say. I’ve heard it a thousand times before from family members, coworkers, and churchgoers:

‘If you want to do it, then do it before you have children!’

They were echoes in my brain, like something you would see in a movie when the main character is just standing there wondering what to do next. I was on the edge, and the time was now. If I didn’t jump, I may never get the opportunity to jump again.

I wanted to run a half-marathon (Good Lord, not a full marathon…), and maybe compete in an Iron-Man competition. What about writing a book — I always wanted to do that — and playing soccer again? Maybe I could find an adult league that would take me in, or perhaps I could try my hand at coaching a youth team.

Let’s not forget all the places to explore! Your mother and I dreamed of going to Peru to hike Machu Picchu (It’s still a bucket-list item). Our country’s national parks are great, but we hadn’t seen them all yet. When were we going to do that?

There is so much. It’s overwhelming.

It’s not just the sacrifice of time, it’s that I want to do these things on my own (Or with your mother). I want to prove to myself that I can accomplish the lofty goals I set for myself, but when you get here, I must transfer my love and passion onto the development of your goals. I intend to do that for you, but there is still some lingering disappointment that I couldn’t make it happen for myself; like I wasted my time, and if I can’t reach my goals, how am I meant to be a good example for you?

In retrospect, I was being selfish, but these thoughts and desires fueled my anxiety. Can I still do these things and learn to become the good parent I am supposed to be? Once I asked myself that question, a few things shifted.

I couldn’t do it all, but writing a book is something I always wanted to give a decent college-try. It was something I thought I could accomplish. That’s what I chose, so I started writing.

Quickly, I discovered it would take much longer than I had anticipated. My concepts were elementary. I was falling head-first into every cliché in the book (literally). You would arrive well before I would finish the project, and I was soon discouraged by my efforts. It was a simple lack of confidence, or just a dose of heavy reality. I realized my time was running thin, and I was going to fall short of the lofty heights I had established for myself. Everything seemed unattainable.

But I kept writing. I wouldn’t let my last charge be defeated by my critical mind.

I read more. I watched videos on writing, and I practiced as much as I could. Not only that, but I pivoted from my novel and began writing shorter pieces, like this story.

It was refreshing to turn my worries into words, and I came to realize something important. I didn’t need to reach any of my goals before you arrived. What I needed was therapy. Writing became therapy. It’s a form of talking, after all. I’m not good at speaking words, but if I write them down, I find I’m much more coherent.

I think it’s funny, but perhaps it’s no surprise at all. It turns out the person I needed to talk to was you.

There’s no question. You’re a world all to yourself, and you hold a mighty gravity. I’ve never felt something like this before, and you’re still just a small gremlin in your mother’s belly (A beautiful, inspiring gremlin)!

The thing is, I thought I would have all the time I needed to prepare, but that’s simply not the case. I thought I would climb every mountain, visit every city, taste every whiskey, read every book, and call myself a man of the world. I found somebody in your mother that I wanted to do all those things with. Our relationship is real, and it is exciting! We would be a true power-couple and tell you all about our adventures when you got here.

Let me tell you something — something I’ve learned since I began writing these words. The time for just myself is already over. The time for just me and your mother is done too. You might still be in your mother’s belly, but you’re nearly here, and you’re already a part of our lives.

Your existence has changed my idea of the future. It’s the kind of mixed emotion that rumbles in your belly. The butterflies are how I know I really care about something. They flutter because I don’t want to mess it up. I want to do a good job.

Rest assured, we’re going to take you to all the cities we’ve dreamed of visiting. We’ll read you all the best stories, and cook all of our best meals for you. You will meet our friends, and become a part of our wild family. There’s so much to do, and in fact so much time to do it.

We have our entire lives together, and we’re absolutely not going to waste it.

My future, our future, is one that we’ll cherish together.

IV

We went to a friend’s baby shower recently. It was early summer. The weather was finally beginning to warm again, but it wasn’t humid yet, so it was comfortable outside. The sun was out and there was lots of baby-excitement in the air. Couples, friends, and family were all invited, but it was a modest affair — not too big; not too small.

We hadn’t told anybody our little secret yet, but that day wasn’t about us. Everybody was encouraging the couple that was having a boy in the next month. We were excited for them too.

There were presents and snacks, and an excellent arrangement of desserts (I helped myself). There were games, but luckily, they weren’t cheesy (Thank goodness there was nothing that involved melted candy bars in diapers). However, one of the games was baby trivia. That’s when I learned newborns don’t have kneecaps (WHAT?!).

Among the party-goers, there was a real, living baby present. She was just one-years-old, and she had recently been adopted by two wanting fathers. It was a recent blessing in their lives. The week prior, they scrambled to accept the child. The story they shared was wild, but they told it with an exuberance that was very inspiring. I could see the pride on their faces.

Their new addition didn’t stop them. They were having a great time in the afternoon sun, and everyone wanted a moment with their little girl. She got passed around quite a bit, and she was well-behaved, I must say. There was no crying, but she held this confused look on her face that made everybody laugh. That must have been the most people she had ever seen in her short life, and they all wanted to say hello to her.

When the entertainment calmed, I walked over to the next father-to-be. He stood to the side of the party. I could sense a nervousness that wasn’t his usual self. After a couple of pleasantries I asked him, “Are you ready?” He stared at the baby in the other father’s arms.

“I have to be now, I guess,” is what he said.

He usually carries himself very confidently, and the ounce of anxiety I was sensing made me feel a bit of relief about myself. I couldn’t say I know how you’re feeling; not yet, but I wanted so bad to tell him that he wasn’t alone. It wasn’t time to reveal you to the world, so I swallowed that part of the conversation.

We went on to discuss their plans for when their baby arrived (C—- is his name. You might know who I’m talking about), and how they were struggling to find an opening at a decent daycare. These are parental struggles in the modern era.

Then I realized that they weren’t putting their lives on hold.

The expecting mother had started her own business before they conceived. She was trying to get that off the ground, while carrying their child to term (an astonishing amount of effort). The expecting father was making business moves of his own, while simultaneously nurturing his wife.

They were doing it. They were making it happen, one day at a time.

When the time came to say our goodbyes, we walked to the truck that was parked on the street. We opened the doors and took our seats. I was driving; your mother was on the passenger’s side. We locked eyes, but we didn’t say the thing we always said when we left one of our friend’s parties.

“Are you ready for all of this?” she asked me.

It was the same question I asked Charlie’s dad an hour earlier.

“I think so,” I said.

We drove home with you, our little secret, excited with the thought of meeting you someday soon.

V

Today, you’re a stack of pancakes in your mother’s belly. That’s what the app says, and I tend to enjoy the breakfast-food comparisons to the fruit and veg. You’ll be many more things in the days to come, and we’ll be ready to celebrate every milestone!

I imagine there will be more ups and downs for my anxiety (I hear that doesn’t go away — not as long as you’re around…). There are a few months left to prepare; but, when I start to think about it, your arrival is not that long from now. I think I’m okay with that.

You’ll be here before we know it, and we’ll begin our life together. Your mother and I will be ready! Trust me.

You can expect the nursery will be soft, quiet, and relaxing (We are going for a vintage-modern aesthetic. That’s what your mother is calling it at least). The house will be clean. You can definitely count on that. Although, we’ll do what we can about Elsie-Mae’s fur. I suppose we can keep her out of your room before you arrive. She tends to freak-out when she smells new furniture anyways.

I’m still a little nervous about becoming your father. You’re going to be a handful, but that’s okay. I understand parenting will be a challenge. It will make me better. It will make the love shared between you, me, and your mother better. We have the rest of our lives to accomplish all the goals we’ll set for ourselves, and I know one day, I’ll finish writing a book, and you’ll be part of it.

In a very real way, I have already become your father, and you are already my child. You’ve already taught me something about life, and you haven’t even been born yet (I’ll settle-up with you when we meet). When you get here, and when you’re able to, try to remind me that everything will be alright.

Written by your father.
Approved by your mother.

Josh Kieb is a 32-year-old new father. During his nine-to-five he works as an architect, designing buildings for universities across the southeastern region of the United States. He cooks for his wife, goes on walks with his dog, and pursues his passion projects from five-to-nine; often saving time for a glass of scotch while reading a western before bed. As a naturally creative person, Josh enjoys artistic expression in the form of drawing and painting. Although he likes listening to music, there is not a rhythmic bone in his body. Writing is a trade he has recently found inspiring. It allows him to dive deep into the purely creative environment that only words produce. He is working on a novel (three actually — like many creatives, there are regularly too many ideas worth exploring), and hopes to publish one day. Josh and his wife are adjusting to the birth of their first child. It is an exciting time. As they enter a new chapter of their relationship, they reflect on their life together and are discovering how their baby is making their love flourish.