I never imagined myself as a parent until the moment twenty-four years ago when my son was born.  But, then, I never believed in magic either. 

I knew that my wife wanted children, but I avoided the subject.  She wanted four, or five, I recall. Whatever, it was a big number, and I didn’t take it seriously. 

Eventually, my wife prevailed -- no surprise there -- and I agreed to try one. Like kids were potato chips. Once the decision was made, I pushed it aside. After all, nothing is certain. Who knew if or when we might conceive? So, why borrow trouble?

Talk about miscalculation.  t took us no time at all from decision to conception.  When my wife became nauseous during the submarine drama Das Boot and rushed out of the theater, I experienced a sinking feeling. 

I guess that I slipped into denial after that. Throughout her pregnancy, even when fatherhood was imminent, the idea remained farfetched -- at best, abstract. 

I couldn't deny that things were different around our place.  My wife cast an ever larger shadow when she stood outside with the dogs. Early on Saturday mornings, we stumbled off to Lamaze class, where we sat on the floor surrounded by pillows and breathed together. I silently hoped that I didn’t look as silly as I felt. 

On a dreary Monday in February, my wife visited her doctor, and he assured her that the baby would arrive in two weeks -- right on schedule. 

Too bad he didn't tell the kid. At 5:00 the next morning, my wife awoke with a start. On those rare occasions when I had faced reality, however fleetingly, it always happened this way -- just before dawn when the fog of sleep is thickest. 

“O.K.,” I stammered, “I’ll start some coffee and call the doctor.” No, I didn’t have it backward. I couldn’t have a baby without caffeine. 

When we left for the hospital, it was still dark and a cold rain was falling. It made for a gloomy drive, but things could have been much worse. This was February in Iowa. We were lucky it wasn’t a blizzard. 

For the first time, I remembered that it was February 22 -- Washington’s birthday. I wondered aloud that if we had a boy, perhaps we should name him George. I was only teasing, but my wife wasn't amused. We had long ago agreed upon a boy's name and a girl's name, and there was no going back. I quickly uttered the two words that wise men learn early and use often:  “Yes, dear.” 

At the hospital, someone whisked my wife off to a room while I stayed behind to check her in.  t was early, and the reception area and adjacent waiting room were nearly deserted. As I filled out form after redundant form, I made a mental list of things I needed to do. I couldn’t believe that I was thinking so clearly -- and after a single cup of coffee. I still didn’t get it! 

By the time I finished with the forms, my wife was settled into a room upstairs. I hurried up to find that there was no need to hurry. The contractions had just begun and were few and far between. I could relax. I wouldn’t be a father for a while.

Things moved slowly through the morning, and I wondered if this was a false alarm. Then, in the early afternoon, my wife’s blood pressure spiked. It was obvious in the way the nurses unceremoniously shooed me away that this wasn't normal. Shortly, the doctor hurried into the room, and as I stood helplessly off to the side as a small drama unfolded.

The doctor gave my wife a shot to speed things along, and the nurses wheeled her away with me trailing anxiously behind.  A fifth wheel, I thought. Inside the delivery room, I stood beside my wife, holding her hand and encouraging her.  (Okay. So those Saturday mornings paid off.) 

After the long hours of prelude, our son arrived suddenly. I looked up at a clock mounted on the far wall.  It was 3:30 -- and, in that moment, I became a believer.  In magic. 

A nurse wrapped our new son in a blanket and passed him to me. Our son!  My.  Son. I wanted to prolong the moment -- the first but not the last time -- and learned a hard lesson: time is a parent's worse enemy. 

I kissed him gently on the forehead. Over the next few years, I must have repeated that ritual fifty thousand times: when he woke up in the morning, at odd times during the day, and before I tucked him in at night.

In that instant, I was transformed in a way that I could scarcely comprehend.  This little person had been in the world only a precious few minutes, but I already loved him in a way I didn’t know was possible.  I could only describe it as magical. 

Twenty-four years later, nothing has happened to change my mind.  Our son grew up and moved away, but the magic remains in my heart where it's always been.