Joy, fear, pride, panic, love, relief—and a whole thesaurus of other emotions—could have described how I felt when Dr. K delivered the news. But if I’m honest, my dominant reaction was a shrug and a casual, “Eh, okay.” I mean, it wasn’t like Apple had announced a new iPad, right? No pre-order excitement or tech specs to obsess over for months. What we were dealing with here was just a tiny organism—twenty cells, tops—dividing itself like bacteria and freeloading in its temporary shelter. Not exactly front-page news, if you ask me.
In my mind, the process was simple: people did stuff, babies popped out, and in between, there were a few visits to the doctor. The rest? Boring details. My wife, a medical doctor, had a very different opinion. With the zeal of a TED Talk presenter, she began my education: videos, newsletters, ultrasound pictures, and a parade of scientific explanations. I soon found myself tracking the progress of this indistinguishable clump of cells as it rapidly transformed. Before I knew it, our kidney bean-shaped organism had developed a heartbeat.
A heartbeat.
Just a few weeks ago, my little swimmer had met her little egg and formed a microscopic cell. Now it had a pulsing heart. And suddenly, I found myself staring at the ultrasound picture like it was the Mona Lisa. It was… kind of wonderful. I’m told this little bean with a heartbeat will grow rapidly, and before long, it’ll have a personality. That thought alone scares the socks off me. A wrinkly little human being will enter the world in a few months, and I’m going to shape its personality—at least for the next dozen years.
The irony isn’t lost on me. As a young teacher, my biggest frustration has always been my inability to influence students effectively. Now, I’m supposed to take on the ultimate mentorship role? No pressure.
Naturally, I turned to the closest fatherhood model I know: my own dad. But instead of comfort, this line of thinking left me even more freaked out. My father—in my eyes, at least—played the role of dad flawlessly. And frankly, that’s a high bar to clear. Let me stop you right there, though. This isn’t some sneaky way of giving myself a character certificate. Parenting isn’t about perfection or guarantees. It’s a process—one that influences but doesn’t dictate outcomes. And that’s exactly what makes it so terrifying.
My dad’s parenting approach, which I hold in high regard, was built on a foundation of trust: trust in me and trust in society. Unlike a lot of kids around me, I was given an incredible amount of freedom to experiment, take risks, and occasionally fall flat on my face. And I owe so much of my happiness today to that freedom. But let’s be real: it’s an ideal that’s equal parts inspiring and intimidating.
Will I have the courage to let my own child take the same risks? Will I trust them and the world enough to let go when it matters? Or will I find myself tightening the reins out of fear—fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of not living up to my dad’s example?
The truth is, I don’t have the answers. All I know is that this little journey has already begun, ready or not. And while the road ahead feels daunting, there’s also something undeniably thrilling about it. After all, what better adventure could there be than shaping and being shaped by a brand-new human being?
For now, I’ll keep staring at that ultrasound picture and wondering what’s to come. Parenthood, it seems, is less like downloading a new app and more like signing up for a lifetime subscription to unpredictability. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what makes it so extraordinary.