Our child was born

I knew almost nothing about childbirth or parenting, so when we learned my wife was pregnant, entered the stable period, and the reality of a child being born slowly sank in, I understood that "a child being born" is something that only happens after many miracles stack up.

I'd sometimes watch parenting YouTube for comfort, but as birth became more real, the way I watched changed to "I'll be in that position too."
I wasn't only smiling at cute baby behavior — I started watching with a corner of my mind on the future: "I'd love to do this with our child."

I already knew our child would be cute, of course. What I'd always been curious about was: what will it feel like when I first meet them?

Fathers I know often said something like, "For men, you become a father little by little after the birth," and I figured that was how it worked.
I imagined real awareness would only come after meeting them face to face.
Mothers carry the physical burden and feel parenthood in their bodies; fathers don't have that bodily change, so I thought awareness might come harder. (I know this wording can sound risky; I don't mean anything else by it — I hope the intent comes through.)

So whenever I imagined that first meeting — one of the big triggers for awareness — I kept wondering what it would feel like.

Then the day arrived. From the middle of the night my wife had early labor signs; toward dawn it got serious, so we took a taxi to the hospital together.
The driver saw we were headed to a hospital and how my wife was doing, and was very considerate.
(※ We called a taxi via an app this time. It came right away and we got in right away. I've used them many times, but never felt so grateful. Taxi apps feel like essential infrastructure now.)

Early in the morning my wife went into the delivery room. After speaking to her just as she entered, I waited the whole time not on that floor but in chairs in the general waiting area.
Past noon she messaged: "Coming soon — please come up." I went to the delivery floor and waited in a chair. Several hours later, the baby was born.

A side note: every time I'm in a hospital I feel how incredible medical workers are. The work is deeply meaningful. I tip my hat.
This was my first real sense of an obstetrics ward, and it was intense.
On that floor, not only my wife but several other mothers were giving birth. Cries of pain that were almost screams filled the air.
Just listening made my stomach hurt from how sorry I felt. Staff may get used to it, but working every day amid that much suffering is amazing. I'd collapse. I could never do it.
And — though I'm almost embarrassed to write this — mothers everywhere are incredible. Thinking that every mother goes through something this intense leaves me with a boundless feeling.

We got to meet in the evening.
I'd spoken to my wife's belly every day, so when I finally met the person I'd been talking to, I was moved: "So this is the cute face of the one I've been talking to all along."
Gratitude flooded in for both of them — "You did so well. Thank you for being born." (I said it out loud to both.)

And when I held them afterward, there was a strange feeling — exactly that question I'd had: what does it feel like when you first meet your newborn?

Holding them and looking at their face, I strongly felt: "This child is one of a kind."
Of course they came from my wife and me — and yet they felt like a unique being that is neither of us.
And not only this child: I was reminded that my wife, I, and everyone in the world is unique.

I'd also been a little anxious beforehand: I'm totally unused to small children. I don't know how to interact.
Unless you have much younger siblings, a lot of people might feel the same. (Even in similar situations, some people just know how to soothe a baby.)

But the first time I held our child, that worry was unnecessary.
I'd imagined they'd cry the whole time and I'd panic — but they settled in my arms, looked quietly at my face, and stayed calm.

I felt deeply relieved, and simply happy. A warm joy of a kind I'd never felt.

If this child ever faces something unfair or cruel, I think it'd hurt more than if it happened to me.
For example, I was the type teachers disliked, and (even fairly) I remember a lot of unfair treatment. I'm fine now — but if I imagine my child going through the same, I might go full monster parent. (Half joking — and I hope the other half stays a joke too.)

If I'm not careful, this blog might become a parenting blog where I just say "kids are cute" over and over.

Speaking of which, in a blog two posts ago I shoved in a not-very-funny joke about switching from a laptop to a desktop being a shocking event for me.
If I had a life timeline, that would be a footnote at best — of course a child's birth doesn't compare. (The desktop bit had the sly hedge of "within my working life.")
"Our child was born" on a life timeline is bold, yellow-highlighted, with an illustration and a summary — a top-tier event.
Except for the luck of another child someday, I don't think anything more wonderful than this exists. And of course I owe this wonderful experience to my wife.

P.S.
A parenting YouTube recommendation: a channel of early-morning walks while holding a months-old baby — "Houboku Oyaji" (Grazing Dad).
No extra narration or BGM; short videos that are easy to watch. My wife and I were deeply soothed. Thank you.

That's all.