JPG Magazine: Stories: Photo Essay: Not just another sappy father's story.

Not just another sappy father's story.

By Mark Warren

17 February 2008

The first thing I noticed was that he wasn't breathing. I thought they came out screaming. He was grey/purple/pink. Pieces of his former home clung to him like insulation. He started to move, flail his arms, and after three suctions to his nose and mouth he breathed and cried. I wasn't the one breathing...just watching.

For two years we tried. Thousands of dollars, countless miles and minutes spent in elaborate, minimalist doctor's offices.

"All we're doing is paying this guy's rent."

"Stop smoking."

"Stop spending".

"Stop it."

May 2007, a week after the most recent appointment, the day after my birthday, five minutes before I leave for a cubicle, my wife tells me to read the results.

"What do two lines mean?"

For the next 9 months my house was flooded with congratulatory cards, gifts, showers, solicited and unsolicited advice. The only thing that kept me sane was my dog, Abby.

My wife was the boss, the dog was the queen.

"She's gonna be pissed."

"Don't worry, Mark. I recorded 'The Dog Whisperer' episode on pets and children."

"Mmm hmm."

Daily walks with her were therapy. They were the break from losing the office space for a crib, the reward for doing every bit of housework. Her devotion to me was not going to disappear.

I would shoot what pictures I could of my wife. She looked great. But, she changed. Slowly, at first, then as the little parasite grew, she was no longer herself, no longer just mine.

From what the doctors said, she had to be induced. I think I'm relatively smart. However, I'm an idiot in a hospital. I didn't know if induction meant verbally coaching the boy out or hooking my wife up to enough medicated IV's to drop a camel. All I knew was that he was coming.

All the preparations, all the fear, all the missing sleep, for one breath, one grip on my finger. Forget about traffic, bills and cubicles. Try to remember this is the only real thing ever made.

"Look what he just did." Everything is "for the first time" now.

He fills a diaper just as fast as it can be changed. His scream is deafening. But nothing is more fearful than the thought of him one day hating everything that I love.

I am becoming Clark Griswold with Christmas lights on the house, the guy who mows his lawn with socks and sandals, the tutor, the Obi-Wan Kenobi to my Luke.

Abby chases flying bugs outside like a shark. He sits next to me, absorbing the world, fascinated by shadows and touch.

Reid, my little buddy, you are next.