By Kenneth Hardin

In preparation for the birth of my first son back in 1991, I engaged in all the activities of an excited expectant Dad. I fed my desire to be a perfect first-time father by devouring every baby book printed on the subject. On request, I could recite what to expect during each month of pregnancy, as well as the first year of my son’s life. If my wife experienced pain or craved a particular food, I could refer her to the exact page in the book and regurgitate the passage word for word. Many nights were spent with me reading directly to her belly, which often interfered with her normal habits of sleep and bathroom duties. Oftentimes, I would wiggle her stomach or push slightly on it just to see the baby move. As a veteran, I was a staunch believer in preparedness, and felt everything should follow a specific, rigid, methodical order. I was thoroughly drilled in the “hurry up and wait” military tactic, so I urged my wife to pack a suitcase of essentials well over a month in advance of B-Day. This was to ensure that on the big day, we didn’t have to run around gathering supplies. Each day she would tell me to relax and try to convince me we had plenty of time to prepare.

At about 6 a.m. on the morning of Jan. 17, 1991, my first son decided he was ready to view the world from a different perspective. Instead of waking me to get the process in motion, for the next hour and a half, she quietly packed a suitcase. At a little after 7:30 a.m., I was notified that my initiation into fatherhood was that much closer. I expected the ride to the hospital to be similar to the way it was depicted in the movies. First, I would run a few red lights, then be stopped by the police, and finally be given an escort into the ER parking lot with lights flashing and sirens blaring. It was none of the above.

I adhered to my wife’s wishes concerning the speed limit, but this made it seem as if it took hours to finally arrive at our destination. Days later, when we finally rolled into the parking lot of the hospital, I said, “It’s go time, let’s do this!”

In the delivery room, as she lay there preparing herself for the task at hand, I gazed lovingly at her. I was proud of her strength, her courage and her willingness to face this ordeal without fear. Immediately after the doctor entered the room, she sprang up from a lying position and started speaking in tongues and screaming, “I want something for pain! Give me something for pain!” I tried to be as sensitive and understanding as possible. I fed her crushed ice and rubbed her back until my hands became tied in knots, but nothing I did seemed to be enough. To help ease some of the pain, I suggested we engage in the breathing exercises learned in earlier classes. I over-exaggerated the method for her by pulling in an enormous amount of air that caused my jaws to swell. I then blew the air out urging her to copy my movements. I was proud that I was participating, and in the next round, I exaggerated the facial movements even more. She attempted one turn at this and decided loudly, “That &$@% doesn’t work!” I’m not sure how I did it, but I dug deep and soldiered on for the next eight hours.

My wife pushed some, but screamed more, and as she did, I could finally see my son taking shape. Seconds later, he was in this world, and I experienced the greatest feeling anyone could imagine. To actually witness a life being born was a tiring process for me, and I tried to find a seat, but my job wasn’t done. As I cut the umbilical cord, I beamed with pride basking in the realization of the magnitude of the moment. I was responsible for initiating my son into this world and giving him his first foray into independence.

Over 30 years later, the most pervasive and continual thought I have is that I had previously structured my life in a way that everything had to have a specific order or time frame to be accomplished. I never allowed much room for error or change. My mood was usually harried and my pace a hurried one, which often opened the door for potential mistakes or missteps. This birth showed me that unpredictability and spontaneity are sometimes best. With two more sons and a grandson now, I’ve experienced personal growth through increased patience and flexibility. And, they’ve made me a better dad, grandad and an even better man.

Kenneth L. (Kenny) Hardin is a member of the National Association of Black Journalists.