I sit in the darkened post-partum room, my exhausted wife gently snoring two feet to my left.
My feet rest on an extra chair, my laptop warming the former part of the word’s nomenclature.
I am a father. A Dad. A Papa. (You get the idea.)
My daughters are a few hundred feet away in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, where highly skilled caregivers are trying to help them learn to breathe in this strange new world of air. After their breathing regulates, they’ll be able to feed normally and gain enough weight to get out of here.
Sorry, thought this would be a longer blog…but I’m on three hours of sleep. Must get some more…after the rest of this Frasier rerun.
(Even though I’m a dad, some things are unlikely to change. Especially my love of well-written sitcoms in syndication. Only now, my viewing will be between feedings and diaperings and burpings.)