Comrades

I took odd pleasure in passing by other new dads in the maternity wards, both during delivery and recovery. I never spoke to them, unless we happened to be in the same elevator, and then it was, "boy or girl, first one, congratulations." Usually, I was on a much too-important mission for my greeting to be anything more than a glance. I was fetching ice (the only permissible snack during the late stages of labor - how late depended on which nurse was present), escorting guests or running for a well-deserved snack while mom and baby were resting. And I knew, so were they.

The pleasure is that I knew. And I knew that they knew. We knew looking at each other. We were tired as bears in winter, harried as stock brokers and joyful as gospel singers. In all of our emotions, we were more alive than ever before, watching our wives endure suffering or surgery, watching this little life emerge from her with no time to process the accompanying philosophy, theology or biology. We were water-boys, coaches and communications managers, stepping aside while medical professionals rightly honed their skills and cares on mother and baby. We were students, learning to become teachers of the best kind. We were sleepless and serious. We became ad hoc counselors and new kinds of lovers. We were husbands, and we became dads. At the end, life, oh so precious, mother and child, were our rewards. And all of our expressions carried this, in the hospital halls.