Christmas Eve '02: The Day I Became A Dad

I was expecting to hear The Voice. You know, the big, booming one that comes down from on high that says, "Behold! This Is Your [Son] [Daughter]" or something like that, when the dramatic moment finally arrives.

It didn't come. Matter of fact, the only voice I heard the night my son was born was mine, asking disbelievingly, "That's him??"

Timothy Charles Darnell was born on Dec. 24, 2002. (Take it from me, no one is having kids the day before Christmas; Piedmont Hospital's maternity ward was almost empty. Dec. 26 to New Year's Eve, however, was a whole different story...)

Anyway, there I was, at 9 pm, dressed like Dr. Kildare - gown, gloves, the works - ready to come in and take part in the blessed moment. Then our delivering physician, Dr. Lovelady (yes, that was her name), said a C-section was needed. My wife had been in labor for 18 hours and the kid just wasn't going to come out of his own free will and accord.

So, at 9:45 pm, T.C. (that's what we call him) was finally pulled from the nourishing warmth of his mother's abdomen into the world. As the nurses took him down the hall to the maternity ward, they passed by the room in which I was staying. And for the first time, I saw the new charge who had been invested into our care.

That was when I was expecting to hear The Voice.

Instead, I heard mine.

T.C.'s head was kinda mashed in on one side; seems as if he was resting quite comfortably on his mother's pelvis, one reason he wasn't all that anxious to give up his spot. He was all wrinkly and reddish and crinkly; his hair was matted up and yucky looking ... He was generally just about the most bizarre-looking humanoid lifeform I'd ever seen.

I'm glad to report, however, that he was a lot better looking the next time I saw him. The nurses cleaned up him, gave him all the requisite shots, wrapped him in warm blankets and clothes, and made him quite presentable for when he met his mother about an hour later. He was born healthy and happy, and we've been fortunate that he's remained that way thus far.

No, The Voice never came to me on Dec. 24, 2002. Instead, it has come many times since.

When he encourages his classmates and teammates to do better and not give up. When he gets an 'A' on a social studies topic that his class hasn't even covered yet, but his teacher assigns to him because she knows he can handle it. When he asks me how to stand up for his friends when they're being bullied. When he asks me to read "A Father's Prayer" that Gen. Douglas McArthur penned many years ago, asking the Almighty to endow his own son with the qualities he admired most in men.

Those are the moments when I hear The Voice. And it says to me, "That's him. That's your son."