Essays, Art and Plays by Dan

Chapel Hill, North Carolina, 1983

I remember the day you were born in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, in 1983. I remember being in the hospital, surrounded by the unfamiliar sights and sounds of a place where something extraordinary had just happened. And I remember looking at you and thinking that my life would never be quite the same.

There you were. Our son.

The first thing I wanted to do was make sure you had all your fingers. I don’t know why that seemed so important at the time. Perhaps counting fingers is one of those things new fathers do when they haven’t the slightest idea what they’re supposed to do next.

So I counted them.

One, two, three, four, five.

Then the other hand.

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

Ten fingers. All accounted for.

I felt an enormous sense of relief, as though I had just completed my first important responsibility as a father.

Then I took a closer look at you.

You were a strong-looking little fellow. I was amazed at your build. You looked like a miniature Hercules, with a sturdy little body that seemed almost too powerful for someone who had just arrived in the world.

I had expected a tiny, fragile baby. Instead, here was this little strongman.

I remember thinking, with considerable pride, that you looked ready to take on the world.

Of course, you had no idea what was going through my mind. You were simply being a newborn baby, while your father stood there counting your fingers.

But something else was happening inside me.

At the time, I was in graduate school and working only part-time. We didn’t have much money. I was trying to get an education, build a future, and figure out how to make a living. Until that day, most of my worries had been about things like schoolwork, my career and what I was going to do with my life.

Now I had you.

And suddenly those worries seemed different.

I looked at our strong little boy with his ten perfect fingers and realized that he was going to depend on me. He would need food, clothes, a home, and all the other things that children need. He would need someone who would be there for him, even when life became difficult.

I remember thinking something very specific.

If I had to shovel horse manure to support you, I would do it.

I meant it.

I didn’t know whether my graduate education would lead to a good job. I didn’t know how much money I would earn or what the future would bring. But I knew that if somebody offered me a shovel and a barn full of horse manure, and that was what it took to provide for my son, I would pick up the shovel and get to work.

It wasn’t exactly the career I had in mind when I entered graduate school.

But fatherhood has a way of rearranging your priorities.