When my mother went into labor, my father stopped eating. He paced up and down in the waiting room- the traditional society male. The only thing missing was a brown suit and a cigar to complete the 1950’s picture of perfection. His hair became askew, his jacket disheveled and his eyes crazed as the night wore on.
When I was finally born at 2:05 in the morning (I’ve always loved the night), he asked the doctor in a squeaky yet commanding voice “Is she okay?” The doctor laughed and went on with his examination of my mother- although her only concern was getting a glass of water.
My dad’s told me this story a thousand times, and each time he reacts the same way. “I wanted him to tell me that you were going to be smart, beautiful, funny, charming, that you were going to find happiness and friends and love, when really all he knew was that you had all the right parts in you.”
He always laughs and ruffles my hair affectionately, with a faroff look in his eyes.
I try to imagine how he could’ve felt. I can feel the throat constricting anxiety, the tears begging to spring from his eyes, the need to breathe but not wanting to focus on anything but finding out if she’s okay. I can feel him talking forced breaths, trying to focus on a thousand things at once- is she breathing why’s she crying what’s making her cry why is she upset why is she blue?
I try and remember this when I’m furious with him. I try and remember the time when his greatest wish was for someone to give him a guarantee that I was going to be okay. The truth is, no one can give him that. But I try, every day. Every day, I try to keep myself okay for him.

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