The Beating of a Heart

3 weeks ago, I learned that I might be a father.

Might.

Based on a $10 test that- pardon the details of the mechanics- required someone to pee onto a swab of cotton.

I am not one that requires flow charts, diagrams, confirmations from experts and an army of lawyers to write a brief before I'll believe something. But I would like a soupcon of empiricism and a dash of research before I buy into something entirely. I've bought several used cars in the past, and have completely learned from those experiences. Particularly one where you never buy a used car from a guy who insists you call him 'Dutch'.

I digress.

Further testing (and the indignity it engenders) was required before I would even allow myself to start to hope, let alone believe. 5 tests and 24 hours later, I started to believe.

This was further augmented by:

a) Salome phoning the clinic and describing the situation, an appointment (LONG in the future- what the hell is the matter with these doctors? This is my CHILD we're talking about here) set, and a nurse practitioner telling my wife 'congratulations'.

'You mean...?'

'Honey, those tests are designed to look for one single thing. It found it. 5 times. You are.'

b) A terrifying moment when my wife had to go into the clinic for an ultrasound to make certain everything was okay. I skipped work and broke traffic laws to get to that appointment, but was 5 minutes too late to observe the ultrasound. DAMN YOU, SEATTLE!!! DAMN YOU AND YOUR SHITTY PARKING!!!

At this point, there was no plausible denial of what was growing in my wife's belly, but still... I still felt a bit... reluctant to fully rejoice. At 6 weeks and 6 days, it's still an 'embryo': it hasn't even graduated to a 'fetus' (which occurs at week 10, according to the books I'm reading, as if there's some sort of cap and gown celebration where someone shakes the new fetus's hand and slips them a diploma), and this seemed to me to be a somewhat precarious, could-go-either-way sort of situation, and I didn't want to get too hopeful.

But oh.

Oh.

Salome calls me today at work, after her appointment, and tells me the news. My baby has a heartbeat.

My baby has a heartbeat.

It's beating, it's alive, pulsing and throbbing with new life. Sorting out 23 chromosomes from mom, and 23 from dad to decide what it wants to be (hint: choose more from your mom's side). It's growing, and healthy, with the steady quick thrumming of 115 beats per minute. It's drawing strength, it's in the process of becoming itself.

And in some inexplicable way, despite a lifetime of fumbles, failures and befuddlement, I did something right.

I gave my baby a heartbeat. And now I am a believer.

I love you. Come soon.