Becoming a New Father, Slowly When my wife was pregnant, my son would kick and cough, change her body, tastes, routines. She had a visceral, constant reminder of his presence. For me, it was completely different. My son was a notion. I looked the same, felt the same and could easily forget he was on his way. If I didn't actively remember to think about him, I didn't. Instead I focused on tangible things: cribs, strollers, memorizing songs to sing. She was overwhelmed with advice, judgments, choices. I received my share of advice, but it was much less and mostly for her from other mothers. When my son was born, I was ready for a rush of amazing love to gush through my veins, but life has a way of surprising you. My wife teared up, beautifully radiating the infinite love I expected to feel. My eyes were dry and focused on what was next. My son, Pollock, was whisked to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU), where I was charged with the paperwork and follow-ups. He was in a box with tubes running through him, too tired to cry, barely moving. He went from being a notion to being encased in hard plastic, like Damien Hirst's shark. When I took my son home, I thought "now fatherhood will become clear," but the only thing that became clear was this: I was not really needed. Pollock needed my wife; he was at her breast 12 to 13 hours a day. I could burp him, change him, dance around to calm him down, but there is no comparison between doing silly dances with a newborn and feeding him. I felt powerless. By design the mother is fully in charge of a newborn. My wife was with our son all day for the first three months. I had four non-consecutive days of paternity leave. I understand how fathers distance themselves. At this point your relationship to the child is not that much different than a grandmother, sister or friend. All these people came by in the initial months, all easily performing the same duties I was. I'd like to think I was better at it, but it's not complex to change a diaper or soothe a baby, it mainly takes effort. If others were doing that, then I'd just kind of drift away. I slept next to my son at night. He had a hard time getting sleep and it was easier to just stay up with him for a couple of hours, instead of getting up whenever I heard him cry. He'd stare at me deeply. What was he thinking? I still didn't really understand our relationship. Then one day, my mother asked offhandedly if I was "enjoying him." I surprised myself by saying, "Well, not really." The love I felt was completely different from what was I was expecting. My son feels like a part of me. Like my right hand. My love for him is different from my love for my family or my wife. I enjoyed seeing him, like I enjoyed looking in a mirror. When he cried, it didn't startle me. His pain felt like when I'd scrape my knee. I was stoic about it, as if it was happening to me. I'd forget that I was holding him. It felt so natural to be with him, like he'd always been there. Was I "enjoying him?" Do you enjoy having hair? Um...I guess. After four months, I started to get the hang of things. I took Pollock to and from daycare, explaining the world around him a little bit more each day. I'd strap him into a BabyBjorn so he could help me do the household chores, washing dishes, vacuuming up, doing the laundry. He tried to sing along to the songs I'd play on the ukulele. Our bond grew a bit each day. The chapter titles in some of the pregnancy books we read featured "Being a Mom" versus "Becoming a Father." I joked about it then, and now I find that it's true: you are instantly a mom, but you become a father. My wife was never more needed than she was that first day, and will never be again. Her journey requires a steady sequence of letting go (giving birth, going back to work, weaning from the breast). My journey is in reverse, it's a steady sequence of getting closer. Andrew G. Novotny is a Financial Analyst living in Queens, New York.