Mike Kilroy

Getting to know an infant is like getting to know anyone, I suppose.

It takes a little time. There’s the awkward initial stage. In my case, that was getting comfortable holding my little girl, Emma, without the overwhelming, chest-squeezing fear of breaking her. I mean, she was so tiny and fragile-looking. Her fingers were so small and her torso so frail I was petrified that she’d just disintegrate in my hands if I squeezed too hard.

For her, the adjustment was my penchant of letting her noggin flop around like a bobblehead.

Once we got past that stage and I felt comfortable with her in my arms and she felt the same sleeping in them (it didn’t take long, to my great relief, and I’m sure, hers) we moved on to the next phase of our burgeoning relationship.

The reading-each-other phase.

It may be dubious at best scientifically to believe this, but I got the feeling from staring into her eyes that she knew I was her father and she knew I loved her more than anything on this planet or any other in the universe. I also got the feeling she loved me.

That’s when we bonded – and that also came quickly.

The next step was picking up on the subtle cues.

A look. A twist of the lips. A flail of the arms and the kick of the legs.

Soon, I began to understand what each movement meant.

It’s not like they can say aloud, “Hey, dad, I’m hungry.” It’s not like they can send you a text, “Sup, my diaper is wet.”

Yes, a discussion with a six-week-old is a bit one-sided – Emma isn’t much of a conversationalist in the traditional sense.

In reality, Emma says quite a bit.

I know when she is hungry by the way she purses her lips and moves her head around, rooting like a zombie on The Walking Dead.

I know when she’s tired by the way she brings her arms up to her chest and stares at me with drooping eyelids.

And I know when she’s, um, turning two in her diaper by the way her face turns ruddy, shuts one eye and curls her lips.

As a new father, I am amazed at how acquainted I have become with Emma.

One of my concerns before we got her was I wouldn’t have the instinct necessary to know what she needed when she needed it. I feared I would fumble through fatherhood unable to give her what she desired.

I suppose all parents feel that way at first. I have come to realize we all have certain instincts when it comes to caring for a helpless infant. It’s ingrained in us.

We just know.

Thank God for that.

I’ve done a lot of difficult things in my life.

Most people do. Life is a series of hard choices and important decisions that shape and mold you from that point forward.

Take that job or pass on it.

Stay in that relationship or bail.

Buy an Xbox or purchase a PlayStation.

Okay, maybe that last one isn’t so monumental (tell that to the geek in me, though).

The decision to adopt wasn’t an easy one, either. There was always some part of me that felt that instinctive drive for a biological child. I guess that’s evolution at work.

When my wife, Dahn, and I were struggling to conceive, we held out hope for a biological offspring. When she became pregnant, we were ecstatic.

When we found out five weeks later that the fetus had stopped developing, we were devastated.

The loss was profound. Not only had our child been lost, but it also seemed the hope of a biological child had been lost with it.

We tried again, unsuccessfully. There were a lot of nights spent with eyes open, staring into the darkness, wondering what to do next? There were options. In Vetro Fertilization was one of them and we pondered that possibility.

Adoption, though, seemed like the best option.

And it wasn’t just because of the expense – it’s not cheap to adopt. In fact, it’s somewhat appalling the cost of adopting an infant (something we were adamant about doing).

We decided to adopt because of one notion.

We were meant to give a child a better life. We were meant to bring Emma into our hearts and raise her with the love and caring that she may not have received otherwise.

Emma was meant for us and we were meant for her.

When I look at her, I don’t see an adopted daughter. I see a daughter.

There is family by blood and family of the heart. Either is just as strong. I’m well aware that family by blood sometimes falls woefully short of family of the heart.

I knew this for certain Friday night when I had to leave Emma and Dahn for the first time to go to work.

I knew this because leaving them, even for eight hours, was the hardest thing I have done.

Harder that passing on a job.

Harder than breaking off a relationship.

And certainly harder than choosing a gaming system.

I’m not going to lie. I cried. Bawled, really, as I was driving to Slippery Rock to cover a football game. Tears snaked down my cheeks and my lips quivered. My heart was flayed in my chest.

I missed them as soon as I walked out the door. I missed them at one block and at one mile. I missed them at two miles and at 20.

I missed them in the first quarter and in the fourth.

But I knew they were OK. I knew everything was going to be OK.

I knew that because Emma was meant for us and we were meant for Emma.

I’m writing this with one hand. Actually, more like one thumb. That’s because I’m holding my precious daughter, Emma Caroline, in my left arm on my chest.

She’s sleeping after a rough patch on her second days as a Kilroy. Apparently she got the memo that nothing is ever easy for a Kilroy. 

Things I have learned through 36 hours with a newborn:

Time is no longer measured the same. 

A Vulcan will tell you that a second is a second and a minute is a minute and an hour is an hour. 

Unless you have a newborn. 

When you have a newborn a second can be an hour. A minute can be a second. And an hour can be an entire afternoon. 

Time is warped with a newborn. 3 am and 3 pm — same thing. Newborn’s scoff at time. They mock the clock. 

But when she’s sleeping on your chest, you just want that clock to stop, time to stand still, and exist completely in that moment forever. 

Gas is for REAL. 

Gassy babies are very unhappy babies. Emma cried like a wide receiver trying to draw and pass interference call. Her face was red and she shrieks loud.

Eventually she worked all that gas out of her little body and was content again. It taught us a valuable lesson: Burp. Burp. Burp. 

Babies smell soooo good.

I’m sniffing her head as I write this and I think I’m getting baby-smell high. 

Being curious and being a Googleholic, I searched, “Why do babies heads smell soooo damn good?” And found an answer. 

Researchers aren’t entirely sure what causes that baby smell, though there are a few theories: Some speculate that it comes from their sweat glands, or that it’s the lingering scent of vernix caseosa, the substance that covers babies when they’re born and is washed off after birth.

So Emma smells sooo good because she has baby goo still in her hair. Good to know. 

Emma rocks.

Don’t @ me. 

I’ve never be one to do things the traditional way.

For two years, I lived in a small house that was a converted convenience store—my bedroom was once the freezer. Painted on the outside wall that faced the highway was the cartoon character that served as the store’s mascot. Occasionally someone, still thinking the store was open, would stop to buy milk, but I’d have to turn them away with a smile and an apology.

I didn’t get married until I was 37—not because I was sowing oats, but because I had never found the right person. I was engaged, but that relationship ended badly.

Then I met my wife, Dahn, who nearly stood me up before our first date.

I’m glad she didn’t. She was perfect for me. She’s an angel. She knows just the right things to say and just the right things to do to put me at ease and make me feel loved. I am thankful for her every day.

We decided to enjoy being married for awhile and the years flew by.

We didn’t start trying to have a child until I was 40.

Little did we know it would take eight years for our dream to come true.

Now, I’m a 48-year-old man with a first child on the way. Tomorrow. And I find myself gushing with anticipation.

I was given just two weeks to prepare for fatherhood. You see, for the better part of eight years my wife and I have tried to have a child. It’s been a rough road. We’ve battled infertility. We withstood a devastating and gut-wrenching miscarriage and then the uncertainty and minefield of adoption.

I was on the verge of giving up.

Until 11:48 a.m. on Oct. 1.

“Think pink,” the woman from the adoption agency said. “It’s a girl.”

And think quickly, she added. We had only 14 days to get ready for the arrival of our little girl.

I always wondered how I would react upon hearing that news. I thought of it often during those three years. I played out scenarios in my head. Some were good. Some, as my brain is wont to do, were bad.

I feared I would be depressed to hear it—depressed because I wouldn’t want it for a variety of reasons.

My age. My lifestyle. My insecurities.

I was pleased when a large smile bloomed on my face and my voice cracked with excitement.

Then reality set it. Not only were we becoming parents, we were becoming parents in 14 days.

A whole new set of thoughts cascaded through my brain.

When my father was 48-years-old, I was a senior in college and living on my own. I had my own car and my own apartment. I had a job and a full course load. I was self-sufficient and independent.

When my daughter is a senior in college, I will be 70 years old.

I know. I know. Age is but a number. I feel good for 48 and there’s nothing like the thought of keeping up with a little rambunctious girl to prod one into getting into better shape, eating right and being as fit as can be.

It still concerns me.

In fact, a lot has concerned me these past two weeks.

There have been times during these 14 days when I wondered deeply and profoundly, “Can I do this?”

What if I’m not a good father?

What if I can’t handle the stress and the sleepless nights and the worry?

What if I fail?

I know my wife will be by my side through it all. I know she is the most caring and nurturing person I know, and I can lean on her for support (and she can lean on me for the same), but it doesn’t diminish the unease I sometimes feel that I won’t be good enough.

Then I see that baby girl’s face.

The foster mother sent us nightly pictures and updates of the little button. Every time I see her face, a giddiness washes over me. I look at her big eyes and her tiny fingers and toes and I can’t imagine loving another thing in this universe more.

Now, on the eve of her arrival, I can’t think of anything I want more than to hold her and raise her and be her father.

I can do this. No doubt now. I can do it because I would do anything for the precious girl. And that is probably all that matters.