I think my heart is about to explode. I might pass out, but I don’t want to be that guy. I just can’t help my hyperventilating breaths and thumping heart. But I can’t back out now. I have to be here for you, be present and be your rock. It’s all getting very real.

The doctor had come in about 20 minutes ago to check your dilation and—boom— the chaos began. Suddenly, nurses were filing into the room getting vitals and preparing the room for battle. All I could do is watch as they scurried around.

You were laying on the bed, eyes pinched in pain as a contraction hit you hard. Beads of sweat trickling down your forehead. I had to do something. I needed to help. So, I did all I could think of and put a cold, wet rag over your forehead, hoping to soothe your overheating body. You clamped onto my free hand as I stood next to your bedside, nearly breaking a few bones, but I didn’t care. A few worthless fingers pale in comparison to what you’re about to do.

A year ago, I never would’ve thought we’d already be bringing a child of our own into this world. We had just gotten home from our honeymoon when your symptoms started. We thought you’d just picked up a stomach bug on the trip, so we waited a few days to see if it’d pass. Obviously it didn’t. But there was a little bug in your stomach, just not the kind we thought it was.

A baby. A baby girl. We both couldn’t believe it. When they told us the estimated conception date, I can vividly remember the face you made at me when we pieced it together—our wedding night. It was a little daunting because we had just gotten married in the beginning of that month, and already we were becoming parents, but I wouldn’t change it if I could.

A nurse comes over and helps you get into position, legs in the stir-ups and back elevated into a crunching position. Your legs are still somewhat numb from the epidural you had, but it had begun wearing off in the last hour, so that changes your birth plan significantly.

The door to our room creaks open again, and our doctor walks in with a smile on her face. She’s all scrubbed in with her gloves and protective gown. That’s when I know it’s officially go time.

“Okay, Mom and Dad,” she gets into position on her stool between your legs, “time to meet baby girl.”