We sat, disbelieving,
stranded in the middle of a snowstorm.
One week overdue,
I was sure the baby would be born
there in our living room.
You would pull me on a sled,
you calmly reassured,
we’d manage.

When the water broke, the next night,
we looked at each other,
as if one of us should know what to do next.
In the Karmann Ghia we breathed together,
steaming the windows
as you drove carefully through the snow.

That night,
rocking in the chair, I watched you sleep.
Gentle contractions made me wonder
if birthing would be this peaceful.

In the morning, between violent waves of pain,
I alternately asked for help, then pushed away
Not knowing, really, what I wanted.
You stood helplessly beside me,
wanting it to end as much as I did,
perhaps more.
There was nothing you could fix.

Then finally, new life emerged,
and we cradled him in our arms.
You were so proud that day, so quiet, so calm.
Your hands held him firmly, securely.

We took him home and began the tasks
of feeding, rocking, diapering,
and learning to know one another.

At night, his cries no longer sweet,
You took him out to feel the wind and see the stars.
Humming with the breeze,
you coaxed him into sleep.

It was there,
underneath the night sky
and the front yard tree,
that you became a father.

—Joyce Peachey Lind is a mother, teacher, and musician who lives in Harrisonburg, Virginia. She is pursuing an M.A.T. in Early Childhood Education at James Madison University.