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Listen to these men about their babies. Listen to their voices dip, as they speak with pride. Watch them pause, searching for just the right word that will describe what it's like, really like, to be a father — provider of love, reader of bed-time stories, changer of diapers, watcher of sleeping babies. "It changes how you value things," said the 21-year-old Target employee, his wife in the kitchen, putting 7-week-old Kai to sleep. "It's nothing you can imagine — everything changes," said the 20-year-old soldier in Iraq, his voice crackling on the bad phone line from 5,000 miles away. All he has seen are pictures of his week-old son. "Man, it will never be the same again," said the 28-year-old art preparer's assistant, holding 3-month-old Kelsea Lotus in his arms, her head on his shoulder, her face resting against his nice clean blue shirt near that little patch of drool. "Life's totally different," said the 30-year-old computer projects manager, sitting at his desk at work, thinking about his twin daughters, 4 months old on Thursday. They'd walk past each other on
the streets, these men, not knowing that they share a common bond. "It's like a club," said Brad Cahill, the art preparer. Today, for the first time in their lives, all four will celebrate Father's Day, not as sons, but as fathers to Kai, Kyle, Kelsea Lotus and sisters Arya and Jaya. And for Marquis Stevens, the Target employee, it will be the first Father's Day ever. "I've never really celebrated Fathers' Day because I never knew my dad," said Stevens. "So this is a very auspicious day." There are two kinds of men in the world, all four men say — those who are fathers, and those who aren't. "There is the time before the children, and the time after the children," said Kevin Cox, the computer projects manager, "Everything becomes about the baby now ... not about myself." But there is something more, something spiritual, something personal, something elusive about the feeling that fatherhood evokes in these men. "It's not something you can describe in words," said Stevens. "It just feels so good. Nothing can prepare you for this." "I realize how selfish I used to be with my time," said Cahill. "And now I am in this situation where it's all about the baby — not about me. Suddenly, she is the project in my life." And then, there is the soldier in Iraq. Lance Cpl. Eric Schuster is in Al-Asad, working out of a captured Iraqi airfield, snatching time every now and then to run down the hall to the Internet center to call his wife Casie on her cell phone. He missed his son Kyle's delivery by 30 seconds, Casie's phone started ringing just as the doctors whisked away the baby, born with a respiratory illness.
At the Newborn Intensive Care Unit at The Children's Medical Center of Dayton, tiny Kyle lies in his crib, waiting for a checkup before his mother can take him home. A framed picture of Schuster is on the cupboard and a baby blanket reading, "Half of my heart is in Iraq, I want it back" keeps him warm. "This won't really sink in until I hold him in my hands," said Schuster. "That's when it will become real." For Schuster, Father's Day will be little different from any normal day — even the day Kyle was born, there wasn't much celebration. "No cigars," he said. But when he comes back, he will be part of the club. The club of men who nod at each other when they pass other fathers in the aisles of the shopping market, for whom "every day is Father's Day." The club of men who know all there is to know about child safety seats, about baby-proofing the electrical outlets, about mixing the baby formula. The one word they never use is sacrifice. It's not tough, said Stevens, to give up everything you used to value to care for a little one. "All of that stuff that used to matter so much — it doesn't matter anymore," he said. "I am not giving anything up — I am just taking care of my child." Cahill said the same thing. "Raising a child — it's the exact opposite of being selfish," he said, right about the time Kelsea starts to nod off. They all have their favorite moments. Watching their babies sleep is high up on the list. Cahill sings to his daughter, silly little songs with silly little words, right before she goes to sleep — a concert for an audience of one. Stevens, almost unbelievably, said changing the diaper is special, a reminder of how much the baby depends on him. "It wasn't until my son peed on me that it felt like I was a dad." Schuster has heard his son cry on the phone. For now, that's the moment. Cox, who's struck a deal with his boss to be home on Fridays, can't get enough of watching his daughters sleep. "Watching them sleep is just miraculous," he said. "Every time they smile, it makes me smile that these babies are mine." Father's Day wasn't always so special. Not until the card companies took over, and the gift shops started stocking the golf clubs, the ties, the boxer shorts and 28-blade Swiss Army Knives, did kids save up a couple of months of allowances, and buy their dads something. That's what these men did, all but Stevens, celebrating a day that was almost a holiday, but not quite. This time around though, it's the real deal. This Father's Day, they are fathers, not just sons. |
"It
was so frustrating, because I couldn't tell what was going on," said Schuster.
"I wish I could have been there, but I have a job to do."