As I type this,

it's a little past one am, and I'm sitting in the hospital room while Nomi sleeps. We got here at about five pm, and are now on the thresh hold of giving birth. In the morning, she will be given a drug that starts contractions and... and then we wait. The worst part about inducing labor is how up in the air everything is. The doctor can't tell us what will happen because there too many variables. We will playing it by ear, and that's a little frightening.

Best case scenario: She takes the drug, labor occurs, and a few hours later the baby arrives vaginally.

Worst case scenario: She takes the drug, labors hard for many hours to no effect, and they have to put Nomi under general anesthesia for an emergency c-section.

Or anywhere in between. It's maddening, really.

I keep telling myself that this is the best place to be considering the unknowns; that whatever happens, the staff here is well trained and can handle emergencies. It's still annoying not to have any idea what will actually happen, other than, by this time tomorrow, I should be looking at my new daughter.

I've been trying to come to grips with the emotion of the situation, and I really can't. It's been an intimidating mental roller coaster. I go from absolute elation, to Full-Blown Linear Panic (as opposed to Modified Stationary Panic) and everything in between. I'll be giddy to the point of bugging the hell out out of my wife, then ten minuets later, breathing so fast I need to sit down before I pass out. Since we've arrived at the hospital, I've tried really hard to remain calm and collected, and let Nomi do most of the panicking.

There's quite a bit about the next rest of my life that scares me now. I worry about money and keeping up on the housework. I worry about teaching my child right. I worry about trying to explain why there's evil in the world. I worry about the shows on TV and the songs on the radio. I worry that she'll be healthy. As silly as it may seem, I worry that she'll love me. I worry about my marriage, not that we're having any trouble, but because a child changes everything and I wonder how we'll cope.

I worry about being a good dad.

I've been told that the joy of having a child more than makes up for the worry, but right now, in this darkened hospital room, the worry is coming through pretty strong.

I've learned to value my friends and family more. I really don't say it enough, but I could not have made through this without them. Beyond the financial support (of which there has been much, deeply appreciated) simply being there has really helped. Knowing that I can still drop in late at night for some gaming, or that they're still up for a long drive to nowhere, philosophizing, really helps. In an absolutely startling move, a couple of my friends have actually taken the weekend off, so they'll be available if we need them.

My perception of time has been fundamentally altered, in a way that I'm not certain I can explain. If you asked me, two years ago, what would be going in 20 years, I probably would have shrugged, mumbled something about being 40 and teaching English somewhere. Now, I look 18 years hence and I see Sydney graduating high school. She's had an entire life and I've been there to witness it: learning to walk, to talk, to read, making friends, getting into fights, finding love, loosing it, and on and on and on.

It's weird to think about.

Along with this, has come a greater, I dunno, understanding? (Acceptance? Realization? I can't quite pick the right word) of my own mortality. I think it strange that creating a new life has caused me to consider my own death, but it has. My death now has consequences, whereas, before I was married, it would affect only my friends and family. But now, it'll truly affect my kid, in a profound manner. Not to belittle my friends and family, but my dying won't affect them as much or in the same way as it will Sydney. (I say 'will', because it will happen, eventually) I need to be careful. Eat better. Peel my ass off the sofa once in a while. I need to be there, in life, for my kids. Before Sydney (this may sound melodramatic, but words fail me), I had no reason to live. I wasn't suicidal; I had no particular reason to die, but I had no compelling reason to keep breathing, either. Now I have something (someone, specifically) to live my life for.

It's startling when your life comes into focus like that.