I remember the stifling heat the day our first child was born. I remember taking my wife for a slow walk around the neighbourhood, holding her hand.

I remember taking her to the hospital, meeting our midwife there. I remember the birthing room, airy and comfortable. I remember the air conditioning.

I remember sitting in the tub with my wife (was I in the tub?). I remember her vomiting in the toilet. I remember her water breaking.

I remember her asking me to put a cold towel with ice on her forehead. I remember feeling helpless. I remember it seemed forever. I remember her sitting on some kind of stool on the bed.

I remember she moved to lie on her side. I remember seeing our child's head peek out. I remember my wife writhing in pain. I remember being taken aback, marvelling that a human being was being born in front of my eyes. I remember her being so strong. I remember the midwife having to turn the baby's shoulders.

I remember the last push, her screams. I remember our baby sliding out.

I remember both of us crying. I remember her asking, “What is it?” I remember saying, “I don't know” because I wasn't paying attention to that, I was beside myself that our child was born. I remember after saying it was a boy. I remember cutting the cord.

I remember him on her chest, feeding for the first time. I remember watching him rest with her. I remember the midwife weighing him on the scale, his skin, pinkish hue. I remember putting on his first diaper. I remember swaddling him. I remember putting him in the car seat.

I remember taking him home. I remember holding him in my arms on our rocking chair. I remember feeling very tired. I remember feeling very alive. I remember being scared. I remember being proud.

I remember what it felt like to be a father for the very first time.