In which the progeny reaches the big 1

A year ago today, the Bat Signal went up: Baby on the way. This is not a drill. This is when heroes are made, people! Move it, move it, move it! We'd had one false alarm before this day, but when The Lovely Missus came down the stairs with that look on her face, I knew, or at least strongly believed, that we'd reached DefCon 1.

I can be on the hyper side at times, so I had figured I'd go into full-bore panic when the time came. I had visions of my turning into Ricky Ricardo, although I pray that I have never been, and never will be, as irritating as that character. Failing that, I figured I'd at least need a hardbitten, WWII Sarge type to give me a speech like, "Scared? Of course you're scared. Childbirth...it does something to a man. I've seen men--strong men, men who'd charge Hell with a cap pistol and a paper hat if I told them to--reduced to a whimpering mess just by the sight of a mucus plug. (Dramatic drag off a hand-rolled cigarette.) But real men, they tough it out. They swallow the bile in their throat, steel their innards, resist the urge to leave the delivery room for the waiting room, even if the waiting room has one of those new flat-screen TVs with ESPN on, and the Coke machine dispenses really cold Cokes, and they face that baby! Now get in there and do your duty, Soldier!"

But it's a funny thing about stressful situations. When you, or at least I, have some control over a situation, I can have more facial tics than a Baghdad Airport baggage checker. But when the situation is completely out of my hands (and I don't have any obstetrical skills), I can throttle back and have a little faith. Such was the case when the Bat Signal was displayed. I got a little antsy, but on the way to the hospital, I didn't take any corners on two wheels, or force a busload of orphans into the ditch. That was a good thing, because not only did no one lose his life before the baby started his post-womb life, but it turned out we were settling in for a while. He was definitely about to start his one-man show, but not until later that afternoon. At one point--and I swear I'm not lying--I actually dozed off on the couch in the delivery room.

We thought for a while that TLM would be able to deliver naturally, but the poor young'un was cursed with a noggin like his daddy's ("I'm not kidding, it's like an orange on a toothpick"),so that was not to be. A C-section was called for, and preparations were made.

The only time I really got scared was when I got to go in the OR with The Lovely Missus, and she began having tremors ("birthquakes," I believed they're called) that were pretty serious. I couldn't see the festivities taking place on the other side of the curtain, so I wasn't worried about the baby, but I was holding TLM's hand, and it was like she was sitting on an industrial clothes dryer with an unbalanced load. That began to scare me after a while.

The whole "Open womb and remove baby" step probably didn't take five or ten minutes, but in my mind, it lasted longer than a Super Bowl pregame. Eventually, however, at 4:02 p.m., Memorial Day, 2008, the nurses handed me a wriggling, red, irritated, squinty-eyed bundle that was my son. Jacob Hayes Dunn had entered the world the rest of us inhabit.

Here's one thing I've learned on my first anniversary of being a dad. I'd always thought that having a child was a monstrous inconvenience and a major pain. You're talking to, er, reading the words of a man who didn't get married until two weeks shy of his fortieth birthday, so I was pretty used to living a relatively carefree, and 100% diaper-free, sick-baby-free, and middle-of-the-night-crying-free life. But, despite all my preconceived notions, having a child turned out to be...a monstrous inconvenience and a major pain.

Hang on. I'm not saying something that I never want Jacob to read, nor am I admitting that I'm a regular W.C. Fields when it comes to hating babies. I love my son. I'd kill for him. I'd die for him. When he's sick, I'd most gladly take his affliction in his stead. We've had a couple of Children's Hospital E.R. runs, and nothing will put your heart in your throat faster than pulling into that parking lot.

But make no mistake about it: Babies are tremendous burdens. And make no mistake about this: Tremendous burdens are not always bad things. We live in a push-button, customized world, where microwaving a Hot Pocket for 2.5 minutes takes FOREVER in our minds. If the A/C goes out, it's time to call out the National Guard to deliver emergency cooling, NOW! There are interstate highways full of people who have no clue how to change gears on a manual transmission, have never manually cranked down a car window. We've not only pursued the trouble-free life, we've dang near perfected it.

There's nothing wrong with pushing buttons or otherwise using modern conveniences, of course. But sometimes, we need some inconvenience to remind us it's not always about us. Not that I recommend getting much of your philosophy or theology from rock singers, but it's hard to put it more eloquently than Mick Jagger did: You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.

And I needed Jacob Hayes Dunn. Happy first birthday, son.