I met my wife more than 28 years ago and we have been
married for almost 25 of those years. We have produced three sproggs, I mean,
children: two boys and a girl.
I was thrilled when my first-born son arrived. I was
almost as excited as my dad. Now he had an heir to carry on the family name,
even if it is hard to spell.
There are not many Handschuhs in Canada, and at one point
if you ever met one they would be a member of my immediate family.
Handschuh is a fairly common name in Germany, where my grandfather
was born, and there are a few in the U.S., but for some reason not many of them
ventured into the frozen wilds of Canada. So having a grandson was a big deal
for my dad. His dad felt the same way when I was born.
When dad's second grandson arrived, my big strong, burly
father actually got misty eyed. It is not very often my dad shows emotion, but
he could not contain himself when he learned of his second grandson.
Dad grew up with three sisters and always wanted a
brother. He was the third of four and when his little sister arrived, his
parents decided enough was enough and dad never did get the brother he so
desperately wanted. He was thrilled his grandsons had something he would never
have: a brother to play with, to wrestle with and blame things on.
A few years after son No. 2 arrived, my wife became
unexpectedly pregnant. She was thrilled, excited and absolutely giddy with
glee. I was, um, er, well, let's move on, shall we.
I must admit I was less than excited about the idea of
having another child. I felt we had caught our limit and two was enough.
Despite my less-than-enthusiastic response, my wife was
absolutely glowing with the prospect of another child, and was crushed when she
had a miscarriage several weeks into the pregnancy.
Having experienced the emotions of carrying a child that
only a mother can truly feel, she decided a third kid was going to happen –
period. So, after much 'discussion' I caved in like a house of cards in a
hurricane.
A few months later she was pregnant and several months
after that it was time to rush to the hospital for the arrival of the third
installment to the House of Handschuh.
However, this time things went differently. The pregnancy
went off without a hitch and the delivery itself was a piece of cake.
Well, it was for me anyway because I was not the one
having to pass an object the size of a bowling ball, but even my wife admitted
the third delivery was the easiest – relatively speaking of course.
What was different this time was Junior was a Juniorette.
Like I said, I was not thrilled at the prospect of having
another child and my wife's insistence on adding to our brood was a topic of 'discussions'
on many occasions, but when I saw that perfect, amazing little girl I could not
remember for the life of me why I did not want to have another child.
I have never fallen in love so fast in my life. Don't get
me wrong, I felt the same love when both of my boys were born, but there is
something about daddy's little girl that I still can't really explain.
To say I was over the moon is like saying the Senate is a
waste of money.
I was so excited I wanted to run up and down the hospital
halls yelling, “It's a girl, it's a girl.”
Considering it was 1 a.m. and I was in a hospital, I did
my best to restrain myself, but just barely.
When we took her home, I carried her to the car like the
proud father I was. I saw someone I knew in the hospital hallway and rushed
over with my little baby, spewing on and on about my new-born daughter.
My 'little' girl will a teen next month, but no matter if
she is a newborn, a teen or a mother herself she will always be daddy's little
girl.
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