My new baby

Baby Burke has resembled a basketball while in the womb. 

At 1:35 a.m. this morning I was driving 55 miles-per-hour on Highway 1 in Santa Cruz en-route to Dominican Hospital. My wife, Heather, is now laying asleep on a hospital cot more than 9 hours later.

Heather is ripe with child -- our first son.

Usually I drive at the speed of traffic (In the fast lane. I am a man) But this morning, several early morning drivers passed me while I navigated the dark, foggy August night.

In my mind, I had imagined Heather's water breaking in the middle of the night, and me driving break-neck speed to the hospital, and an hour later cradling my son in my arms. The opposite was true. As I drove, I found myself reflecting on how dangerous the Fish Hook is when the ground is wet. I stared, trying to focus with bleary eyes at the broken white lines on the freeway, all the while easing off the peddle. I came to the understanding that I was more concerned about making it to the hospital safely and not about the speed we got there.

Maybe this is what fatherhood is about.

I fondly remember the time I topped 100 in my Toyota Supra as a high school senior. I remember the time the dorm room brothers launched ourselves from 60-foot cliffs into a lake below. The time I gave the snowmobile full throttle, touching 70 while barely skimming the crusty frozen lake. Those times are bygones. And I am OK with it that.  Today I drove 55 miles-per-hour to get the hospital intact.

Heather is awake now and it's time to welcome the next generation.

Bring on fatherhood.