My daughter has my toes

My daughter has my toes.

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Two weeks ago, Lorraine and I had our fist child. A girl: weighing in at 7 pounds 9 ounces (I feel like a boxing announcer) and 21 inches long. Lorraine had a C-section. At some point in the operating room, the doctor handed me our child. Then I sat there for 15 minutes holding our first child in one arm and Lorraine’s hand in the other, as they stitched Lorraine back together. I was overcome with emotion.

 

Back to my toes: they are really long. I can pick up all kind of things with them. They are almost like monkey toes, except I don’t have the displaced thumb. They are designed for sprinting; an extra little spring to give me a competitive edge. I am sure that if I spent a little less time eating cookies and more time sprinting up hills, that their true potential would be shown. I am proud that my daughter has inherited these highly evolved toes.

Eventually she will start training to be an Olympic sprinter, but in the meantime, I have been enjoying watching her take in the world around her. Everything is new for her. Air is new, the sun is new, trees are new… and eventually a fresh lemon will be new. Every new thing elicits a new face. She has enough faces to have her own brand of emojis.

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People warn you that you are not going to sleep well. Good job everyone; I was mentally prepared for that. What I was not ready for was the helplessness that I feel when my daughter cries and I cannot figure out what is wrong.

Overall I am just excited to raise my daughter. It has been a blast so far, and I imagine it will continue to be fun. I am sure I will make some mistakes, but I feel positive that I am going to do well.

Pressie Ruth Shamah, welcome to the world.

My daughter has my toes

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