I expected to enjoy fatherhood. I really did. I thought that this whole ride was going to be a great one: infancy to childhood to adolescence to adulthood, with my wife and I being there to help when he falls and to pat him on the back when he succeeds. Don't get me wrong - I walked in with open eyes in regards to the downside of things. I was aware of the sleepless nights, the sleepless months, the constant demand for attention, the subjugation of my personal life and feelings for the care of the child. I understand the casual cruelty of which children are capable. I understand the need for independence to the expense of all else, the need to assert himself as his own being. I'm not an idiot; I pay attention to the parents around me. I know the bad sides, and I know the good sides.
But, man, I'm loving this whole thing far more than I expected. I love it. I love being a Daddy. I love seeing the bright smile and excited eyes on the baby when I talk to him; I love how happy he gets just by being acknowledged by one of us. I love watching him with my wife, as she does the whole Mommy thing - and she does it so well, believe you me. I love the fascination that The Boy has with the entire world, from his own toes (...and other body parts) to my hands to his toys, all of which he seems to see for the first time every time he plays with them.
People keep telling me not to rush him along, to enjoy the time I'm spending with him, because "...they get older, quickly." Believe you me, I am enjoying every second of this. I am, most assuredly, in no rush to have him grow up. I'm completely satisfied for him to move at his own pace and for me to be there with him. Every moment that I spend with him is better than any moment that I've had in a school building, and I would gleefully spend the next several years at home with him, if I could.
I understand that this isn't for everybody. Most of my friends would go absolutely nucking futs if they had to spend my days doing this. Not me, my friends.