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.