My son. The phrase felt difficult and strange the first time I said it, and I had to practice it a thousand times. I started saying the words to myself the day when the ultrasound told me we were having a baby. Finally, my son was born. The nurse came out of the delivery room, holding a tiny, howling human being wrapped in a white sheet, his small hands and delicate fingers shaking nervously. "Baby Sanchez?" she asked, looking at the room full of expectant fathers. I stood up, holding my breath. She showed me my baby. "My son," I whispered. The little guy screamed, "waaaaaaaaaah." But in my heart I heard him cry out, "Daaaaaaad!" I don't care if everyone in the room will swear they didn't hear my baby say that. I called him, "My son," and he called me "Dad," and that's that. People ask me, "What did you feel at that moment?" I can't even begin to answer. I'm a writer yet I try hard to find the right words. Joyful isn't powerful enough. Bliss  is not sweet enough. Peaceful isn't calm enough. Happy isn't tense enough. After my son was taken away to the nursery, I sat down and shut my eyes. But tears escaped them away. Then out of the blue, my 80-year-old father entered, and we embraced. "Dad," I whispered. "My son," my heart heard him saying. Suddenly the past 33 years folded into the present and I was now the baby bundled in white, with my father standing over me. "My son," I imagined him saying. "Daaaaaaaaaad!" I cried my little lungs out. At that point, I knew I was going to be a great father. The old man in front of me seemed to agree. He smiled and we walked out of the room in search of the tiny human being that would change our lives for ever. Why was the writer sure he was going to be a great father?
Because his son is so gifted. Because he had much experience in bringing up children. Because his father promised to help him. Because his father had already set him a good example.