When my child tears through my flesh and forces his way into this world, he will be shocked by the coldness of the air, the inhospitable environment that he will be forced to live in for the rest of his life.

Do you truly believe you are ready to be a father?

You yourself are worse than an infant, prone to uncontrollable bouts of cruelty, destruction. Then suddenly, tears burst from your eyes. You apologize, you know you shouldn't have and you wish you hadn't...

My son, you see him not as a child, but as a structural adhesive, a splotch of glue that will keep us intact. To you, he is not a human; he is a piece of genetic tape, gluing our DNA together.

You wonder how you can make it up to me, for the furniture you smashed, and for everything else... You claim to worry about "the three of us," but I know that in actuality, you worry most about yourself.

"What can I do to make it up to you, to all of us?" you wonder. But the bruises on my skin are still dark and fresh. This is not the kind of boo-boo that you can put a bright band-aid on, kiss and make better.

And he is a human. Not a toy, not a tool for childish games or manipulation. He is my son, not our son. My ultrasound, that imagine of my unborn life in black and white, you will never see it. When he tears through my flesh, emerges in the red flood, you will not be there to see his head coming through, you will not be able to hold him in your arms. He is my son. And mine alone.