I admit I had certain ideas of what it would be like, the birth of my child. I had wanted to avoid thinking about it, to let it all be a surprise, to let the moments unfurl one inch at a time until all the magnificent colors of the experience were revealed. We had decided not to learn the gender of the baby. We had only very recently settled on names, one for a boy, one for a girl. Most of our preparation consisted of Tammy encouraging — and sometimes threatening — me to be a good partner in the delivery room. I had been force fed dozens of episodes of a cable show called “Baby Story,” which follows in graphic and startling detail the delivery process of a baby in each episode — this in an effort to desensitize me, I guess, and prepare my squeamish stomach for the vivid and oh so tactile realities that would soon be in front of me.

We had a birth plan. I would be the one to call out the gender of the baby, and I would cut the umbilical cord. Since these responsibilities were unfathomable to me, I found that I could not really give them much thought, even if I wanted. But I could not help imagining the sight of our baby, trembling in the doctor’s arms seconds after birth, eyes squinting against first light, the first sounds ...

I could not help picturing myself holding the baby for the first time. I thought of the wonder of looking, for the first time, at a person who, no matter what, would always be connected to me.

But now we were here. I didn’t have to imagine anything else — it was all about to happen. Within moments, Tammy was hooked up to various monitors to measure the baby’s heartbeat and her contractions. In a little while, a man came in and gave her a shot in the spine to numb the pain. By 7 a.m., it appeared that we were getting closer to the time when doctors and nurses — and I, yes, no doubt — would gather around the bed and hang in there, for hours perhaps, coaxing Tammy and the baby through the delivery. I thought it would take at least three hours or more, perhaps a lot more. I had pictured myself next to Tammy, my face inches from hers, counting off to 10 as she pushed, whispering encouragement to her in between — ”you can do it, you’re doing fine, we’re almost there.” I was in it for the long haul. If she could go through this, the least I could do was bear up for a few hours.

At 7:30, the doctor breezed in and said, “Let’s get started. My shift is over at eight. I’d sure like to be the one to deliver this baby.”

Are you kidding, I thought. Why not just wait on the other doctor?

Suddenly, the bright lights were turned on, the staff circled around, and Tammy was put into position, a nurse grabbing one leg and me grabbing the other.

“OK, honey, are you ready? Let’s go ahead and give it a push.”

Tammy took a deep breath and gave a big push. Red swept over her face like a shadow.

“Great, that was great,” said the doctor. “Take a breath and let’s go again.”

Once again, Tammy began to push, and I was, in fact, very close to her face, encouraging her, although her eyes were shut tight in concentration.

“Wow,” said a nurse. “Wow, here comes the head.”

By the end of the second push, the baby’s head was out. I stood there in complete disbelief.

“Slow down, slow down a minute and stop pushing,” the doctor said. “We just need to make a couple of adjustments. The baby is gorgeous. You can touch the head if you want.”

Tammy reached down and touched the baby’s head.

“Oh my God,” she said, smiling. “Oh my God.”

“OK, let’s go again,” said the doctor. “You are really close now. One two three ...”

Tammy took another breath and pushed with everything she had until several voices spoke out in unison. “There’s your baby.” “How beautiful.” “You did it.” It was 7:33 am. Once the staff gathered around the table, Tammy had delivered the baby in less than five minutes.

“What do you think, Dad?” the doctor said, giving me my cue. “Make the call.”

For the first time, I turned from Tammy and saw my son in the hands of the doctor. He was almost berry-colored, purplish-blue, and his long fingers — his dad’s — stretched out, curled back in, then stretched out again, like a flower closing and opening.

“Well,” I said, locating the evidence. “I do believe that’s a boy.”

A moment later, still trying to catch my breath and gather my senses, I was cutting the umbilical cord, and a few moments after that, I was holding my son and looking at his face. What a miraculous inventory. Ears, mouth, nose, chin, hair — he had little sideburns, very cool — and those long fingers. Then he opened his eyes, blinking, his first gesture of getting used to the world, and I realized that everything I thought I knew about love, about hope, about fear had only ever been half formed inside me, carried around for 40 years like that, and I hadn’t even known it. I thought I had felt these things as about as deeply as I had the capacity to feel them, but I was wrong.

Every quick breath, every mild gurgle, every little twist of his body, and I felt corresponding seismic waves of panic. Is he OK? Is everything all right? Is this normal? What do I do now?

These are questions I will have to learn to live with every day, every moment, for the rest of my life. I guess I’ll have to adjust my eyes, too, to the new world. In a way, my son and I were both born today. Happy birthday to us.

(Chris Cox is a writer and teacher. He can be reached at chriscox@prodigy.net.)