Three weeks in, and the world still feels new

Three weeks ago I was a guy who remembered to buy milk. Now I'm a man who has memorized the exact temperature of a bottle and the sound of a breath that's a little too quiet.

The morning he arrived, the world didn't fanfare. The nurses moved quietly. The sun came through the blinds in stripes. My partner held him first, and then he was in my arms, smaller than I thought a person could be and somehow heavier than anything I'd ever carried.

I had planned to be useful. I had packed a bag, installed the car seat, and read exactly half of a parenting book. None of that prepared me for the way time would change shape. Days became a sequence of feeds and swaddles and wondering if that noise was normal.

This is the honest, sleepless, beautiful beginning. I'm writing it down because I don't want to forget the small hours, the quiet victories, and the way my heart now lives outside my body, wearing a onesie.