Daughter is light of dad’s life

I don’t know when I last slept for more than three hours at a time.

And I wouldn’t change it for the world.

My last column explained that Chrissy had been having contractions for about three weeks, but a trip to the hospital resulted in nothing substantial; they weren’t quite Braxton Hicks contractions, but nurses told us they weren’t quite real contractions, either.

My wife could bear them, but they were a nuisance.

A few days after St. Patrick’s Day, the “contractions” intensified shortly before dinner. We had been using a “Contraction Counter” app to gauge their frequency, duration and severity to help us determine if and when she would be going into labor. 

After about an hour of tracking these pains — they would stop her in her tracks when walking and she was unable to eat her food if they struck during mealtime — we went to the hospital.

I grabbed our bags, which had been packed for more than a month, and made our way to the birth center. It’s almost as if the universe knew what was happening: each of the 15 traffic lights on the 4.9-mile journey from our home to the hospital were green. It was a welcome relief, as every couple of minutes my bride was writhing in pain.

About 7:30 p.m., two hours after we arrived, we were admitted as Chrissy was officially in labor. It was a long night as we waited for the contractions to be more intense and frequent to signify the beginning of birth. Nurses and midwives came and went, checking in to see how she was doing and progressing. 

The epidural coursing through her body allowed Chrissy time to conserve energy and get some sleep. I was relegated to a glorified futon and hardly slept a wink. Chrissy’s mother, who was with us in the delivery room, occupied the chair and stayed awake the entire night.

As the calendar changed days, progress was slow.

But slow progress is progress nonetheless.

As the sun started to rise, it was go time.

Through most of the pregnancy, Chrissy hoped for a momma’s boy. However, in the final days, she was leaning more toward a girl.

And all I ever wanted was to join the likes of Kobe Bryant and to be a girl dad.

I’m not ashamed to say I cried, twice, on my wedding day. Extreme happiness has a way of bringing me to tears. 

(You might remember I also cried while watching the Detroit Lions advance to the NFC Championship game earlier this year.)

This moment, on the verge of becoming a father, is perhaps the most vulnerable I will ever be in my life. I expected to cry. Honestly, I would have been surprised if I didn’t shed tears.

Roughly 14 hours after we arrived at the hospital — 17-ish hours from when labor began and after less than an hour of my wife pushing — I got to announce through a shower of tears the delivery of our 6-pound, 11.8-ounce baby girl.

It seemed as if time stopped. The nurses, the midwife, all of them seemed to disappear and it was just me and Chrissy, together, celebrating our new family.

A few moments later, we got to hold Baby Schanz for the first time.

(To protect her privacy, we’re keeping our daughter’s name and photographs off of social media and out of the public realm, which will be a topic for a later column.)

I’m fortunate with my new career to be granted four weeks of paternity leave. Each and every day so far at home as a family of three has been an adventure for the better.

I’m sleeping less than I have in my adult life. I’m putting myself second, as there’s now a tiny human dependent on me. 

With just a few weeks as a father under my belt, it’s still hard to describe the feeling from that morning in the delivery room. But I can say this: I never knew such a love could exist.

She’s the most precious, beautiful, tiny human being in the world.

And she’s the light of my life.