At some point over the last nine months the idea that it’s my daughter inside my wife’s burgeoning belly became very real. And I’m starting to have a very strong emotional bond to this thing. There are moments when I rest my ear on the bump and caress it, almost to provoke a reaction (from baby, not wife). I can feel her move in there, kicking and jabbing, almost in response to my stimulation. It’s transcendental, really.

But do I seriously think that Baby is aware of me? And if she is, does she at all grok who I am? And if she were, does she share those moments of transcendence? Is she self-aware? Does she wonder to herself, “Trippy… that’s my dad out there?”

To meditate over these puzzling ontological quandaries, let us delve briefly into the world of dialogical existence (No, I’m not sure either what I just wrote).

Martin Buber, in his treatise Ich und Du (I and Thou), describes intimate, authentic encounters between beings. These so called I-Thou relationships occur spontaneously and are devoid of any conditions and expectations. Buber asserts that the I-Thou relationship can be between two people, between a person and God, and between an observer and an object. I find the notion beautiful, but I’ll stop explaining philosophical positions beyond my area of expertise (hipdadology, of course), for fear of becoming a modern jackass. You can read the rest of the Wikipedia entry and judge for yourself.

For a time I’ve been bothered by one of Buber’s illustrations of the I-Thou relationship — that between him and his cat. He maintained that the encounter was just as holistic and transcendental as that between him and others or even between him and God. Isn’t there something a tad strange about sharing a moment with kitty? And forget about objects like trees. It’s not mutual, after all. The cat can’t know about existential philosophy (wait, can it?). I might admit that animals are self-aware, but are they self-perceiving? Can they meditate or experience brief moments of enlightenment? (Buber’s retort might be that it is the very idea that cats — or trees — do not come to the encounter with that existential baggage that makes them almost superior candidates for the Thou in the I-Thou relationship.)

Back to babies. I think that after many years, I finally get what Buber meant. I am having an I-Thou relationship with an unborn fetus. Those moments for me are very authentic, and very transcendental. It does help knowing that it’s my daughter in there. And it does help knowing that in a few days I will finally meet her.

But it is a little odd. In reality, I am having an I-Thou relationship with a quasi-spherical object located at my wife’s midsection (incidentally, she’s been complaining that lately I give her no attention). I can conjure images of what my daughter looks like, what her personality might be like. But really, I have no clue. It’s all just inside my own head. No offense to her, but in this I-Thou relationship, she is very much akin to a cat or a tree. I can make believe that those kicks and movements are some playful gesture on her part, but they’re really not much more than developmental biology at work. (Daughter, if you are reading this in 18 years or so, know that I meant you no harm.)

Maybe there is some learned primal adaptation to my voice, but my daughter is not conscious, I don’t think. She is not reacting to any of my stimulations, verbal or physical. But I don’t care. Even armed with this knowledge, it’s awesome and visceral. I am already attached to her. Nine short months ago, I couldn’t choose a piece of skin on my wife’s midsection and become this preoccupied with it (well, not in the midsection, at least). Now, it’s wrapping what is set to become the most important person in my life.

Then again, this reaction I’m having could all be part of a parental evolutionary mechanism to nurture our young. Maybe Martin Buber’s I-Thou encounters too are evolutionary human instincts to form lasting interpersonal bonds and build civilizations. And, not to sound like some clinical, arrogant atheist, perhaps there is something metaphysical at play. But however you slice it, it is very, very cool.

Soon, as the baby will pass through the parturitional membrane, from the comfortable and soothing confines of her mother’s womb into a rugged and cold world (it is December in the Bronx), I will really have to start sharing the task of raising a child. And nothing will ever be the same.

After about 3 seconds of waxing philosophic on the momentous transition period I find myself in, she tells me she’s been feeling these contractions for a while. “Wait, how long is a while?” I ask. “Oh, about a week,” she answers nonchalantly.

About a week! Phew! I’m already feeling the blood flowing back into my face. It’s not time yet. I can still pretend. Okay, she’s been having Braxton-Hicks for a few weeks already. Which is more reason for momentarily freaking out when I hear about contractions. “Woman, why are you telling me that you’re having contractions if I am fully aware that you’ve been having Braxton-Hicks contractions these past few weeks?”

But now I can’t help but think. I see it coming. At some point in the next few days, these contractions will be real, and she’ll go into labor. I’ll be driving with her down to the hospital, and along the way I’ll turn to her and know full well that this is the very last time it’s just the two of us. And the next time that I step through the threshold of our apartment, it will be three of us. And I’ll be Daddy.