I expected to love him; I never imagined I would love him this much. Looking at my new son as he sleeps in the crook of my left arm, my heart aches, actually aches with physical pain. It is unarguably a cliché to say that he is perfect, but he is, so why fight it? His fingers are impossibly slender, curled into tiny fists, one resting against his chest. I wonder that I can ever live up to the responsibility of being the father to such a one as this. I hope that one day I can make him half as awed of me as I am of him right now.