I have three kids. My eldest, a miracle of mischief, mayhem, and merriment, is turning six soon. The other duo, a boy and a girl, popped out only four minutes apart, and will be celebrating their second year on Earth shortly.

I was present in the delivery room during all three births.

The first one was born in a sunlit bedroom in Auroville, India. It was the day of a big puja, or celebration, for Ganesh, the beloved elephant deity of good fortune.

I’d like to think he presided over and blessed my son’s emergence.

Being there was the most significant and poignant moment in my life. Words will never be able to describe what I felt, but I’ll try.

As he came out and slipped into my arms, it was like a membrane I’d always had around my heart—but was never really aware of—had been pierced.

I watched that tiny being, conceived out of our love, tears flowing down my cheeks, his body minuscule in my arms… with an indescribable sense of wonderment and amazement.

It was like the whole miracle of creation, of the impossibility that is our… aliveness, sentience… the improbability of life as we know it… in a moment… condensed into a single event that moved me not only to tears but to heart-opening gratitude.

The feeling was beyond joy and sorrow.

The birth of the twins was dramatic. It was in a hospital in Cape Town, almost a month before their due date.

My wife’s water broke unexpectedly in the morning and we rushed to the hospital, leaving our son with a friend.

An ultrasound revealed that both little ones had their feet pointing down. My wife needed a Caesarean.

That’s not what we’d planned—we wanted another home birth.

We were concerned.

But those were our cards. So we waited to be called, holding hands and talking.

The sun had long ago set and my wife was dilating, the contractions coming faster and harder.

I asked someone why they didn’t let us in the operating room yet.

Triage—that process of determining the order of treatment according to urgency.

A woman with severe bleeding in her uterus was brought in on a speeding ambulance and admitted before us.

Nothing we could do but wait.

But the contractions were getting more intense. My wife needed to be operated soon.

Then it happened again. Another woman brought in. Similar story.

My wife was saying she was feeling something coming.

I was freaking out.

I called someone. She slapped a glove on and poked my wife.

“I GOT A FOOT COMING!” she yelled.

This was real. This was dangerous. They could no longer operate—there was no time.

I was given scrubs and we were rushed into the operating room.

The obstetrician wasted no time. She stuck her hand inside and carefully pulled out my second son. Then she did it again and my daughter was out.

There’s that moment when the baby comes out and everyone holds their breath, waiting for the chest to start pumping, for that unimaginably tiny being to sustain its own self for the very first time.

That. Twice.

Relief. Two sets of lungs swelling with breath, with life. Our twins.

I’d been gazing into my wife’s eyes the whole time, holding her hand.

But the truth is that I’d been way more nervous than her.

Thank goodness I was present in the delivery room, first at home and then at the hospital, for the birth of our three kids.

Not only were the experiences life-transforming, but I was able to share moments of joy, wonder—not to mention extreme, heart-thumping worry—with my wife.

As a result, I feel not only like a more thoughtful, experienced human being, but that my relationship with both my wife and kids is deeper and more meaningful.

I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.