Like most parents, the first memory of my child is permanently etched in my brain. When I envision her on that surreal morning four and a half years ago, she is still helplessly lying there, ruddy-cheeked and swaddled in white, tightly-wrapped cotton like a pink burrito.

I remember picking her up for the first time, feeling her fragile weight in my trembling arms and my heart soaring into uncharted dimensions. I remember taking her tiny hand in my own and the sensation of unparalleled joy giving way to overwhelming trepidation as the incredible realization that I, a care-free middle-aged man with the maturity of a mischievous schoolboy, was now a father.

What is still a little fuzzy, however, is when the metamorphosis from father to “fother” (rhymes with mother) occurred. I don’t really know if it was a gradual process like the evolution from Neanderthal or a sudden transformation as if my thick skull had been thunder-struck by a quiver of lightening bolts from Thor’s mighty arsenal.

Looking back on it, though, I can recall when the process began – that fateful moment when my wife decided to return to the working world. At the time, being designated primary caretaker seemed like a wonderful concept. Easy street. No problemo!

So there I was on day one, taking my toddler on a whimsical walk down our beautiful, tree-lined loop road. It was a glorious, crisp fall morning; the sun breaking through the fog layer, the soft flutter of falling, alder leaves cascading around us and all was as right and perfect in the world as could be . . . until she tripped and fell head-long into the cement.

I can readily remember the shock and horror when I first saw the blood streaming down her forehead, my feet moving robotically with her cradled in my arms as I frantically rushed back to the house and the harsh wail of “Mommmy!” filling the neighborhood. Then she chimed in too!

Having reached our inner sanctum, I desperately attempted to clean her “gaping wound,” but she would have nothing of it, her arms and legs flailing in all directions, swatting at my cotton-filled lunges with the adeptness of an Olympic fencer. My heart was pounding, my mind racing. That’s when I reached for my last resort. With my daughter kicking and screaming, I placed her in the tub and poured a cup of warm water over her head.

A few moments later, after a little toweling, the gentle application of antibacterial ointment, a small pinkie-sized Band-Aid, a hug and a kiss, she was fine. I, however, had just lost the last remnants of brown in my hair and I could swear that a shock of white was taking its place. I knew then that this whole primary caretaker thing was not going to be a “piece of cake.”

Three educational years have passed and I am now a fully operational “fother” -— no longer the naive man-child that first took on the role of primary caretaker. When I first started out, I had more experience with atomic fusion than changing a diaper, feeding, or administering medication.

Instead of devising marketing strategies or gauging the passing of seasons by the Mariners and Seahawks, my calendar has now been replaced with the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. And profound thoughts on solving the world’s problems, writing the “great American novel” or mixing a better martini have been overrun by endless hours of “Barney” songs, tag and . . . dress-up.

I have changed two thousand plus diapers, washed 256 loads of clothes, drawn about 800 baths and have logged over 3,000 hours of housework. I can now multi-task. Sort of. And I could swear that my left brain is now synapsing with the right.

As an experienced “fother,” I now have more respect, regard and esteem for mothers than ever. This is the hardest thing that I have ever done. The hours are endless, the job is thankless and the pay bites! For my metamorphosis, the countless epiphanies and the on-going lessons that my daughter has taught me, I wouldn’t change it for anything in the world! Well, maybe a nanny that works for free.

Donald Denman writes on behalf of the Family Support Alliance and lives with his family on South Whidbey.