I am writing this while awaiting word of your arrival from your parents. After waiting at home all day and timing contractions, your father sent me a text at 4:32 p.m. confirming that they were with you at St. Joseph's Hospital in St. Paul.
I am at my office and I have work to do but I am having a hard time concentrating on anything but the desktop on my iPhone. I am trying to will it to light up with a phone call or text from your father, telling me that you and your mother are healthy and, finally, sharing your name with me and my 1,300 Facebook friends. I thought if I shot something off to you, it would make time pass.
You should know that this world is full of strange coincidences. Your parents told Grandma and me eight months ago to the day that you were expected. So, for eight months, I had been meaning to share some advice with your father. I kept forgetting, even though we believed that you would join us last week.
This morning, at 9:26 a.m., I sent your father the following text:
"Time for me to tell you what someone told me before you were born. It doesn't matter how much you've read or how much you have discussed the birth of your child. You have never felt anything like the way you are going to feel when your son is born. Enjoy the experience and each and every moment that follows thereafter. Don't wish away any part of his growing up. It passes all too soon."
Thirty-seven minutes later, your father called me to tell me that your mother had gone into labor. While I realize that the going away festivities started for you last night, it struck me that you waited until I gave your father a last piece of guidance before you felt he was ready to say "hello".
Thank you for having so much confidence in me. I will try to be a wonderful Papa for you.
I will teach you patience and respect for the wishes of others. I will start by not posting this letter until given permission by your parents as it will, in effect, serve as a birth announcement for the dozens of friends who will want to be called Uncle or Aunt.
I will be honest with you. In eight days, we will celebrate at your bris. I'm not going to lie; it's going to hurt. You won't walk for a year.
Lastly, for now, I will not spare you from stupid jokes. See above.
With all my love and tear-filled eyes,
Papa
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| Molly, Teddy and Phillip May 4, 2014 |
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