5/3/21

Dear Atlas,

It’s me, your Dad.

The weekend has come and gone without your arrival. I thought for sure you’d be here by now, and it has been a bit straining (emotionally) to stretch out the wait, especially for your Mom.

We’ve been talking a lot lately about our own upbringings and the way we hope to raise you. A family environment has to be healthy in order for all members to thrive. How do you define a healthy family?

That’s a great question, Atlas. I see a healthy family as a unit in which each member feels like they are wanted, loved, contributing, heard, and understood. These are the “roots,” if you will.

I also see a healthy family as one that shares mutual respect, laughs and cries together, encourages and uplifts each other, holds each other accountable, helps others, and serves the poor.

There’s a saying that you can tell a tree by the fruit it bears. I hope our family tree is full of everlasting fruit, the kind that leaves a legacy long after we leave this plane[t].

You, Atlas, are one of those legacies. Throughout the pregnancy, I’ve wrestled with the permanence of the situation, feeling as if there is a perpetual hourglass dropping the sands of your arrival.

I see every action and thought now connected to both you and your Mom. Now, I want to live for a lot more than just myself. That’s the part inside of me that I see changing the most.

For most of my life, I’ve only had to worry about myself. There was a void of accountability and I lived pretty recklessly; life was one huge pendulum swinging between pleasure and pain.

Now that I know you’re coming (and almost here), I know my life now counts for more than just me: it’s you, your Mom, and this new unit we are all creating called our family, which will support, provide, and nurture all of us—if we are good to it.

You (and your Mom) are one of the most important pieces of something my heart wants the most: a home. I hope you never forget that, Atlas. I know you and your Mom won’t as long as I treat you that way.

Ahead of being your Dad, I want you to know that I feel like I don’t yet know how to be one; I don’t yet have diaper bag lightning reflexes, and my changing skills feel a bit rusty. But I’m going to give being your Dad one hundred percent, and that means knowing when to get out of my own way.

Our new family unit is like a three-legged table, Atlas. All three of us are standing on it, and each leg belongs to us to care for. If one leg suffers, we all fall. We need each other.

I don’t just love you, Atlas. I need you, just like I need your Mom and she needs me. Necessity means you don’t dispose of something, but protect and cherish it.

Get here soon, little Atlas.

Love,

Dad