Photo courtesy of Jon Pitts-Wiley

A letter from the waiting room for the child I have yet to meet. I hope you read this one day and understand me better.

I remember the morning your mom and I invited you into this world. Fresh off your Uncle Ric's wedding, you might say a bit of love was still in the air. When your mom and I invited you over, I have to admit it was more a courtesy invite; the kind of thing you do at a cocktail party when you make plans you don't intend to keep. But much to our surprise, you took us up on our offer. I'll admit, upon hearing about having company, I balked. Your mom and I had worked hard to bring a little stability to our lives and we'd done OK, but I don't think either of us were quite ready for you to arrive. Your mom didn't care; she said we had to prepare for company.

I wish I could say I agreed with her from jump street; that I was of one mind with my teammate (your mom and I were never fond of the term "girlfriend" or "boyfriend." We always thought teammate better described a healthy relationship, but that's a whole other letter). But your mom and I didn't agree. I told her we weren't ready for company; that we had so much more left to do, that she had so much left to do and I was committed to her getting those things done. I told her a guest could wait, especially one we only casually invited. Those first few days, your mom and I weren't the best of friends. I couldn't wrap my mind around it all, I couldn't understand why you couldn't come later. For reasons I might one day explain and reasons I likely won't, your mother stood firm. We were preparing for your arrival.

Those first few weeks were a bit rough, what with your mother and I getting on the same page and you wearing your mother out. No, your mom wasn't lucky enough to avoid morning sickness. You had her running to the bathroom every ten seconds it seemed. Any little smell that you didn't like, she didn't like. In a weird way, I guess you guys were figuring out how to work together too.

With all the changing going on, I just tried to keep up. I was gonna support your mother no matter what, but I was still struggling. I was gonna do what a real man should, but I can't say I felt connected. "Obligated" is probably a better way to describe how I felt.

I've always been unreasonable in my hopes for your mother. She's a talented woman with dreams, and early on, I was committed to seeing those dreams through. In that commitment, I refused to let anything or anyone stand in her way. Early on, I felt like you were standing in her way. Until I saw you for the first time. You looked like a kidney bean. Then I heard you for the first time. Your little heart was working so hard, so strong. There you were: The Franchise.

Now, you might read this one day and think "Geez Pop, was it mostly ambivalence accented by moments of disbelief?"

No, my child, it wasn't.

You see, for as much as the early days might have been tough between your mom and I, I have to admit, you changed my life in a way you might not appreciate until you have your own Franchises. You see, as we told people we were pregnant, as we got ourselves together, I couldn't help but feel like a real grown-up, a person who suddenly was beginning his life's work. I could still be a moody scalawag at times—how your mother puts up with it I'll never fully understand—but you never left my thoughts. There was you and then everything else kind of fell into your gravitational pull.

And today, the day we found out you were a woman child, I can say that feeling hasn't changed.

Trust me, there's a lot we still don't know and some stuff we'll probably get wrong. But I count myself lucky; I'm on this epic journey and doing so with a woman I not only love, but respect deeply. If you ever wonder why she's your mom and not someone else, just know it's because she was tough enough.

As we prepare to find out a little more about who you are, I find myself fairly calm. Really, I find myself more hopeful than anything, hopeful that you're as decent a person as your mom, hopeful that you have a bit of your old man's arrogance—not too much, just enough to never sell yourself short; hopeful that when life knocks you down that you have the strength to get back up and not pull anyone down in the process.

Mostly as we sit and wait, I selfishly hope that you like me.

With all respect to love—which I hope you have for me too—"like" is a lot less obligatory; liking, to me, has a lot more to do with a person's character (and not being someone who is categorically wack).

And kiddo, I like you.

You went from a person I had to meet to someone I wanted to meet; someone who just seemed to get more interesting the bigger your mama's belly got.

You won't remember the first time you kicked me while sitting on the couch with your mom, but I do. Your mom had been feeling your kicks for a few days, but I always missed them. Then, one night as I had my face up close to you, you kicked.

That's right: you kicked your dad in the face.

Most people woulda gotten folded up for that, but from you, it was like a first kiss. You won't remember the little in utero two-steps that earned you the nickname Juice, the tap dancing you'd do when your mom drank some of the good stuff, but I do. And as a fellow lover and champion of juice, how could I not like you?

So yes; I sit and hope nervously that you like me; that I'm OK in your book; that you like me as much as I've grown to like you.

ODDS FACT: The odds a birth in the past 5 years was the result of a pregnancy unintended by both parents are 1 in 4.42.

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