Hello, my son. Welcome to Earth.
The opening line to Sturgill Simpson's first song from his album "A Sailor's Guide to Earth," has played on repeat inside my head for the last nine months of my life.
Today, I'll welcome my son - you - to Earth. To life, to a beautiful, weird, big planet full of strange beings all trying to figure it out in their own way.
Your senses won't be able to comprehend it for a while. It'll be blurry and loud, full of strange smells and tastes that will overwhelm and confound you. You'll squint and squirm and squeal and scream and cry and generally be a baby about it.
I'll help you navigate, of course, guiding and teaching as much as I can, helping you learn to steer your ship, much like my parents did for me. You'll learn other things on your own and soon the world will start to come into focus - you'll see the beautiful and the not-so-much, you'll start to filter and process sounds and smells and learn what your tastes and preferences are.
You'll experience lots of things and learn from your triumphs and failures - eventually you'll become who you will be.
An astronaut, maybe, or an artist. Baseball, perhaps, or a bigger ball - one that goes in a basket? Or, maybe sports aren't your thing - a firefighter, like many kids want to be - or a baker or a chef or an electrician or a carpenter or a designer or...
Maybe you'll be a sea captain, like in Sturgill's song - or, like my parents and your aunt Cheryl, a sailor. Your mom's parents were airmen - maybe you'll join the Space Force!
The world is your oyster, kid, don't clam up or be crabby - be a goldfish.
Is that enough dad jokes about the sea? Don't worry, more to come.
I'm writing this at about T-minus 12 days. (That means 12 days before you are due to take your first breath, which you'll need to learn if you become an astronaut.)
Your mom is achy and sore, a little gassy sometimes (don't tell her I said that). You keep kicking her in her ribs and shifting around, forcing her to stand and sit and shift and sigh heavily. Every now and then she starts crying, thinking about how big you are and how much she's looking forward to holding you.
We play you music before bed - you seem to like guitar melodies as you stop kicking and lay still for a bit. I played Chet Baker, an old jazz trumpeter, for you last night and you were almost perfectly still. A few nights before, I'd played Chet Faker, a modern electronic jazz artist, and you repeatedly kicked my phone so I'll assume you don't like that.
We're getting all of the last minute preparations done as we await your arrival.
Your room is ready and we've been showered with love and clothes and toys and books from our friends and family.
We have to stop by the fire station this weekend to inspect your car seat.
We made sure anyone who's going to visit you has all their vaccinations.
Ground control to baby Chiz, open the hatch and put your helmet on.
Commencing countdown, engines on.
Detach station, our love will be with you.
We're ready for you.
Another thing that has gone through my head near constantly since learning about you is thinking about what kind of dad I'll be.
My dad - your grandpa - is a great dude. One of the greatest dudes. Will you call him Grand-dude? Or Dude-pa? While you're mulling it over, here's a funny story: when I was maybe ten or eleven, aunt Cheryl and I were staying over with Grandma and Grandfather and they had recently watched the movie The Big Lebowski (aka The Dude) and thought it would be fun to watch with us kids. Well, they forgot how much, uhh, mushy stuff and crass language was in the movie and turned it off after about five minutes!
Anyway, back to Dude. Dad. He's awesome. He taught me to be a problem-solver and how to be a good person. Never shy about getting his knuckles dirty - whether for himself, a neighbor, a friend - even strangers.
My mom was the best mom. I got my smarts from her. And my love for the outdoors. And my independence. Maybe a little stubbornness. You'll see.
Your mom has great parents, too. Kevin, the analyst and lover of all things Boston, and Elise (the captain of her own ship, the H.M.S. Elise). You're going to get so squashed with love from all of them you won't be able to stand it.
Just take it all in - trust me that you'll miss it when it's gone.
And though you'll mostly be shaped by the people who are here - your mom and I, your grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins, etc., I want you you to know that you'll be guided by those who are not here as well.
Your great-grandfather's guitar hangs in your room and I'll read you his books and stories sometime. Your great-grandma loved you before you were a thought in our mind and I'll make sure she lives on in your memories. Your great-grandpa's spirit is in every model train you ever have and every real train we ever see and I'll pass along his zest for life (and trains) to you.
On your mom's side the sweet and fiery Elsa Nye will be in your blood. I never met her, but you'll feel her spirit every holiday season when we make her pecan rolls. I'll teach you the right way to say "pecan" - not a puh-cahn but a pe-caayan (extra syllable optional).
You carry the name of the Chisholms, her dad's side, a clan of Scots who migrated to Canada in the 1800s and eventually to Massachusetts and now here.
Your middle name, Teeter, is my dad's last name. And though the name is adopted, it's part of who we are now.
One day, when you were about T-minus six months, your mom told me she had a name picked out if you were to be a girl - an amalgamation of her mother and grandmother's names which I won't say yet - just in case.
I responded, "Well, then I get to pick his name since he's a boy."
And that was that.
Both of my parents' fathers had the same name. (OK, that's technically not true)
Your great-grandpa was named William John, but he went by a nickname that was common in his time. He helped raise me (and my pants) and I'm glad that he'll live in on you.
Your great-grandfather was a good man. He was strict but humble and kind; a lover of baseball, music, and his family and I have nothing but good memories of him which I look forward to passing along to you.
He was a good father to my dad - as mine was to me.
And now I'll be to you.
Welcome to Earth, Jack.
We can't wait to get to know you.
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