Dear Will, 6/21/26

Father's Day

Dear Will,

A little more than three weeks ago, your little sisters were born.

They were delivered in simultaneous states of Washington and prematurity, so they were both far from home and combined to only barely weigh what you did when you were born.

Your mom flew across the country to greet them when they arrived, while I stayed home with you and the animals. The decision was not an easy one, but it was the one available to us. Too many kids, too many animals, and too many hospitals to allow us to both travel across the country for it. While I vividly remember (and have colorfully described) the circumstances of your entry into the world, I will not be able to do that for your sisters.

Your sisters, Brenna and Hawley, have required a bit of extra care since they arrived. Being early, they found themselves ever so slightly unprepared for the world. Not enough brown fat to burn for warmth, not enough energy stored in their muscles to easily sustain themselves, reflexes not yet refined, and even holes in their hearts that have not finished closing. So they’ve stayed in the hospital, in what’s called the neonatal intensive care unit. Your mom, of course, has stayed with them.

For almost three weeks now, she’s spent roughly 20 hours a day in a NICU 3,000 miles from home. Your Aunt Kathy went out to help, and we’re indescribably grateful to her for that.

Your dad opened another veterinary hospital just a few months before your sisters were born. Doubling children and hospitals in a two-month span, and working all of the days of the week since. I doubt you’ll remember any of this by the time you’re old enough to read it. And, frankly, I hope you don’t remember the absence.

The things I’ll remember, and the things I hope you will too, are the good things. I hope you’ll remember the mornings, when I’d come to your room, you shout “Daddy!” You tolerate a hoist and a hug from me, before you eagerly launch into a plan, a list of demands, or an explanation on a topic about which I must be immediately informed. You’ll emphatically insist on playing soccer, watching cars, wearing a certain shirt, going downstairs, going outside, or having a donut, a cookie, an apple, or mac and cheese. Sometimes some of those things, sometimes all of those things, sometimes all at once. You smile big, you demand “uppies,” and then tell me to come play with you or eat with you or watch your favorite show with you or read a book with you.

Sometimes I’ll take you to daycare, sometimes I’ll hand you off to a sitter. Sometimes you’re happy to send me on my way — “Daddy go work!” — and sometimes you hang on to me with the strength of, well, a much larger primate. On days I pick you up from daycare, you’ll ask if we’re going to the park, the playground, or the hospital. It always hurts my heart to leave you, and always delights to see you.

Last night, I was out long past your bedtime performing an emergency surgery on a puppy. This Father’s Day, I am, predictably, working. Today I don’t feel like a man who couldn’t be there for the birth of his daughters, who couldn’t spend time with his son, who couldn’t spend time with his father. Today I only feel like a man who wasn’t, a man who didn’t.

Still, every day, even those when we’re short on time, there is joy to be found. And that is where I will focus.

You woke up with your outrageous enthusiasm, with a fire that lights the world. You nearly succeeded in launching yourself out of my arms to grab the Lightning McQueen shirt you wanted to wear. You were excited for cars and donuts and animals. We video chatted with your mom and sisters. Later today, your Aunt Tess will pick you up and take you to see your grandparents, and while there’s no small regret that I won’t be there, I am heartened to know that you’ll see your grandfather, because if I am a good father to you, Will, it is because he taught me how.

Lately, I’ve been thinking of the days when when your grandfather would take me to practice or train. We did that a lot when I was growing up. Sometimes he wouldn’t tell me how far we had to go or how many more reps or sets we’d do. He’d just say, “one more.”

It wasn’t really soccer games or races we trained for. Days like these, days that can feel long and relentless, are what he was preparing me to meet. When I think of him and those workouts, especially on days like these, I can’t help but smile. Because I don’t think of limits, of fatigue, or of weakness. I think: one more.

You were named, William Jay, for both of your grandfathers, for your father, for your great-grandfather, and your Norman ancestors. Today, and especially today, I’ll remind you not only of the names you carry, but all the delight and joy and love as well.

We will do our best. We will delight in what is, find joy in all the moments we have together, and love every second.

Your mom, your sisters, and I will be home soon.

Love,


Dad