“There are three stages of a man’s life: He believes in Santa Claus, he doesn’t believe in Santa Claus, and he is Santa Claus.”
Anonymous
Fatherhood has a way of humbling you—mostly through repetition. The second time around, you already know the drill: the sleepless nights, the diaper blowouts, the weird songs you make up because your brain stopped working three hours ago.
But even with all that, I feel it again—the same quiet awe I felt the first time.
Moses, our firstborn, turned two not long ago. Two years of joy and chaos and Cheerios ground into the carpet. He’s a walking collection of sound effects—airplanes, soccer balls, giggles, the occasional tantrum that could register on the Richter scale.
And yet, every night when I walk through the door, I still get the same greeting:
“Daaadddeeeeee!”
Like I’ve just returned from discovering a new planet.
It won’t always be like this. I know that. There will be a time when “Daaadddeeeeee” becomes “Daaaad,” and I’ll be the least cool person in the house. But right now, I’m the moon and stars. And that’s enough.
Tomorrow, Shelley and I will do this all again—welcome another tiny person into the world and pretend we know what we’re doing.
People say you’re never ready for parenthood, and they’re right. The first time, you’re terrified because you have no idea what’s coming. The second time, you’re terrified because you do.
But that’s what makes it beautiful.
I’ve learned that fatherhood isn’t a role you play; it’s a relationship that changes who you are. It’s small moments—sticky hands on your face, bedtime stories, whispered “I love you’s”—that quietly rearrange your priorities, your patience, your heart.
And just when you think you’ve hit your limit, a little voice yells “Daaadddeeeeee,” and suddenly, you haven’t.
I always knew I wanted to be a dad.
What I didn’t know was that fatherhood would remake me from the inside out.
It’s not just love that grows—it’s everything.
Your capacity for wonder.
Your tolerance for noise.
Your ability to laugh when life is messy and loud and beautiful all at once.
It’s everything I never knew I always wanted.
And maybe that’s the secret of it all.
We’re all becoming someone new, whether we notice or not.
Becoming the not-yet-version of ourselves that our children somehow already believe in.
