Dear M, the newest human I know.

You've been alive for a wild 14 hours and 33 minutes.

The first moment I held all seven pounds and five ounces of you in the hospital room, it took every muscle in my body to keep me from shattering into a weepy mess in front of your parents and grandparents.

I felt you breathe — heavily — with your whole body. Like a very serious man.

At one point, I announced to the room, "For all we know, we're in the presence of the future President of the United States." The seven other adult heads swung reverently in your direction with a chorus of "oohs" and "ahhs."

Suddenly, we were awakened to what you represent. Possibility. Blank slates. Complete, uninhibited openness to what majesty the Universe might have for you. For each of us.

I'm convinced you've arrived to teach us something. To deliver a message from The Other Side. I will wait patiently for that message while you gather your first words.

We're going to have some grand conversations, you and I. You can tell me anything. Always. I'm one adult you can count on to understand the impossible things you will say are true. Not everyone will, and that's okay.

Just remember: I believe in angels too, Mister President.