Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Letter to My Son #1
So, at this point, you're not born and we haven't fixed upon your name yet. We will, don't worry. You won't be going into your second month of life sans appellation or anything. In fact, we have several likely candidates, but your mommy wants to be certain before we go affixing an identity to you willy-nilly.
I thought it might be a good idea to lay down a record of sorts so that you have some idea of the context into which you were born. Or rather, into which you will be born, as we're still at least a few days shy of the actual event. Your mommy's doctor seems to feel that you'll be arriving by or before your due date, which means we--knock wood--will have the privilege of meeting you within the next nine days or so.
Your mommy, I'm sad to say, has just come down with a cold. You've probably noticed. I imagine you're hearing her sneezes and maybe thinking there's an earthquake or something along those lines. Don't sweat it. We're giving her orange juice and soup and all that jazz.
In the wider world, we're a day away from the Vice-Presidential Debate between Joe Biden and Sarah Palin. My sincere hope is that, by the time you're old enough to read this, your response to the last sentence will be "Sarah who?" and not, "Yes. That was the turning point that led to the End Times." Your mommy and I will be watching the debate, which means that, even in the womb, you'll be able to hear me screaming at the television and possibly kicking over a chair.
You will, of course, already be here by Election Day. I bet you'll accompany your mommy and me to the polls, where you'll get to see what ancient voting machines look like. By the time you're old enough to vote, we'll hopefully have a better system that isn't run by evil bastards like Diebold whose machines are used to skew results to the highest bidder.
The baseball playoffs are starting. You don't know this yet, but you're going to be a Cleveland Indians fan, despite not growing up in Ohio. In fact, you already have a whole bunch of Indians clothing. I'm optimistic that, by the time you're old enough to really follow the sport, the good people of Cleveland will have demanded the removal of Chief Wahoo as a mascot or, even better, completely changed the name of the team to something less racist--like, say, the Cleveland Crackers--so that you won't have to feel conflicted as a fan. Also, they'll hopefully suck less by then. But I don't hold out much hope for that.
What else is going on? Oh, right. Phish just got back together. I'm pretty sure you're not going to have a penchant for jam bands, so this shouldn't affect you. And if you ever do get a yearning to "go on tour," please remember that your dad is deathly allergic to pachouli and drum circles.
Love you already,
That brings a tear to my eye, or perhaps I'm just remembering the embarrassment of escorting my daughters to the grocery store in their pink tutus. Be sure to take pictures of those unpleasant times. My six year-old son didn't believe me the other day that his fifteen year-old sister used to poop on me while I was changing her diaper. If I had video, I would just have more options, that's all I'm sayin'.
Awwwww. That's sweet. Really, how sweet of you to cushion the little guy for the bumpy ride of becoming a new American.Post a Comment
And Phish got back together? I'd better celebrate with some Phish Food.