Letter to Baby

Dear Baby,

You have your mother’s eyes. And the body of your father, but don’t worry, you’ll grow out of that.

I can see you also inherited the cold waxy complexion of your great-grandmother, and her stiff, almost unmovable joints. Wait, I’m looking at a doll. There you are. Oh yes. You’re a darling.

I can tell by the gleam in your eye that you will grow up to be a quarterback, or possibly a quarterback’s wife. Don’t you have any clothes in gender specific colors?

Years later you’ll read this letter and think, who are you to know all these things? Whoah, where did you get all that cynicism from? (Don’t say me. Odds are I’ll already be on thin ice with your parents.)

It’s hard to believe that you are already a few hours old. It seems like only yesterday, I was sitting at home watching the clock waiting for the phone call that you had arrived. But no, you were late, and I lost that bet with Uncle Mike. I guess I’m still pretty upset. I’m not sure when I will forgive you, but let’s try to keep things amicable during these rough years, until things blow over.

I want to be the first to say to you “Welcome to Earth.” It is a nice place, a safe place. Except for the people, and volcanoes. Oh yes, stay away from volcanoes (and most people).

I know that you can’t speak yet, but I can just imagine your sweet little voice saying you are sorry for being late and costing me all that money. And most important, you promise you’ll pay me back someday when you’re older.

I was going to buy you a little animal, but I didn’t. Not because of the grudge, it’s just that money I lost from the bet, remember?

You and I have a lot in common. We both just want to lie around all day and have people feed us and take care of us. Your mother is good at that. You know I lived with your folks after college while I was looking for my dream job. FYI, you’ll be asked to do some chores around the house, even if it’s “not really your thing.” But you probably won’t be asked to move out after four and a half years of not doing them.

If I had some advice for you, it would be this: Don’t let them rush you into potty training. Hang onto those diapers for as long as you can. It’s no fun having to rush to the bathroom all the time. I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep since.

You may think you have seen it all, but all you’ve really seen is the inside of this one room. There’s so much more. In fact, there’s a whole hospital out there. I’ve been wandering around room to room for the last couple of hours. I can tell you stories.

I apologize in advance if I ever wrongfully blame any smells on you. It’s just the world we live in.

I can’t wait to hold you. Or better yet, if your parents bought one of those baby cribs that rock themselves, I can’t wait to pretend that I’m rocking you in that.

I know that for awhile you will cry all the time for your parents to hold you. But soon enough you’ll be crying about your parents not wanting to let go. And then later you’ll be crying for them to let go of your wallet/purse, while your dad explains that he just needs a couple of extra bucks until his invention sells. I don’t know. Maybe that last part will be different in your family.

I like you already. Because I know you are different than the rest. You’re not going to tilt your head to the side and make that look whenever I say “What, don’t you trust me?”

I hope that in the future we will be great friends, because now you’re my best and only friend.

There, there. You get your rest now. Don’t worry; when you wake up, I’ll be right there, standing over you, wearing my funny wolfman mask.

Sweet dreams,

Your favorite uncle