Dear Jackrabbit,
Welcome to the world, little guy. We’ve been waiting quite a while for you and we could not be happier that you are finally out and about.
Jeez… where to start? Well, you’ve met your mother already. You two had nine months to get nicely acquainted. You’ve also already met the dog, somewhat. At least you kicked him enough in the head whenever he laid his head on your mother’s belly. For me, you were respectfully quiet whenever I was around.
Now that we have met, we can drop some of the formalities and you don’t have to be in a perpetual state of respectful awe whenever I am in the room. I’m your father, after all, and I love you unconditionally.
Feel free to call me dad–once you can speak, of course. Or you could call me da, pa, papa, father, pater, sir, or even captain. I will answer to all. Just don’t call me late for dinner.
(It’s an old joke, son. You’ll laugh about it later.)
Now that I think of it, we can pass on “daddy” as a mode of address. You’re three weeks old now, son. Too old to be calling me that.
As I’ve already said, we have been waiting quite a while for you. I suppose as pregnancies go, this was not a bad one, although it got a little weird in spots. There are a surprising number of things about pregnancy that we were not warned about. It seems like most of them were pretty normal, and when asked, people replied, “Oh, yeah… that’s a thing.”
Well they’re not things that shows up in many books.
And TV and movies have lied to us regarding childbirth. You did not emerge after a couple of pushes, all pink and squealing. No. There was a 24-hour period of labor, four hours of pushing, a suction device, and my god… the blood and gore. You looked like a stone gargoyle when I first saw you. And you have two different birth times depending on how you measure. 6:46 am for your head. 6:47 am for the rest of you.
I may write more about this in time. Your birth was easily the weirdest thing I’ve ever witnessed in person. The term “Grand Guignol” comes to mind. Look it up when you learn to read.
But all turned out well. Within a couple of hours I was showing pictures of your healthy pink self to other new dads in the hospital coffee shop. Proud papa, and all that.
This will be the first of many letters. I’ll talk to you about a wide variety of subjects. Family, family history, good cheese, what my childhood was like as compared to yours, the fine art of coffee, and other tidbits both practical and windy, that, one day, you will find invaluable.
Trust me on this. A lot of the stuff I’m going to share with you is stuff I wish my dad had shared with me. We’ll talk about him too. And my mother. And my brothers (your uncles). And all your other relatives. And so forth. Be patient.
You ain’t going nowhere anytime soon.
Cheers, my son!
–Dad
