I have it on good authority that dad blogs are supposed to contain letters to children on their birthdays. So, a few days after the fact, here’s a letter to the lone stemmed fruit of my loins:
I remember the day you were born. I was convinced there was no way in Hell you were coming 6 weeks early, so I left your mom at the hospital, drove home, poured a bourbon on the rocks, and thought about reading some blogs or something. Then, a nurse called and said unless I wanted to miss your grand entrance, I’d best cart my ass back to the hospital. It was about 11pm. I looked at my neighbors’ houses, found one with lights still on inside, banged on their door, handed them a monitor, house key, and the alarm code, and told them to call me if they heard anyone dying inside. I drove back to the hospital and saw your tiny body slide out the birth canal like a greased piglet at a water park.
Because you were too impatient to wait for November, the hospital put you in a special room where naughty babies who refused to wait for their due dates got sent. I’d walk by every once in a while to see if you were still breathing and if you wanted to suck tit some more, and generally, the answer to both questions was “yes.” You stayed in that special room for a couple days until we figured where we’d stick you in our already-crowded house and took you home.
You were a pain in the ass for a while, but now you’ve sort of grown on me. I reckon you can stay. Happy birthday.