Week 32 - Silliness

Dear Kaylee,

Perhaps it was because there was so much going on out here in the outside world that was upsetting me, or perhaps it was because my reading indicated you were reaching a point at which you could be born without any major complications — whatever it was, I did feel myself worrying just a little bit less about you this week. I still bothered your mother incessantly, asking about your movements, but I didn’t worry myself too much if she said you weren’t moving at the specific time that I asked. I was getting to the point where knowing you had moved at some point in the day was good enough for me.

All of your major organs were functioning by this point, with one exception: your lungs. They still needed more time to develop. But, other than that, you were almost ready to make your grand entrance. Sure you would have been thin as a rail and as wrinkly as an old man, with layers of fat still to develop, but the real point here is that you could have survived just fine if you’d had to arrive early. You weighed three pounds, or thereabouts, and you were nearing fifteen inches in length.

Your room, meanwhile, was nowhere nearer to being ready than it had been a month ago. A queen-sized bed still took up most of the space and we were as yet without a place for you to sleep. But the second of the two baby showers being thrown in your honor was fast approaching and it seemed to me that your room would sort itself shortly after that.

This was the week that the local football team, the New England Patriots, bowed out of the NFL playoffs in a game where they played like second-string junior varsity schmoes, and I think it’s appropriate that you, like your father and his father before him, are being born into a world in which all of our local sports franchises have decided to suck again. That way, you’ll know, right from the start, what it’s really like to be a New England sports fan. You won’t have any delusions of grandeur, and I wouldn’t have that any other way. Because you gotta stay humble.

Love, Dad

LettersE. Christopher Clark