The Family *roll

Our blogging friends write lovely letters to their kids, so I am now following suit. Here goes:

“Dear Eleanor,

You just pooped again?! Really? We just changed your diaper. And we’re heading out the door. And now pftthppfpt. Seriously — can’t you hold it, even for a little while?

But it’s not all poop all the time. In fact, just the other middle-of-the-night when you spit up all over my back I said to myself, “See? Not pooping. What a wonderkid.” And I treasured the chance to clean that cottage-cheese consistency puke, which only 30 minutes before had been in my wife’s breast, off my back. Thanks for the precious memories.

But on a more serious note I just want to say…hold on, is that more poop? Geez. Can’t a father be serious for a second without his baby pooping? Apparently not. Well now you’re smiling. Aren’t you just so pleased with yourself. Yes you are. Oh yes you are. Who’s my little pleased-with-herself-pumpkin-baby? Who’s daddy’s little pleased-with-herself-muffin-kisses-baby…hold on, hold on. I know what you’re doing. Trying to seduce me with those ridiculously cute smiles, eh? Well, it’s not going to work this time, even though it’s worked every time before. I’m planning to say something touching, and I’ll be damned if your manipulative smiling gets in the way. So reign it in cute cheeks — Daddy’s no pushover.

Where was I? Ah right. Well, Eleanor it’s been seven weeks and I’ll be damned (your Dad’s damned a lot) if I can’t stop myself from exclaiming, “You are so fucking cute!” and attacking you with kisses basically every time I see you. Because you are so fucking cute.  I mean, holy balls, you’re one cute motherfucker. Speaking of mothers, everyone tells me you look like Emily and, although I can’t see it, I believe it because she is so fucking cute too. You two together, I tell you — it makes my brain mush, I’m so overwhelmed with loveliness.

Time to change your diaper.

Love you sweetheart.

Until next month,

Dad.”

"Aargh. Who awakes me from my pirate nap?!"