To My Unborn Son (Part Five)

Which makes this as good a time as any to wrap this letter up for the moment, I suppose.  We’ve got your name sussed out now, by the way (I hope you like it.  If not, it’s been deliberately crafted so you can shorten it and/or turn it around so you can make it more to your liking — something I first learned the importance of from your grandfather.), but there’s still a lot that needs to be done, like setting up a safety deposit box in your name or finding some other secure place for your ultrasound pictures.  (I can’t guarantee they’ll never be used to embarrass you, but I can make it a difficult trick to pull off, at least — best I can do under the circumstances, I’m afraid.)

Just a couple of quick reminders before I go:

Remember to cut your mother some slack now and then (particularly if she ever finds where I secured those pictures), and watch out for those people that think it’s funny to tell outrageous stories to children just to see if you’ll believe them.  Remember, if someone ever tries to tell you there’s no peanut butter left in the world because a giant peanut better eating black hole has sucked it all away, the Universal perfect child response in that circumstance is a disdainful “Nu-uh!” and a scornful look; don’t kick them.  Until you’re old enough to make the determination on your own, just come to me and let me decide if they need to be kicked or not.

There’s a lot more to say, but all of it can wait for now.  Good luck, son, and remember . . . I’m pulling for you.

This candle’s for you.

I’ll talk to you later.


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