Dear Rigby,
Life is moving along out here. This weekend we are painting your nursery and hopefully assembling your crib. By “we” I am referring to the friends and family I have coaxed with my promises of beer and premade Costco appetizers. As you already know, I am not one for sweating, so I plan on nursing a Miller Lite by 10:00 a.m. and saying a lot of “Hey, that’s looking great.”
I apologize for the lapse in letters, but I received some disturbing news on Tuesday. Despite my unkempt, ultra-hip haircut and vast array of jeans and shirts purchased at Hollister, my ten year high school reunion has found me. When I became old enough to be a father and recipient of the “Holiday-Inn Express Welcomes Back the Collierville Class of 2000” sign, I am not sure. I had hoped to slip past this moment, the social ostracism of adolescence following me into adulthood, but it seems the convenience of Facebook has leveled the playing field. “Remember Me?” nametags are available to all, and I must make a decision.
While there are a number of old friends I have missed and would love to find, there are a handful of individuals I only want to see if the VD has spread to their faces and they are struggling to pay the minimums on their credit card bills. As you will one day realize, growing – up can leave it scars.
Though if you would have asked me ten years ago, as I strutted across that stage in cap and gown, if I would now be married, having a baby, and living back in Collierville, I would have cackled in your face and / or stabbed myself, my fate then as a famous New York actor / archeologist just within grasp. Nonetheless, I thought it would be fun to continue projecting outlandish scenes of future fortunes by anticipating our lives at your tenth birthday.
It’s the year 2019, and we are living in an old plantation style house (minus the underlying current of racism) just outside of Atlanta, Nashville, or Ashville. We have acres of land for you to disregard as you sit in your room reading Crime and Punishment and tinkering with theories that will later become the cure for cancer. Your mother is radiant and spends her days doing some kind of activity that does not make me sound sexist. I will have just published my second book, a highly anticipated follow-up to my grotesquely successful first collection of essays, Masculinity and Me. During the summers you will join me on my book tours, traveling the world together as we pause for readings in Paris, Milan, and Tokyo. The Concord jet tends to be a bit nippy, so be sure to pack a sweater.
Just some things to look forward to. That’s all for now my friend.
- Dad
Monday, September 28, 2009
Dear Rigby,
I am home sick today because of a sinus infection / plague, so please excuse me if my tone is less than jovial. As your mother will no doubt tell you, I am not a very good patient, and when phlegm creeps down my throat or my ears begin to ring, I expect the world to pause in observance.
While I understand your needs will seem more pressing than my own, when my temperature climbs above 99.2 – the point at which I justify moans from the couch and requests for my socks to be heated in the microwave – we will need to make a compromise. You can have your mother’s attention first thing in the morning and most of the afternoon, but I will need forced compassion late morning and early evening.
As I lie in bed wallowing in my own self-pity, I am reminded of the many ills and abnormalities I feared would haunt you. Though each passing day has helped calm me, when you were still a blinking kernel on the ultra-sound screen, my mind was a mine field of unexpected misfortunes. Below is a sampling of my concerns:
1. You would suffer from lyconcy or “werewolves disease”- a rare condition of rapid and untamed hair growth.
2. You would be a hermaphrodite – I wasn’t concerned with the public embarrassment associated with such a situation, but I needed a firm color scheme for the nursery.
3. You would have that disease that paralyzes your nervous system so you cannot feel any physical pain which would at first be cool and remind me of Wolverine from X-Men but as the severity of such a situation took hold just be very sad.
4. Shortly after you are born Iran or some similar-minded country declares nuclear war, and my dreams of Disney World and Christmas mornings are replaced with air raids and food rations as sulfur rains from the clouds and we eat nothing but canned peaches and Miracle Whip.
5. You develop Pica – the urge to eat non-food substances – and we have to lock up the staples and forks.
There is a laundry list of others, but I will keep them to myself because I don’t want to jinx you. As your mother becomes more maternal each day, effortlessly transitioning from Melanie to Mom, I am glued to CNN, afraid that if ever elected President or the leader of an opposition movement you could be assassinated by a right-wing extremist. Just something to think about buddy.
That’s all for now my friend.
- Dad
I am home sick today because of a sinus infection / plague, so please excuse me if my tone is less than jovial. As your mother will no doubt tell you, I am not a very good patient, and when phlegm creeps down my throat or my ears begin to ring, I expect the world to pause in observance.
While I understand your needs will seem more pressing than my own, when my temperature climbs above 99.2 – the point at which I justify moans from the couch and requests for my socks to be heated in the microwave – we will need to make a compromise. You can have your mother’s attention first thing in the morning and most of the afternoon, but I will need forced compassion late morning and early evening.
As I lie in bed wallowing in my own self-pity, I am reminded of the many ills and abnormalities I feared would haunt you. Though each passing day has helped calm me, when you were still a blinking kernel on the ultra-sound screen, my mind was a mine field of unexpected misfortunes. Below is a sampling of my concerns:
1. You would suffer from lyconcy or “werewolves disease”- a rare condition of rapid and untamed hair growth.
2. You would be a hermaphrodite – I wasn’t concerned with the public embarrassment associated with such a situation, but I needed a firm color scheme for the nursery.
3. You would have that disease that paralyzes your nervous system so you cannot feel any physical pain which would at first be cool and remind me of Wolverine from X-Men but as the severity of such a situation took hold just be very sad.
4. Shortly after you are born Iran or some similar-minded country declares nuclear war, and my dreams of Disney World and Christmas mornings are replaced with air raids and food rations as sulfur rains from the clouds and we eat nothing but canned peaches and Miracle Whip.
5. You develop Pica – the urge to eat non-food substances – and we have to lock up the staples and forks.
There is a laundry list of others, but I will keep them to myself because I don’t want to jinx you. As your mother becomes more maternal each day, effortlessly transitioning from Melanie to Mom, I am glued to CNN, afraid that if ever elected President or the leader of an opposition movement you could be assassinated by a right-wing extremist. Just something to think about buddy.
That’s all for now my friend.
- Dad
Thursday, September 24th, 2009
Dear Rigby,
Though we have known about your arrival since May, with only three months remaining, I find myself completely unprepared. The nursery needs painting, your crib remains piecemeal in its box, I don’t know how to hold your head without it slipping off – I fear we’re screwed.
After our doctor’s appointment this week, we were told the next visit would be three weeks out instead of our customary month long intervals. Soon we’ll be checking-in every two weeks, then every week, and before I know it, you’ll be screaming at me that Mommy doesn’t make peanut butter and jelly that way while I try and fathom how a “few” afternoon errands can possibly take the woman so long.
As such, I have begun a frantic dash of preparation. Our washer and dryer were the first casualties; hammering back and forth against the floor, they spew out our delicates tattered and laced with an odd odor. Your precious puppy - festooned oneseezes will not suffer this abuse, nor will your adorable sweater vest with matching oxford shirt know such a smell. The new machines arrive in a week.
I have also decided you cannot enter a world that allows our kitchen floor to exist. Checkered black and white ceramic tile, the floor is a deranged marriage of a 1950’s diner and a County Clerk’s office. We are shopping our options now and should have some faux-marble porcelain tile awaiting you.
You see, Rigby, as the gravity of your existence remains allusive in my immature mind, I am grasping at the elements I can control. A nursery coated in Nevada Sky or Enchanting blue? The Graco Milan patterned stroller or the Perego Pliko P3 in Mod Blu? The questions abound.
With all this talk of machinery and hardware, I feel there is something you should know about your father. I am not very handy. While I am happy to hold the ladder as your mother changes a light bulb or point out the patch of weeds Pedro the yardman missed, I don’t own anything flannel and blister easily. A few nights ago when the clerk at Home Depot kept insisting I could handle the demolition of our kitchen floor myself, I peered at my cranberry button-down shirt and walnut hued loafers and wondered what about it all said “do-it-yourself.”
I just want you to know this upfront, so when we are shopping for your sixth birthday and your Teenage Ninja Pokemon Rangers life-size castle reads “some assembly required” you’ll know to love a book just as much.
That’s all for now my friend.
- Dad
Though we have known about your arrival since May, with only three months remaining, I find myself completely unprepared. The nursery needs painting, your crib remains piecemeal in its box, I don’t know how to hold your head without it slipping off – I fear we’re screwed.
After our doctor’s appointment this week, we were told the next visit would be three weeks out instead of our customary month long intervals. Soon we’ll be checking-in every two weeks, then every week, and before I know it, you’ll be screaming at me that Mommy doesn’t make peanut butter and jelly that way while I try and fathom how a “few” afternoon errands can possibly take the woman so long.
As such, I have begun a frantic dash of preparation. Our washer and dryer were the first casualties; hammering back and forth against the floor, they spew out our delicates tattered and laced with an odd odor. Your precious puppy - festooned oneseezes will not suffer this abuse, nor will your adorable sweater vest with matching oxford shirt know such a smell. The new machines arrive in a week.
I have also decided you cannot enter a world that allows our kitchen floor to exist. Checkered black and white ceramic tile, the floor is a deranged marriage of a 1950’s diner and a County Clerk’s office. We are shopping our options now and should have some faux-marble porcelain tile awaiting you.
You see, Rigby, as the gravity of your existence remains allusive in my immature mind, I am grasping at the elements I can control. A nursery coated in Nevada Sky or Enchanting blue? The Graco Milan patterned stroller or the Perego Pliko P3 in Mod Blu? The questions abound.
With all this talk of machinery and hardware, I feel there is something you should know about your father. I am not very handy. While I am happy to hold the ladder as your mother changes a light bulb or point out the patch of weeds Pedro the yardman missed, I don’t own anything flannel and blister easily. A few nights ago when the clerk at Home Depot kept insisting I could handle the demolition of our kitchen floor myself, I peered at my cranberry button-down shirt and walnut hued loafers and wondered what about it all said “do-it-yourself.”
I just want you to know this upfront, so when we are shopping for your sixth birthday and your Teenage Ninja Pokemon Rangers life-size castle reads “some assembly required” you’ll know to love a book just as much.
That’s all for now my friend.
- Dad
Tuesday, September 22nd, 2009
Dear Rigby,
It is Tuesday morning and in just a few minutes your mother and I will be going to the OB for our latest check-up. On this visit your mother must fast and then drink some kind of orange goo so the doctor can see if you have three heads or something. Hoping for the best buddy!
Today I thought we would discuss your name. In case you were unaware, it is Rigby Finch Clark. A name inspired by many different influences, before we get into the details of why Rigby Finch, I thought it best you first know how we arrived here.
After finding out you were a boy, your mother and I began listing names and looking for similar tastes, a task much more difficult than I expected. While we both wanted to avoid the common variety, the banality of a John or a Mike, your mother was insistent we choose a name that kept you safe from pestering, something the neighborhood bully could not take hold of. Your mother’s concern was sweet, but I knew better. If DNA had any say in the matter, an odd name would be the least of your worries.
When I was growing-up, there was nothing particularly unusual about “Josh”, so my peers had to dig deeper. Clothes, glasses, my appreciation for the genius of colored jeans, all were crucified on the playground. As my underwear was jerked towards my head, I dreamed of being a Monty or Barron, a name so obviously effeminate it would not even be worth their effort. At the very least I thought it might spare me their more piercing observations: the saliva problem brought on by my braces; the Boy Scouts uniform your grandmother insisted I wear to school, complete with knee-high khaki socks and shorts that gave way mid thigh.
My anxieties were calmed, however, when looking at your mother. With at least half of you made from her, you stood a much better chance, and she convinced me to pass on my original suggestion of Pubert.
Settling on a name, though, was arduous. Wanting something “different”, a name with true character, I spent a good two weeks insistent you be a noun. Convinced a person, place, or thing would be more distinctive, a name assuming prestige and a casual-cool intelligence, I considered the following:
1. Branch – This is still one of my favorites, but your mother scoffed at it, suggesting we might as well call you Tree. (I was not against that either.)
2. Twig – A derivative of Branch, I used this just to piss off your mother more than anything=)
3. Shade – Yes, as in lamp. By this point I was just naming you after things I saw in the room.
4. Post – I was lying in bed and had just taken NyQuil when it came to me.
After your mother spared you the life of Twig Post Clark, I moved on. If you would not be a part of speech, I was adamant your name connect to my passion, a homage to the greatest band of all time. My first inclination was McCartney, and we would call you Cart (like the noun) for short. While your mom at first refused, after a few weeks of pestering, she hated it less and less, and agreed to consider it. Our list of options began.
With that small compromise, we made headway. We both liked the idea of including a family name and agreed on Finch – your grandmother’s maiden name and the patriarch from one of our favorite novels, To Kills a Mockingbird. From there we looked for a good pairing. I suggested Virgil, but once again your mother laughed, as if the great Roman thinker and author of the Aeneid was somehow uncool.
One evening you were Beckett but by morning Samuel. After days of frustration, I began to think Branch might make a comeback, when the name popped in my head while brushing my teeth. Derived from the Beatles’ classic “Eleanor Rigby”, the song’s focus on a socially inept woman who dies lonely and miserable was of no bother to me. Your mother had to sit on it for a few days, but I had no doubt. You were a Rigby.
That’s all for now my friend.
- Dad
It is Tuesday morning and in just a few minutes your mother and I will be going to the OB for our latest check-up. On this visit your mother must fast and then drink some kind of orange goo so the doctor can see if you have three heads or something. Hoping for the best buddy!
Today I thought we would discuss your name. In case you were unaware, it is Rigby Finch Clark. A name inspired by many different influences, before we get into the details of why Rigby Finch, I thought it best you first know how we arrived here.
After finding out you were a boy, your mother and I began listing names and looking for similar tastes, a task much more difficult than I expected. While we both wanted to avoid the common variety, the banality of a John or a Mike, your mother was insistent we choose a name that kept you safe from pestering, something the neighborhood bully could not take hold of. Your mother’s concern was sweet, but I knew better. If DNA had any say in the matter, an odd name would be the least of your worries.
When I was growing-up, there was nothing particularly unusual about “Josh”, so my peers had to dig deeper. Clothes, glasses, my appreciation for the genius of colored jeans, all were crucified on the playground. As my underwear was jerked towards my head, I dreamed of being a Monty or Barron, a name so obviously effeminate it would not even be worth their effort. At the very least I thought it might spare me their more piercing observations: the saliva problem brought on by my braces; the Boy Scouts uniform your grandmother insisted I wear to school, complete with knee-high khaki socks and shorts that gave way mid thigh.
My anxieties were calmed, however, when looking at your mother. With at least half of you made from her, you stood a much better chance, and she convinced me to pass on my original suggestion of Pubert.
Settling on a name, though, was arduous. Wanting something “different”, a name with true character, I spent a good two weeks insistent you be a noun. Convinced a person, place, or thing would be more distinctive, a name assuming prestige and a casual-cool intelligence, I considered the following:
1. Branch – This is still one of my favorites, but your mother scoffed at it, suggesting we might as well call you Tree. (I was not against that either.)
2. Twig – A derivative of Branch, I used this just to piss off your mother more than anything=)
3. Shade – Yes, as in lamp. By this point I was just naming you after things I saw in the room.
4. Post – I was lying in bed and had just taken NyQuil when it came to me.
After your mother spared you the life of Twig Post Clark, I moved on. If you would not be a part of speech, I was adamant your name connect to my passion, a homage to the greatest band of all time. My first inclination was McCartney, and we would call you Cart (like the noun) for short. While your mom at first refused, after a few weeks of pestering, she hated it less and less, and agreed to consider it. Our list of options began.
With that small compromise, we made headway. We both liked the idea of including a family name and agreed on Finch – your grandmother’s maiden name and the patriarch from one of our favorite novels, To Kills a Mockingbird. From there we looked for a good pairing. I suggested Virgil, but once again your mother laughed, as if the great Roman thinker and author of the Aeneid was somehow uncool.
One evening you were Beckett but by morning Samuel. After days of frustration, I began to think Branch might make a comeback, when the name popped in my head while brushing my teeth. Derived from the Beatles’ classic “Eleanor Rigby”, the song’s focus on a socially inept woman who dies lonely and miserable was of no bother to me. Your mother had to sit on it for a few days, but I had no doubt. You were a Rigby.
That’s all for now my friend.
- Dad
Monday, September 21st, 2009
Dear Rigby,
It is 5:00 a.m. on a Monday morning and your debut is just a little over three months away. As I begin my first letter, you are most likely still sleeping, preparing for a big day of nostril development and bladder kicking. As of today, the 21st of September, you have been growing in your mother for 6 ½ months, a concept you will later find shamefully unsettling in its immense sense of comfort. But don’t worry my friend; this is only one of the many neuroses waiting for you.
Since your mother peed on a stick and I hyperventilated five months ago, our lives have transformed. We moved to the suburbs, bought a house, and now I drink only non-alcoholic beer on the weekdays. Your mother’s stomach continues to swell, as you, like a true Clark man, need more attention while simultaneously demanding additional space. A few nights ago we discovered that your mother’s ribs have moved, widening to her sides, arching over your little gooey cocoon. She glows at these discoveries, amazed at her body and what it can do for you. I, however, smile awkwardly as she leads my hands across her new side armor, feigning excitement while swallowing terror.
You have also become much more active in your expansion, kicking and thumping throughout the day. When your mother first reached for my hand and placed it in on her protruding pooch, I held my breath. Since your mother began struggling with her pant buttons, I had been waiting for this moment, indoctrinated with its preciousness by TV sitcoms and movies. You would let out a gentle little kick, while tears filled my eyes and concerns about our mortgage and insurance premiums washed away. I once again, though, failed to meet the standard. I have been feeling you flip and flop for weeks now, and while it always lights your mother’s face, I still find it a little creepy. When my stomach does that it means I have to go the bathroom.
My inability to appreciate these moments, my hesitation to grab the camcorder and document your mother’s dilation, brings me to the purpose of my letter. Though I stopped reading my Expectant Father book when it described episiotomies, and I keep putting off assembling your crib so I can play Rock Band, I do not want you to think I am apathetic towards your existence. You are all I can think about, and since I cannot share your mother’s physical connection, I thought I would start a relationship of our own.
I am going to try and write you every day (try being the opportune word here; much like I am going to try to teach you how to play sports) filling these pages with the lessons and stories that constantly interrupt my day, causing me to pause and think, Rigby’s got to know that. From family histories to why U2 sucks, there is already so much I need to tell you.
That’s all for now my friend. Keep it real in there.
- Dad
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