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 21^st 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