I’m so sorry, bout so many different things. I don’t even know where to begin. You’re not even here, yet, and I’m already sorry for the ways in which the deck’ll be stacked against you. You get here, and then it’s practically more or less all downhill. Sorry, Kid.

Seriously. Sorry, Kid, cause unless you take after your mom’s side, you might’s well rid yourself of the dream of playing organized sports right now. Right now. I mean it. The best you can hope for, the absolute best, is Little League right field, in the later innings, when the outcome has been decided and the coach only throws you out there cause he has to. Unless you take after your mom’s side. In which case, you’ll star in whatever sport at which you try your hand.

You’re gonna be born the son of a man who never ceases to be confounded by Mexicans. I doubt this will impact your life much (it is, after all, only Mexicans) but know that should the confounding of the father be visited upon the son, what Mexicans do will make you scratch your head on a damn near daily basis. I don’t even wanna talk bout what George did last night (refused to go home after I sent him home).

If you take after your mom, sorry Kid, cause you won’t understand where I’m coming from when I say something like I would much rather plop my narrow ass on the couch Sunday mornings for the football pre-games than, say, drive out to the ‘burbs for some stupid brunch with some stupid cousin of your mom’s. You will think I’m being selfish and unreasonable. I will think I get a limited amount of free time, and I don’t wanna waste it on some cousin of hers I hardly know. I will also tell you ‘Quit bothering me bout it.’ (If you take after your mom, that is.)

There’s two places where my mom (your grandma) lives. A pastrami place and a rib place. You will love both these places. You will be hooked on both. It’ll be all you think about. An obsession that borders on an addiction. But since your paternal grandma lives two thousand miles away, in Florida, you’re only gonna be able to scratch that itch a few times a year, tops, which won’t be nearly enough. Sorry, Kid.

(The flipside of this is, those few times a year you get to Florida, you’re gonna get spoiled shitless. For this I will not say Sorry, Kid. What I am gonna say Sorry, Kid for is, every time we leave Florida, we’re gonna overcompensate for all the spoiling you just had. So you’ll be denied things you wouldn’t ordinarily be denied. It’ll be rough for you, Kid. You just won’t understand. Sorry.)

The other grandma, the maternal one, will try to kidnap you and keep you in her house (it’s a nice house) until you’ve been baptized, received first communion, and done the whole confirmation thing. Then she’ll return you to your actual parents (your mom and me), who you won’t recognize, since you haven’t seen us since your grandma kidnapped you. She really wants you to be Catholic and my ‘pagan child’ jokes unsettle her more and more with each passing day. Sorry bout the attempted kidnapping, Kid.

Daddy’s grumpy in the morning, Kid. Sorry, but … better get used to it.

Uncle Glen (my brother) will buy you great toys. Fantastic toys. Oh, the toys he’s gonna buy you. You’ll be up to your ass in great, fantastic toys. Sorry, Kid, but I will play with the toys more than you will. No two ways bout it. I’m a sucker for great, fantastic toys. I’ll get my hands on them under the guise of ‘showing you how to play with them.’ Then I’ll keep ‘em well after you’ve been shown how.

Aunt Erin (Uncle Glen’s wife) will buy you books. Sorry, Kid. Humor her, Kid. Humor her. Fake like you’re glad she bought you books. I’ll show you how to fake it. Follow my lead.

Sorry, Kid, but you’re gonna know swear words at an early age. I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I’ve tried. But shit happens that make Daddy swear. Stupid fucking shit that makes no fucking sense or’s just the last fucking thing Daddy needs, like when those shit kids down the street ripped the fucking plate stickers off Daddy’s fucking plate, so Daddy got a fucking ticket from a goddamn asshole cop that knows Daddy, and in fact comes into Daddy’s place cause Daddy gives him half off his fucking food when he comes in on-duty, so you’d think the goddamn asshole cop’d give Daddy a fucking break on something stupid like a plate sticker, the goddamn asshole cop’d look the other fucking way, wouldn’t you. Wouldn’t you.

Now, you can’t see this next thing for which I’m saying Sorry, Kid, cause all you can see is uterus and … water bag … but your mother is showing me the living and dining room rugs which Daddy promised he’d vacuum but forgot. Daddy forgets common household chores all the time. Some of these chores might one day affect you. If so? Like I’m sposed to pick you up from somewhere? And it slips my mind? Sorry, Kid.

You can’t hear this cause all you can hear is … uteran white noise, but our crazy neighbor is on the phone, yelling at someone (pharmacist?) cause she can’t refill her prescription (mood stabilizers?) even though the prescription clearly states she can refill it and this happens every goddamn time (or does it?). Sorry, Kid, but … you got a crazy neighbor. You’re gonna think it’s the one who looks like she’s got birds or spiders in her hair, but no. That one’s normal. It’s the other one that’s crazy.

Kid, you’re gonna be a late bloomer. She was, and to the extent I bloomed at all, I too was late. Sorry, Kid. It’ll suck for you, watching all the other kids around you blooming, so you’re wondering ‘When am I gonna bloom?’ and the knowledge that you will, only not for a few years, will comfort you not one iota. Nor will the knowledge that most of those early bloomers wind up … blowing their bloom wad … before they’re twenty-two.

Yeah, you’re gonna take after one of us, all right. Either her or me, which means it’s real likely you’re gonna be left-handed. That’s not a big deal. Gone are the days where, if you’re left-handed, they try to change you by forcing you to use your other hand, the right one.

What is a big deal, since you’re gonna take after either her or me, is this: you will experience melancholy. It will grip you. Prolonged, from nowhere, deep and pensive. Periods in which you stare out the window, at nothing, nothing at all. Hours will pass, seems like. Sorry, Kid. Please remember you’re not alone in it. Your parents are similarly afflicted (me more than her. Though, truth be told, I fear I’ve rubbed off on her, and if she’d found someone else, she’d be less ... melancholic now), so if you ever need to talk about this melancholy, look no further. Hell, we’ll prolly be right there staring out the window with you. The three of us, staring out the window, at nothing, nothing at all. Now there’s the Christmas card family photo, eh?