Tiny

Tuesday, August 26th, 2014
St. Paul, MN
6:14AM

Hey Tiny,

I woke up to a text this morning about how your mom started labor about, what now, five hours ago? Not much news since then, aside from your grandma and grandpa (my mom and dad) announcing that they were at the hospital (as of 2014, they're still not totally sure how to work a group text).

Kid, I have started this letter to you about sixteen times now. A couple times I've apologized for the colossally fucked up world you're going to inherit (and also to your folks for dropping the F-bomb in your letter. I'm supposed to be cleaning up my mouth in advance of meeting you.). That was just too depressing for me to think about. A few times I've tried to tell you a little about your dad's side of the family, but you'll decide about us as you're growing up (Good luck and Godspeed). Once or twice I ended up writing about my own disinclination for children, but this isn't a therapy session (It's not even a therapist's idea that I write to you). Although, that said, it is strange to me that my baby brother, your dad, who I still think of as a fellow conspirator in broken lamps and lineball, is a dad. What a trip.

Tiny, you scare the hell out of me.

It isn't just because your skull hasn't closed all the way or that I'm afraid I'm accidentally going to drop and break you (although it hasn't and I am). It isn't that I'm worried about whether or not you'll be a shitty teenage or if you'll like science, or what you'll think about the books-through-the-mail idea I had for you. Nah. Those things don't scare me. What scares me is the amount of serotonin, dopamine, and oxytocin that hit my brain when I heard you were on your way.

That's your aunt's way of saying, "I love you, kid."

That's what scares the hell out of me.

I don't like a lot of people, Tiny. I really don't. And of the people I actually like, there are very few that I'm willing to say that I love. And the people that I do love and say I love? Tiny, they've been in my life for years. We've broken lamps and climbed trees and butchered deer together. We've shopped for homecoming dresses and cried over broken hearts. We've traveled through foreign countries, worked our asses off to make the world a better place, shared meals and booze and funny and sad stories.

We've been in one another's lives a long, long time.

I've gotten used to loving people that I've known for a long, long time. It makes sense to me. It's familiar and comfortable. It made me think that this, this knowing is what love is, what it's supposed to be. And now, suddenly, you're about to be here and . . . Jesus. I love you without meeting you, without having a conversation about The Great Gatsby or going for runs or singing along to Metric.

I don't know what to do with it.

That's really it, Tiny. That's what I got out of bed early to tell you. I'm reasonably certain that by the time you're old enough to read this, you'll have realized a lot of crazy shit about me (including how much I relish cussing). You'll have received a lot of books and unsolicited advice, some hugs and age-appropriate music and dinosaur toys. You'll get lots of stuff from me over the years, and we'll (hopefully) have some fun together, I'm almost certain of that. But those things, like the things I have to tell you about Shakespeare and our family and universe aren't important right now.

I love you. And it's terrifying and amazing. Right now, that's all you need to know.

See you soon, kid.

Kelly