Baby Blase

Dear dad,

In lieu of a gift this year - because let’s face it, one really should shower and brush ones hair in order to go outside of the house to shop - I’ve decided to write you a letter. And post it on the internet for you and all of the world (or the other three readers of this blog) to see. Yes, you’re getting jipped, I will try to make it up to you in years to come.

This whole kid thing has opened my eyes to not only the amount of work that raising Kylie and me would have been for you, but, to how funny, cute and caring you must have been to us. I now know you as funny in a very dry, grown-up way. I remember the first time I figured out that you were funny. It must have been in college. It was probably at Christmas or Thanksgiving and I sat to your left at the dinner table. Your humor doesn’t quite translate past three or four feet from your seat - mainly, I think, that’s a volume issue - I believe you make cracks in order to entertain yourself and if somebody happens to hear it, understand it and find it funny - sobeit. I remember “getting” one of your witty remarks and looking around the table to catch a glimpse of somebody else to laugh with. But, I was the only one who heard it. I remember feeling proud - that I was finally (educated enough? old enough?) able to understand one of your jokes and I was also proud of you as a person. You morphed from being just my dad to being a person as well. And a person that I enjoyed being around, to boot!

I am well aware of some of the staggering differences in our generation - how we live, how we raise our children - to how you were raised and chose to raise us. Marc and I are somewhat progressive in our thinking, but, I find myself appreciating a lot more of the “old fashioned” way of doing things - more so than I thought I would. While it would be very Utopian to never teach our children the word “no” and let them run around naked covered in finger-paint and glitter, I have the sneaking suspicion that Marc and I may end up being the more conservative parents in the playgroup. (That last sentence is the main part of your birthday gift. I hope you like it because there is no gift receipt.) I’m not sure that I can bring myself to teach Harrison to only refer to adults by their formal names (because the idea of being called “Mrs. Blase” makes me want to vomit - the Blase part is cool - it’s the “Mrs” part that has yet to sink in after seven years), but, I wholeheartedly believe in the word “no” and I believe that parents are the ones in charge. I intend to respect Harrison’s thoughts, desires and beliefs no matter how silly or different to mine they are, however, we will aim to teach him to respect us and know that we have the final say in all matters child-related. There is plenty of time for us to be friends with Harrison and that time doesn’t begin until after he leaves for college.

As Harrison grows up I wish for him to get to know you. To learn all he can from you. How to build and sail a boat. How to throw a change-up - maybe he can even learn that curve ball that you tried to teach me. How to drive a car - maybe even the sparkly red one that is hiding in your closet…? How to draw - one of my earliest memories of you and me is learning to sketch a rooster - I now know that you were teaching me trying to teach me patience as well as rendering skills.

Thank you for being my dad and mentor and for being a wonderful grandpa.

Love, Aimee

Listening: Calexico