An Open Letter to My Sister's First Born

Dear Baby Lucas,

I am your Aunt Tracey.  You may call me Tante.  We have met, once or twice before, but you probably don't remember me.  Who could blame you, really?  You were in the intensive care unit, all plugged into stuff.  It would have been really scary to see, if you had not been the biggest, pinkest, beautiful-est baby in that place.  One look at you, and I knew you would be fine.  But, a word of advice:  Here on the outside, inhaling your own poo is considered tacky.  Just thought you should now.

You probably have questions about the day you were born.  If you want answers, you should ask someone, but not me.  All I can do is tell you the Tante Version.

It started on my birthday.  (Do you see how I took a story about you, and made it about me?  When you have a younger sibling, I will show you how to do this.)  I was on my way to meet your mother at the mall when I got a text message that said, "I am on the second floor of Macy's and I think something is happening."  Not even born yet, and you knew how to interrupt a shopping trip.  You will do this many, many more times before you are even out of diapers.

We gave up on the mall, and spent the rest of the day at the hospital.  Well, not me exactly.  I had to get home to your cousins.  But Mommy, and Daddy, and Nana were there.  And about thirty six hours later, so were you.

Now, a few words about your parents.  They seem like strangers, I know.  But, don't worry.  The feeling is mutual.  You will get used to them, and they you.  That's called a family, and it is awesome.  You'll see.

Since your parents, like most people, are either too humble or too proud to tell the truth about themselves, I will fill you in.  Your father is steadfast and true.  Your mother is patient and capable.  He is calm and kind.  She is, er, colorful and tolerant.  He loves old things, like antiques and rocks.  (In fact, you are probably the newest thing he has ever cared about, though, he'll never admit it.)  She is of her own time; gadgets and food that comes cooked.  They are both smart.  You could do worse than to be like either, or both, of them.

You and your father already have on important thing in common.  I have never seen either one of you without your shirt tucked in.  Your shirts are onsies, which makes it a little easier.  Your father's shirts, I suspect, are not.  Though, I am not really in a position to know.  Much has been made of the fact (mostly by your mother) that all of his shirts are green.  Don't believe it.  Green is too flamboyant a description.  I would call it "orchard drab."  Not that there is anything wrong with that.  There will be plenty of time for you to be just like him in that regard later.  Right now, you stick with blue, and little applique jungle animals.

You and your mother already have one important difference.  She can sleep through the night.  She can sleep through the day.  She can sleep through one full hour of the clock radio playing at top volume, followed by one full hour of the alarm playing that obnoxious baa-baa-baa noise, then get up, throw said alarm clock across the room, and sleep thought that too.  So, little man, it is obvious; your mission is three fold.  One, be more obnoxious than two consecutive hours of alarm clock blasts.  Two, wear a helmet, just in case you are successful.  And, three, develop your mother's sleeping habits, as soon as possible.  In the long run, it will be better for everyone.

As to your upbringing; be gentle with them.  Right now, they think you are a blank slate upon which to write their hopes and dreams for you, molding your personality into a wonderful blend of theirs, only better.  They are completely clueless.

I have tried to tell them that you already have a personality, hard wired by God himself, but they don't believe me.  They just see you as a formless blob of squalling need.  You and I know better.  And so will they, once they have another child to compare you to, or get some sleep, whichever comes first.  If they love you, and feed you (and they will) you will turn out to be just the man God intends you to be.  I look forward to meeting him.

Until then, little man, eat, sleep, poop, eat, sleep, poop.

Love, Tante