This is an Open Letter to my son, to whom I have to apologize for my behavior as of late. Before I get into the actual letter, I'd like to call Sarah Avery, my fellow insomniac who I chatted with tonight, OUT, for declaring that the Beastie Boys suck, when they are indeed RAD, AWSOME and PWN the music scene. They are keeping me company tonight as I write this letter, with their awesome Fan concert documentary, "AWESOME! I SHOT THAT!" Shenanigans, Avery, Shenanigans. In the words of Adrock:

If you try to knock me you'll get mocked. I'll stir fry you in my wok. Your knees'll start shaking and your fingers pop. Like a pinch on the neck of Mr. Spock.

I'm just gonna put this out there now, I nominate Adrock for Poet Laureate of the United States in the Obama Administration. Now to the letter (pardon the morbidity, I just have to get it off my chest):

Dear Charlie,

I'd like to apologize for all the sleep I have been interrupting of yours as of late. You see, for some reason, I can't accept the fact you are actually a functioning normal baby, and as such have to poke and prod you at all hours of the night to make sure you are, in fact, still alive.

You clearly have proven, time and again, that you are totally capable of breathing on your own, without my help. And yet, I still feel the need to poke you in the face to make sure that you are, in fact, still around. You see, I am worried, that you could have SIDS, even though SIDS doesn't even begin to appear until after you are a month old, and even then only happens to .0005% of babies. Science says the odds are clearly in your favor, by a ridiculous margin. But surely, you could be the first case in history of a baby suffering that fate before being a month old. So I have to continue poking you in the face.

Additionally, occasionally, if you refuse to sleep in perpetual motion, I will have to flick your earlobe to confirm that you are still mobile. I do not have a small enough mirror to put under your nose, and you seem to breathe far too shallowly, regardless, for me to prove that you are indeed ok. As such, finger on the ear is gonna have to happen.

Rather than listen to you breathe with a stuffy nose, which is clearly an indication that you are about to collapse, I plan on staying up late at night and get even less sleep so as not to disturb your slumber. This will occasionally cause me to be slightly irrational and grumpy, and I apologize for that ahead of time, but if I don't, I will slowly go crazy with the not knowing if you are indeed still acting like every other baby on the planet.

Also, every once in a while I am going to have to shake your foot. Sorry, but you have no LCD screen that tells me your current status, so that's the only way I have of knowing that you haven't forgotten to breathe. I know you aren't stupid (in fact you are probably the smartest baby ever if my instincts are correct), but there's a part of me clearly screaming that you are incapable of doing the most basic human things for yourself.

I am a new father, and as such, I'm not terribly bright. The sleep deprivation and mother nature have conspired to make me worry 24 hours a day that you will never get a grasp on that whole breathing and surviving thing. Science is just a theory and not a fact, so there's a chance you will fail at these things and prove me right. As such, I will continue to not sleep, and interrupt yours, just to make sure I am not insane.

Again, my bad. I have no control over this.

Tired and awake at 3:07am.

Sorry,

Your Dad.