This collection of entries is from January 29, 2006.
Dear Jackson,
OK, I'm starting to feel a slight twinge of rejection. I was holding you again today, but to keep you happy and smiling, I was holding you outward, so you can see everybody, and it was easy to fly you over to Auntie Carol.
But when I talk to you or try to get you to "lock on" to me so that we can play a bit, you don't seem very happy. You're starting to look at me with a confused look - as if you were trying to figure out if I'm a good guy or a bad guy. I see fleeting expressions on your face that just run the gambit of happiness to... wait... you probably wouldn't know what "gambit" is... 20 weeks and I think you understand English when I can't even speak it well...
I know you're not even 5 months old yet, but, you know... I was just hoping.
But, I also realize that you don't see me a lot. It's only once a week, if we're lucky. And when it comes to human interaction, I don't know how much you remember. Do you know who I am?
I'm starting to believe, though, that this is going to be a real long term problem that we're going to have to work out. I mean, let's face it. I'm different. I'm different than everyone else that you interact with at home or even at my mommy's house. I look different and I sound different. I wonder if that's bothering you? Should I be trying to speak in a softer voice? A higher voice? Heaven forbid - do I need to lose the beard?
I need to connect with you somehow, Jackson. Your uncle really does love you but he just doesn't get what's happening. It's not like he's had any experience before either, so, let's face it - he's lost.
Maybe when you get a little older everything will make more sense. For the both of us.
We'll work it out - it's just a bit rough right now.
Love,
Uncle Michael
I have a certain special event coming up 2 weeks from today and I need to be presentable for it. Really, I need a suit and the ones I have, though they've served my well for the past decade or two, finally... *sigh*... don't fit.
It's bad enough to be short. It's worse to be overweight as well. Leaves your shopping options pretty limited.
So, Carol & I headed off to a special store, just for me - Napoleon's Tailor in the city. It caters to anybody under 5' 8" (yes, I'm only 5'3" on a good day).
Walked in the door, nobody in the store (well, there's not a lot of "us" out there). As soon as we got a salesman, he had me take my coast off, took one look at me, went to a rack, pulled a jacket of of a hanger and held it up so I can get into it.
Fit like a glove. This guy's been in the business for a while - he knows what "we" look like.
The unfortunate thing what just gets to me now, was not that it was a 46 (I have some pretty broad shoulders - always have). It really wasn't the "Extra Short", though the "extra" was a little startling. It was that last word - the word that I have not come to accept. The one that I've rejected for too long, ignored for too long.
Portly.
46. Extra Short. Portly.
Crap.
Made me want to spend lots of money getting pants that fit right (alterations are free here).