Mole writes to Ratty’s daughter, aged 11 months

Dearest Lala,

I can’t believe you’re almost a year old. Time certainly does fly. It seems like just yesterday that the cubicles were abuzz with the news of your birth. All it took was one photo forwarded to 40 of us and the talk in and around the fabric walls was all about a certain 7 pound someone who shall remain nameless.

Your entry into the world was big news, kid.

There I am making copies, and someone comes up behind me to tell me that you were born with a full head of hair.  I’m mixing up my mid-morning Crystal Light in the kitchen and my boss who I call The Devil Wears TanJay tells me that you’re a very long baby. I step into the elevator and there’s even more talk about you. Lala, let me tell you, you gave people something to talk about on that dark fall day.

Babies are big news in cubicle culture. Babies and cats dressed up as pirates for Halloween.

Of course, your father shared only a little bit of what your birth was like — not too much. He’s very protective of you, little Lala, and that’s a very good thing. No one likes an oversharer. I don’t know if this expression will be popular when you’re a teenager, but right now all the teenagers love to say TMI when they think someone has overshared. People have told me that before, “TMI, Moley! TMI!” I can’t help it. I’m a storyteller. I like to spin a yarn. And what is that Oprah** says?   It’s all about the details or something like that? If I’m telling a story about getting an endometrial biopsy I think details are important, –I include it all from dilation to tissue scraping,  but hey maybe that’s just me. We’re different that way, your father and I, but that’s what makes us such good friends. I think it’s a good thing he’s so discreet. Some fathers will film a home birth of their children and post it to YouTube. Let me tell you something I know for sure, your father would never do that.

I don’t know much about when I was born, my father gave me just the outline and from there I’ve filled in a great deal (what the waiting room looked like, what my father was wearing, what the nurse was like). I was born in the 60s when men stayed out of the delivery room. I don’t know when that changed, Lala, I really don’t, but now it is expected that husbands get dressed up in scrubs, cut the umbilical cord and examine the placenta.  Well it wasn’t always like that.  Not in Don Draper’s*** day and certainly not in my father’s day, no sir.

The story of how I was born, went a little something like this:

My father: Your mother knew that she was ready so I drove her to the hospital and the nurses came and put her in a wheelchair and took her into a room.

Me: And then what happened?

My father: I sat and read a book.

Me: What book?

My father: No Longer at Ease

[Now this, Lala, this was interesting. Kind of symbolic don’t you think?]

Me: And then what happened?

My father: Then after a time, the nurses brought you out and said, “Congratulations!”

Me: What did I look like?

My father: Waxy.

Me: And then what?

My father: Then I went back to my book.

No one could ever accuse my father of being an oversharer either,  Lala. That is something we have in common, you and I.

When you are old enough you must ask your father the details of your birth. Ask him for the full story. It’s important to know how we came into the world and your father is a tremendously gifted raconteur. And that story, dearest Lala, is something you will carry around with you for the rest of your life.

I wish you a happy first birthday Lala.

Well, it’s time for old Aunt Moley to sign off now.

Remember to keep dancing like no one’s laughing and sing so that you’ll never be heard. Just two little pearls of wisdom I am happy to share with you as you get bigger and more beautiful with every passing day.

Aunt Moley

 

**remind me to fill you in on Oprah some time

***also remind me to fill you in on Mad Men

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