Little O –
We are a little more than a month from your arrival, and I am writing this – my first letter to you – on a warm, sunny afternoon in our apartment in Park Slope, what will be your first home. It’s Sunday, August 2, 2015. Historically, I have not been the biggest fan of Sundays – never able to center myself in the moment, always thinking about the impending return to work, quite literally counting the hours – but have found, since your mom and I moved to New York in March, Sundays have become my favorite days. Friday night is full of big expectations – “Did we need to make a reservation?”; “Lets go do something!” – a burst of energy like a dog who’s realized he’s free from the leash. Saturdays are for catching up with the friends you have neglected during the workweek, for brunch and the park and trips to Coney Island during the summer and the museums during the winter; for playing a part in New York as if the city itself were a perishable commodity. Because after all, what’s the point in living here and paying the ridiculous amount we all do to be a part of this thing, this living, breathing entity (or so it seems) that is New York City, if you’re not going to go out and cast yourself into it?
Sundays are a day of pure leisure. We lounge around at home, read the paper, read books, take a lengthy nap, do something creative (for me: write or play some music; for your mom: work on the magazine), listen to music, work on a crossword, order in Chinese or Indian food, watch our weekly round of HBO shows, go to bed at a reasonable hour. We rarely leave the apartment and never make plans with anyone else. This is our day, and because it is so, there’s a lightness to it that is so pure and pleasurable, when I stop and think about it, I smile at nothing like an idiot.
You’re undoubtedly going to shake up the dynamic a bit, O. I go back and forth between thinking your mom and I are ignorant to how dramatic of a change you’re going to be to our lives, letting myself be afraid of the imminent change and think about it only in terms of what I’ll be losing: freedom; flexibility; peace and quiet; your mom, who it is easy to forget is also my wife, my best friend, and who loved me the most in this world before you came into it; to believing in us as a team, the three of us, that there’s going to be so much love and excitement and patience in this house, your presence will reveal that the time before it – all of these seemingly perfect Sundays before your arrival – had a gaping hole where you were meant to be. Like believing the world is flat your whole life, only to find not only is it round, but there’s a whole universe of round planets out there, all new to you yet truly as old as time itself.
We’re going to find out soon enough. I feel ready. Keeping in line with the weekend analogy: it’s 3:00pm on a Friday and I’m finding it hard to focus on much beyond the sludge-like passage of time until you’re here, a weekend as long as a lifetime, limitless in its possibilities. Welcome to the team. I hope you like naps.
 It will be a mission of mine that you never take the fact that you live in New York City for granted. Though at times (when cradled in a B.O.-ridden armpit on a busy F train or when responding to a craigslist ad for a studio in the Village that is so small and misshapen, you’re not even positive a bed can fit into it), you may feel New York is the biggest shithole on earth, it is truthfully a privilege to be a part of this city and even more so to be born and raised here. You’re welcome, kiddo.