Don't you know anything about birth order? You're the baby of the family. You're supposed to want to be cute and obliging. You strive to endear yourself to everyone, to milk your smallness for all it's worth. I already have two children who are independent-minded and unobliging. You decided to be a boy; that was to us a declaration that you're going to be different. We're holding you to that.
There was a plan. We had a plan. We had a medically-based, sound, believable with proven track record kind of plan. And based on that plan you were supposed to be born on Monday or Tuesday. Medicine and science gave us the confidence to believe you'd be here by now. Did you think that because your namesake is a coward, you get to duck back in for six more weeks, too? That is not how this works. Your lease has a firm expiration date, and I will have you removed by force if necessary. Tick tock.
You didn't come on Tuesday, but this catalog did:
Do you think I'll succumb to the pressures of Big Consumerism? Don't challenge me, son. If you're going for stubborn, you should know I'm the Queen of Stubborn.
Found on the curb: mattress, clothing, some personal items. Umbilical cord and vernix clumps. Big EVICTION sign on the door.
And then this morning I got this email:
There's something you should know, little man. I'll win this standoff. I always win.