April 29, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

It's time. We're off to the hospital.

Dan

April 28, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

A trip to the zoo and the midwife made for a better day today than yesterday: Zoo babies and "real" babies and four centimeters dilation. Plus ice cream.

Dan

April 27, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

If you were to make a chart of these days of waiting, a graph of our emotional well being--some kind of bar graph, or a best-fit line, perhaps--today would be a line that swoops well below the baseline. Today would be a bar that shoots so far down the entire scale of the graph would have to be re-drawn to accommodate this horrible new data set. In these long, protracted days, you try and keep your spirits up, you try and keep yourself distracted and thinking positively. But today, the darker thoughts crept in, the only thing that keeps us going is the knowledge that this has to end sometime.

Dan

April 26, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

"I"m beginning to think that this is the longest labor on earth," said Janice, stroking her belly as the contractions squeezed her uterus. "Well, I'll go get Guinness on the phone if you want," I replied. And we both laughed and wondered if this baby is ever going to come out.

Dan

April 25, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Another day of waiting. I'm sure it's not the news you wanted to hear--you wanted to hear stories of a new child coming screaming into this world--but unfortunately, it's the news I've got to give. More contractions, more phone calls, more wondering if this will ever really happen.

Dan

April 24, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

"Tell Janice she's only got six hours to get her act together," Joe said laughingly on the phone. Today's both his birthday and our son's due date and he's been promising to "spoil the kid rotten" if we deliver today. While this afternoon it seemed like we may meet the mark--with mild contractions coming every five or six minutes--tonight it looks like we're settling in for a slightly longer haul than Joe might like. (He'll have to settle with selling the film rights for his novel as his birthday treat instead, I suppose.)

But, Mr. Bush, while the kid coming in the next few hours doesn't seem realistic, all of a sudden it feels like he's very much coming soon.

I'll keep you posted,

Dan

April 23, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

And so it has come to this: Janice, crying on the couch, out of frustration and anticipation and sheer exhaustion from being pregnant for nine months. And me, sitting next to her, unable to think of a single thing that would make it OK other than to say "He'll be out soon," and feeling inarticulate and dumb.

Dan

April 22, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

This is what they don't tell you: The end days of a pregnancy are intolerable. The waiting, the false alarms, the frustration of not knowing. You do what you can to keep yourself occupied--Janice has insisted on going to work, while I've filled my mind with the lists and minutiae of things to do--but in the back of your head is the knowledge that something is going to happen at any time and you have to be ready for it. So you keep your calendar clear, you make non-committal plans. You sit, you walk, you wait.

Dan

April 21, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

"I wouldn't mind hanging a sign around my neck that says 'Don't Ask Me About My Pregnancy,'" Janice said today while rubbing her massive and swollen belly. I laughed and thought about how soon enough, they won't.

Dan

April 20, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Last night we thought that by this time today we'd have a baby. Janice was having contractions and shooting pains up her back. We were waiting, excitedly and nervously, for the contractions to become organized, to achieve some sort of pattern, and so we stayed up most of the night wondering what the future would hold. But instead, the contractions died down into just some minor cramping and we spent the day today hoping that they would return. They will soon, Mr. Bush, that much is certain, but today isn't their day.

Dan

April 19, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

"The baby's at the door, he's just waiting for it to open," the midwife said this morning, her slight drawl and twinkling eyes curling around the joke, as she performed an internal exam. It is upon us at this point, Mr. Bush, it's just a question of when.

Dan

April 18, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

One down--the magazine. One to go--the baby. The waiting game has officially begun.

Dan

April 17, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

We sat on a bench today, our bodies drinking in the warm air and patchy sun, tossing a frisbee to our dog. It was a brief but welcome respite in a busy weekend juggling the responsibility of caring for a woman in the last stages of pregnancy and getting another issue of my magazine to press. Twenty-four hours from now one of those two stresses will have ended, but it's anyone's guess which it'll be.

Dan

April 16, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

"Come out now," I called, my mouth close to Janice's ever-expanding belly, asking my son to begin his journey into our home. Unfortunately, he's already exhibiting the stubbornness of both his parents, content--at least for the time being--to ignore our pleas and continue to float in his warm, safe shelter.

Dan

April 15, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

On tax day, I try to imagine what it would be like to feel happy to pay taxes, to feel like the money was coming back to me in services like healthcare or extended paternity leave. I imagine that my money is being spent to better my life and the lives of others. I imagine that my money is going towards improving schools in the inner city and helping to create jobs for those that need them. I imagine that my money goes to artists creating challenging, new work. I imagine that my money is going to scientists researching new cures. I imagine that my money is going to finding renewable energy sources, to cleaning our water supply, to bettering the air. I imagine the possibilities, and they feel endless.

And then I wake up and I pay them anyway and the act feels useless.

Dan

April 14, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

If you're thinking about having another baby, here's some advice that you might like to know: Don't schedule going to press with a magazine for the week before. Originally, our print date was the same as the baby's due date, so there wasn't much choice in the matter, but truly this week feels like something I don't just have to get through, it's something I have to survive.

Wish me luck,

Dan

April 13, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

They're threatening to kill public transportation in the city again. Well, not "kill," perhaps, but at least severely maim. There's a budget shortfall and, unlike the way you run the government, deficits aren't allowed. As a result, they're threatening to raise fares and cut service--a perfect combination to achieve an ever-dwindling number of riders that will only force more service cuts and fare hikes.

When I was a teenager, the el train promised a way out of what felt like a small, suffocating suburb and a way into a city full of promise. There was a line that would rocket you from my hometown straight to what was then the epicenter of record stores, off-beat clothing stores, and a cutting-edge late-night all ages dance club that catered to virtually every subset of youth culture in one building. My friends and I would ride that train as much as we could, escaping into a strange and exhilarating world that forever transformed who we would be.

They're going to cut that line, Mr. Bush, along with 36 percent of the rest, and it will be the beginning of the end. The city will change immeasurably--all for the worse, not for the better--if it comes to pass, a reality that seems more and more likely as the transit board confirms their plans, the state drags their feet, and a mayor who can get anything he truly cares about done stays silent.

Damn them all,

Dan

April 12, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Among a long list of dumb things said by your secretary of defense we now must add this, about Iraq:

"We do not really have an exit strategy. We have a victory strategy."

I'm not quite sure what even to say.

Dan

April 11, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

And so: And so, this is why I've been slow to write. Because these are the last days of moments like these. The last chances at remembering what it was like before our child was born. And so, Mr. Bush, you'll excuse me if I want to keep them to myself.

Yours,

Dan

April 10, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

And then this: Sitting on the floor next to the bed, resting my head against Janice's, explaining to her that I have to say up a little later to write this letter, and her tired, small sigh that comes out whispers stay. And so we spend a half hour watching tiny feet push against her stretched belly, as I lean in and call "Come out!"

He doesn't listen.

Dan

April 9, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Or this: After a night watching movies with friends, I have to help lift Janice up off the couch, two arms straining against the weight and she says "Someday I won't be pregnant, right?" And I laugh and say "Probably. But if not, I'll lift you off the couch forever." And both of us close our eyes, her leaning her ample weight leaning against me, and I know in my heart that I need to hang onto this moment, to not let it slip away, because soon so many more will be flooding in, trying to replace it.

Dan

April 8, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

For instance, tonight: A quiet moment spent rubbing salve into her belly, hoping that my hands, my gentile touch, and the medicinal, healing herbs in the lotion, would ease her pain from the constant stretching. Slowly my hand moves from large, sweeping passes across her belly into the slightest, faintest tracing of her impossibly rounded body with just the tip of my ring finger, and I tell myself: remember this.

Dan

April 7, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

No, I'm not at the hospital right now. I'm sure that thought has been running through your head as my correspondences have arrived later and later: He must be at the hospital! The baby must be being born right now. But no, Mr. Bush, that's not it (though I do appreciate your concern).

It's simply that as the clock winds down on the pregnancy, I have been spending more time experiencing than documenting it; I have wanted to have moments that I can keep privately in my head, instead of share with you.

Dan

April 6, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

"You look like one of us," one of my students said to me, as the elevator doors closed behind us.

"Huh?" I asked, confused and tired after my three hour class.

"You dress like a student," she explained, laughing slightly, as everyone else in the elevator turned and gave me the once over, surprised that the guy in the red sneakers, dirty pants, wrinkled shirt, and thick plastic glasses was, in fact, an instructor.

And I guess it's true. I don't look like much of an instructor. And perhaps I'm not. But on a night like last night, where I was awake and alert and on top of my material, I sure felt like one.

Yours,

Dan

April 5, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

"Well, you're still pregnant," our midwife told Janice today, while pressing into her huge, swollen belly. It's the last month--the last three weeks, actually--and so we have to go to the midwife every week. "You're done!" our midwife said, leaning into Janice's belly, "you can come out any time now." And he could. His room is ready, his clothes are washed, his parents are ready. It's truly any time.

Dan

April 4, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

The city was alive today, resplendent in the warmth that engulfed us all, venturing out of our homes with the dream that perhaps this never-ending winter was finally over. Windows open until ten at night, sunlight until eight. Every street you went down was full of people sitting on their stoops, smiling at each other, dreaming of the days ahead.

Dan

April 3, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

"You're not writing him about the Pope, are you?" Janice asks me from across the table, as I sit down to write you this letter.

And so, Mr. Bush, I am most definitely not writing to you about the Pope.

Dan

April 2, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Tonight our friends held a huge party in honor of our impending parenthood--just mere weeks away at this point, Mr. Bush--and it was fun and wonderful and lasted until the wee hours of the morning, and after everyone left, Janice and I crawled exhausted into the bed, both of us tired from the party but also from the weeks and months of waiting for this child to finally come. Soon. Soon. Soon.

Dan

April 1, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

What if you woke up this morning in your bed back at the ranch, stumbled down the hall, the smell of eggs drifting in from the kitchen, while the sound of Laura singing something softly under her breath--"Walkin' After Midnight" maybe or "Blue Moon of Kentucky"--causes the early-morning fog to lift from your brain. And as you're standing their in your pajamas brushing your teeth, you realize that you're not at the White House and that you don't remember how you got to Texas or even how you ended up in these pajamas, which you haven't even seen in years. And a little bit confused you wander into the kitchen just as Laura's sliding a big stack of bacon onto a plate for you; she smiles and says "Good mornin' darlin'" and you sidle up to the breakfast bar, reminding yourself that those wagon-wheel bar stools are probably ready for replacing, and you realize that the kitchen hasn't been remodeled--you specifically remember remodeling it in late 2001--and you get a strange feeling that something's out of sorts. The eggs and bacon Laura cooked for you are still hot, but you walk away from them and go down the hall to the coat closet, and on opening it you can't find a single one of your presidential bomber jackets, or that "43" baseball hat your dad made for you. And you look outside and the news crews that normally clog your driveway are nowhere to be seen, nor are the ever-present secret service agents.

And what if you scratched your head and began to realize that perhaps the last few years had just been an elaborate dream caused by some bad barbecue last night, that Al Gore had won the election, that the September 11 attacks had never happened. That you've spent the last five years riding horses and mending fences at the ranch, finally retired from public life after a resounding loss at the polls.

And what if you began to relax, your shoulders softening from a stressful dream, your jaw unclenching from a night of grinding.

And what if you walked back into the kitchen, sliding your hands around Laura's waste, joining in as she sings "shine on the one that's gone and left me blue," and swing her around the kitchen counter, giddy and happy and feeling like you hadn't felt in years.

And what if just then, Dick Cheney walks though a door you hadn't noticed before, claps your back with his massive, beefy hand and hollers "April Fools!" into your ear.

Would you laugh hardily at the elaborate planning, the attention to detail, the surprise? Or would you feign a smile as the reality of everything comes rushing back.

Think fast,

Dan

March 31, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

That poor woman in Florida died this morning, slowly and quietly, after 15 years lying in a bed. If this was the last time I heard her name, it would be a good day. But I fear that it's not; that you and your like-minded friends will drag her up out of the ground in order to get your way against "activist" judges or to shove your "culture of life" down every feeding tube in the country. Let the poor woman go peacefully now, Mr. Bush; have some respect for the dead.

Dan

March 30, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

We learned yesterday that the baby has dropped down and that Janice is 50 percent effaced. Our midwife says that that means this baby's on schedule and that delivery is just a scant three or four weeks away. Even 24 hours later, that knowledge has made it almost impossible to get anything done today.

Yours,

Dan