tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90004992011-04-21T19:53:59.393-05:00Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.comBlogger2251100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1161176021797925912006-10-18T07:51:00.000-05:002006-10-18T07:53:41.820-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,The boy won't sleep tonight; tossing and turning in his crib, screaming and crying for me, for his mother, for horses and dogs, for books and water. None of that is coming his way, of course, because it's late and it's dark and it's time for him to sleep. His music is playing quietly, but no matter how long I gently rub his back, he simply won't stop squirming, uncomfortable in his

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1120217566985021742005-07-01T06:32:00.000-05:002005-07-01T06:32:46.990-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Yesterday the senate apologized for not outlawing lynching. I'm not sure which is worse: the too-little too-late aspect of it, or the fact that a fifth of the senate body either didn't co-sponsor the resolution or refused a roll call vote. What year do we live in again?Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1120217059319210982005-07-01T06:24:00.000-05:002005-07-01T06:24:19.323-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,The heat continues to build, in what is shaping up to be one of the hottest Junes in Chicago history. Bike rides to and from work are an uncomfortable but necessary practice, as we went down to one car back in December. The money we've saved helps, absolutely, but I'm paying it out in sweat this month.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1120216673399401592005-07-01T06:17:00.000-05:002005-07-01T06:17:53.403-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Watching the Sunday morning talk shows today, did you feel the ground crumbling from beneath you? Members of your own party have begun calling for accountability in Iraq, asking for withdrawl time tables, and acknowleging how difficult the situation on the ground is. When those loyal to you start to bolt, Mr. Bush, it's time to worry.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1120215946906412752005-07-01T06:05:00.000-05:002005-07-01T06:05:46.910-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,The heat won't let up. Our poor window air conditioner is struggling to keep even one room in our home cool enough to be tolerable, while all of us have taken to walking around in as few clothes as possible, bodies--from the tiniest to the biggest--slick with sweat. It's going to be one of those summers, isn't it. Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1120215444885230412005-07-01T05:57:00.000-05:002005-07-01T05:57:24.890-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,After two weeks of family visitors, our home is finally our own again. It's been a wonderful time of sharing our new life with those that are close, but there's nothing quite like feeling like you can relax into a half-awake slouch on your couch after weeks of being a host. Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1120214951810059812005-07-01T05:49:00.000-05:002005-07-01T05:49:11.813-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Roosevelt sat on the couch today smiling for what felt like an eternity. Each giant smile would rise and fade like the sun, burning a spot into my heart forever.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1120214666410897062005-07-01T05:44:00.000-05:002005-07-01T06:23:19.773-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,It's been forever, I know. We've both had a rough month. Thankfully, mine just involves too much work, too many visitors, and too much heat. Yours, I believe, has been much, much wose.I'm going to do my best to catch you up over the next few days, then try my hardest to keep you up-to-date from here on out. I'm sure you've been worried. Everything is fine, just busy.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1118555549356740012005-06-12T00:52:00.000-05:002005-06-12T00:52:29.390-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Home two days and gone only four, I still stare at my son and marvel at how much he's changed. His face is fuller now, his legs chubby from feeding almost hourly. He holds his head up almost completely on his own now, and is starting to make gentle cooing sounds every now and again. When you were still driving out into West Texas to drill holes in the ground, would you come back and

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1118529893967444742005-06-11T17:44:00.000-05:002005-06-11T17:44:54.356-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,The heat comes early this year and it comes strong--well into the 90s yesterday, today, and for as many days as the forecast allows. Sweat on your brow remains a constant in this kind of heat; you wear three different shirts throughout the day, each one soaked through before it's changed. This kind of heat isn't about summer fun, it's about survival. Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1118481012724585532005-06-11T04:10:00.000-05:002005-06-11T04:10:12.726-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,I returned home today--to a house full of in-laws, a thermometer touching 90, and splitting headache. And, as I sat next to Janice holding Roosevelt in my arms, nothing else mattered.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1118480837939024472005-06-11T04:07:00.000-05:002005-06-11T04:07:17.940-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,I have a secret for surviving Manhattan. When the well-dressed crowds get too much, when the endless glittering shop windows of expensive boutiques overwhelm, when the constant stream of beauty and wealth grows too weary, I remember this: This may be one of the most sophisticated, cosmopolitan cities in the world, but when it comes time to dispose of their garbage, the best answer

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1118479937655875012005-06-11T03:52:00.000-05:002005-06-11T17:48:15.430-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Tens of thousands of people will walk past the little table that I stood behind today--most of them just want to walk away with a free book. We don't have any. I have said "I'm sorry, but you can't take that, we need it for the table," more times than seems possible today. I will do it all again tomorrow, disappointing frumpy librarians, slick marketing execs, and goateed hipsters

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1118469626566643492005-06-11T01:00:00.000-05:002005-06-11T01:00:26.573-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,The hardest thing I've ever done was saying goodbye to Roosevelt and Janice today, as I got into the car that would drive me to the airport, away from our new little family for four days on business. When I booked the tickets it didn't feel like I'd be gone for very long, but now, hundreds of miles away, it feels like an eternity.To quick returns,Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1118469489675651252005-06-11T00:58:00.000-05:002005-06-11T17:47:59.106-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Last weekend I came home from a visit with my parents carrying every childrens' record I had ever listened to as a boy. They had them stored in their basement--an endless treasure trove of childhood memories enveloped in a moist, mildewed scent--and I had been meaning to pick them up for weeks now. Years ago I picked up a Japanese portable record player, and when we put together

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1117601926546827502005-05-31T23:54:00.000-05:002005-05-31T23:58:46.546-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Your vice president today promised that our time in Iraq would come to an end--in 2009. By then, my son will be four years old. Think of the four-year-olds in Iraq then, children that have known nothing but your war. Will they know that it is over? Or will they only be starting to fight it? Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1117601694470585312005-05-31T23:53:00.000-05:002005-05-31T23:54:54.470-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,A month ago today, Roosevelt was born. He's grown so much, become so much more alert and active and engaged in the world, over that month it's just staggering. And even though I can look at a calendar and see the days that have passed, it truly feels like he's been with us forever. Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1117601618027059032005-05-31T23:52:00.000-05:002005-05-31T23:53:38.040-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Doing yard work this morning--the sweat running down my face, hands black with soil and bleeding from thorns on the shrub I was pruning--I felt alive.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1117599101771031572005-05-31T23:07:00.000-05:002005-05-31T23:11:41.770-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,"You seem to have gotten behind in your letters," my dad said to me today. And it's true, Mr. Bush, and I apologize, but I'm juggling a lot right now and you'll just have to be caught up when I can find the time. Talk to you soon,Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1117598837797194842005-05-31T23:05:00.000-05:002005-05-31T23:07:17.800-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,The nights are long ones, made ever longer by working all day. The middle of the night is not the time for babies to be awake--but it seems that no one has ever told them that before. And we suffer through them, one after the other, holding on only by the continual reminders from friends and family that it does get better.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1117598377236865082005-05-31T22:56:00.000-05:002005-05-31T22:59:37.236-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Janice's folks came in from out of town today, adding to our life's already hectic balance.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1117598178819731282005-05-31T22:46:00.000-05:002005-05-31T22:56:18.820-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Since my son was born, 58 US soldiers have died in Iraq. They're saying that May is on pace to being one of the deadliest in the war so far. I wonder, sometimes, how I'll explain these deaths to my son years from now. What do I say?Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1117597592768326522005-05-31T22:44:00.000-05:002005-05-31T22:46:32.770-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Well, one day back and I've already ditched out on work today. The night was a rough one, with Roosevelt waking every hour for the duration, and after our pediatrician's appointment at noon (ten pounds, six ounces), I was just too tired to get back behind the desk. Instead, the afternoon was spent with my son sleeping on my chest. Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1117597479403515352005-05-31T22:41:00.000-05:002005-05-31T22:44:39.406-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Well it was hard: going back to work, tearing myself away from the idyllic hours spent playing and dancing and changing diapers. It was hard, yes, but it had to happen. And once I got there and got started climbing the mountainous pile of tasks on my desk, it felt pretty good.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1116822435598702692005-05-22T23:25:00.000-05:002005-05-22T23:46:49.953-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,And so my time at home is coming to a close, with today flashing by in an instant and the slow burn of reality creeping into my conscious at every turn. What follows for me, for Janice, for our family will be different, but it's been an amazing time while we've had it. There are so many who can't take this kind of time off to spend with their tiny, fragile children, and so I know

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1116822206462922942005-05-22T23:16:00.000-05:002005-05-22T23:25:36.840-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,"This is what I dreamed about for so long," Janice said wistfully, as the sun beat down on us--me, her, the kid, and our dog--as we kicked a soccer ball to Lucy. We drove an hour to be at this amazing dog park in a wealthy northern suburb of Chicago--a car ride exponentially longer than Roosevelt's experienced so far--because Janice had been visualizing it throughout her pregnancy:

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1116821752622815802005-05-22T23:10:00.000-05:002005-05-22T23:15:52.623-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,There are moments, like at lunch today--cracking jokes with Janice and a friend across the table, drinking iced tea and eating egg salad, Roosevelt sleeping in his car-seat amid the lunchtime bustle of a popular cafe--where this family thing feels easy and natural. And then there are moments, like in the middle of the night last night--fighting to stay awake on a chair next to his

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1116821411333443472005-05-22T22:55:00.000-05:002005-05-22T23:10:11.336-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,"My god, he's grown like a weed!" exclaimed our midwife today, as we brought Roosevelt into the office for a postpartum visit. She hadn't seen him since we left the hospital and was amazed at how much bigger he is. "Well obviously you're over the feeding issues," she chided Janice, as she held our growing child. And ever since that visit, Mr. Bush, I've been so conscious of just how

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1116820497469569712005-05-22T22:46:00.000-05:002005-05-22T22:54:57.470-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,We've taken to sleeping on the couches--it's the only way Roosevelt will rest soundly, even if it's not the most comfortable option for us. After sleepless night after sleepless night, it's the only thing we've found that will give us even fleeting rest. It's funny: all these things you imagine before your child is born quickly get shunted aside for what simply works. So for us, the

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1116819954183587852005-05-22T22:40:00.000-05:002005-05-22T22:45:54.186-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Suddenly, in the last week that I'll be spending the days with my son, time has shifted into fast-forward. You look out the window and cars drive by at twice their speed, people move in and out of their houses in that jerky, double-time action of old-time movies, the sun rises and sets and flowers open and close with the halting motion of public television science shows. You see it

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1116306579331557372005-05-16T23:57:00.000-05:002005-05-17T00:09:39.336-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,"Our baby stinks," I said this morning, carrying Roosevelt in from another changing.Janice leaned in and sniffed. "Oh no, we have the smelly kid," she said, laughing, "we have Pigpen." He really did smell, Mr. Bush, an ancient, weird, fishy scent that emanated from his umbilical cord stump, a stump that had been slowly getting grosser every day.By afternoon, the scent was

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1116305820169115392005-05-16T23:53:00.000-05:002005-05-16T23:57:00.170-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,The days fold into each other now, nights lasting until four or five, days starting at eleven or twelve. The whole day exists in some kind of non-time, too awake to sleep, to tired to do anything. Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1116305615595427122005-05-16T23:51:00.000-05:002005-05-16T23:53:35.596-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,A bleary-eyed Saturday, the entire family sleeping until eleven in the morning, the rest of the day spent in a fog. Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1116305506505453572005-05-16T23:46:00.000-05:002005-05-16T23:51:46.510-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,When the girls were newborns, how well did they sleep? Because ours seems to be fond of staying up all night and sleeping all day. Friends who have babies talk about the lack of sleep that comes with these early days and weeks, but all of them seem to speak of frequent feedings keeping them up at night, not simply a child so awake you couldn't possibly think about getting any shut

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1115991940180257392005-05-13T08:40:00.000-05:002005-05-13T08:45:40.180-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Today three more soldiers died in Iraq, three more among an upswing in violence that has all corners of the country in flames. Today marked 1,614 service-people dead since the war's start, a number that seems both too large and too small all at the same time. And today the war continued, a war without end.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1115991604116563712005-05-13T08:15:00.000-05:002005-05-13T08:40:04.116-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,It was the first day back teaching my class since Janice's achingly slow labor started over two weeks ago. I was behind in grading papers, jacked up on far too little sleep, and left half my notes at home, but I got back in the classroom and it felt like I hadn't been gone at all. Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1115990103725692812005-05-13T08:12:00.000-05:002005-05-13T08:15:03.853-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,An image I will hold on to forever: Today, in the park, a blanket spread out below us, me tossing a frisbee to the dog, Janice cross legged and breast-feeding, the warm spring sun shining down on our funny little family, all of us still so unclear in our roles.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1115989940944915742005-05-13T08:02:00.000-05:002005-05-13T08:12:20.950-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,We've fallen into a comfortable routine now--feeding, changing diapers, sleeping--and it fills the day more than one could imagine. It's hard to envision getting much more than that done, yet the iridescent light of reality and responsibility is beginning to seep in through the cracks. There is work that is not getting done, bills that are not getting paid, life that is not being

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1115705858605935102005-05-10T01:05:00.000-05:002005-05-10T01:17:38.776-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,You may have thought I'd forgotten--and seeing how caught up I've been in the new parent thing, that's probably an understandable mistake--but I haven't: people are still dying in Iraq. Just this weekend there have been seven service-people killed, along with countless Iraqis. How many mothers are celebrating today without their sons, lost in a war you seem to have lost interest

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1115619112635129982005-05-09T01:04:00.000-05:002005-05-10T01:05:38.040-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,"A week ago right now, I was pushing," Janice said softly, still half asleep this morning around six. Two hours later, she'd be woken up again by our baby's soft calls, and she'd say it again: "A week ago, I was still pushing." We laughed, knowing that it would still be another hour before we could quietly wish our son a happy week-old birthday. She pushed for hours Mr. Bush, and

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1115618684551432852005-05-09T01:00:00.000-05:002005-05-09T01:04:44.556-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Things progress exponentially, Mr. Bush, that's what I've been learning. We've gone from a child who won't eat, who sleeps all day, slowly getting thinner, to a child who wants to eat every hour or so--all this in about 24 hours time. Watching a kid grow like this is unreal. As our days stretch out into round-the-clock schedules, there still doesn't seem to be enough time in a day

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1115452588474100932005-05-07T02:21:00.000-05:002005-05-07T02:56:28.613-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,After good news at the doctor's today, we emerged, squinting, into the warm mid-spring sun. Everything was light and effervescent, as if the whole world had taken on the soft glow that warmed our hearts when we were told that our tiny, fragile son had gained seven ounces overnight and was doing just fine. Yours,Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1115284290919366022005-05-05T03:52:00.000-05:002005-05-05T04:11:31.096-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Survival is important these days and Janice and I are making due as best we can. Roosevelt is feeding better every time we sit down with him, but the stress and structure of a desperately rigorous feeding schedule has made it so, well, we forget to feed ourselves. A friend brought over lasagna last night and it's been the only thing sustaining us since: Lasagna sandwiches for lunch,

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1115280342871627962005-05-05T02:19:00.000-05:002005-05-05T03:51:57.793-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,There's confusion in the food supply: Roosevelt won't eat. He's dehydrated and turning yellow from jaundice that could be cured by a few good bowel movements, but he puts up a fight every time he's brought to the breast. It has us all in a panic, even tiny Roo, who wants nothing more than to eat, but can't seem to figure out what he's doing. All three of us spent last night in tears

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1115277573690966552005-05-05T02:05:00.000-05:002005-05-05T02:19:33.883-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,"I don't know how I can ever thank you enough," I said, tears streaming down my face, as we said goodbye to our midwife, whose brief examination of Janice was the last hurdle before we could go home today. "There were so many times on Friday night that I worried about what would happen, and all I could do was know that you were there and that I trusted you completely," I continued,

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1115276721443359192005-05-05T01:51:00.000-05:002005-05-05T02:05:21.613-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,There's confusion in the food supply: Janice ordered roasted chicken but got ham and cheese. The food service people at the hospital have yet to get a meal right, even though they enter your order on a Palm Pilot. Order chicken and get ham. Order a sandwich and get pasta. Order ice cream and get pudding. Working on no sleep, you begin to wonder if it's you: Did you actually order

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1115100755316938922005-05-03T00:54:00.000-05:002005-05-03T01:12:35.316-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,At 9:12 this morning, after a very long night and a very difficult delivery, our son, Roosevelt Owen, was born. He came into this world thanks to the sheer will of his exhausted mama, a woman I will always look upon with awe after this lengthy and arduous labor, a woman who would never quit no matter how many unexpected turns this birth took. This is a tale I will share with you

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1114822984387004852005-04-29T20:02:00.000-05:002005-04-29T20:03:04.386-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,It's time. We're off to the hospital.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1114792731817389312005-04-29T11:33:00.000-05:002005-04-29T11:38:51.816-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1114693995175673342005-04-28T07:59:00.000-05:002005-04-28T08:13:15.176-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1114607444301179352005-04-27T08:05:00.000-05:002005-04-27T08:10:44.300-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1114489728652245912005-04-25T23:27:00.000-05:002005-04-25T23:28:48.653-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1114397107314781732005-04-24T21:36:00.000-05:002005-04-24T21:45:07.316-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1114349387479726002005-04-24T08:05:00.000-05:002005-04-24T08:29:47.480-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1114347922525910312005-04-24T07:53:00.000-05:002005-04-24T08:05:22.526-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1114171972060244442005-04-22T06:57:00.000-05:002005-04-22T07:12:52.060-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1114171021116559992005-04-22T06:52:00.000-05:002005-04-22T06:57:01.116-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1114010426744786222005-04-20T09:50:00.000-05:002005-04-20T10:20:26.746-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1114008613313608412005-04-20T09:49:00.000-05:002005-04-20T09:50:13.313-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,One down--the magazine. One to go--the baby. The waiting game has officially begun.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1113820541511703172005-04-18T05:32:00.000-05:002005-04-18T05:35:41.510-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1113820326376208452005-04-18T04:31:00.000-05:002005-04-18T05:32:06.376-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1113710514886702202005-04-16T22:54:00.000-05:002005-04-16T23:01:54.886-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1113572885869238412005-04-15T08:43:00.000-05:002005-04-15T08:48:05.870-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1113484278688173152005-04-14T07:52:00.000-05:002005-04-14T08:11:18.690-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1113417177702613942005-04-13T13:13:00.000-05:002005-04-13T13:32:57.703-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1113196934491251402005-04-11T00:20:00.000-05:002005-04-11T00:22:14.490-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1113196808679038772005-04-11T00:07:00.000-05:002005-04-11T00:20:08.680-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1113196034958684522005-04-11T00:00:00.000-05:002005-04-11T00:07:14.960-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1113195609018512852005-04-10T23:52:00.000-05:002005-04-11T00:00:09.020-05:00

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,

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1113195157449430562005-04-10T23:32:00.000-05:002005-04-10T23:52:37.450-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1112928848740179932005-04-07T21:45:00.000-05:002005-04-07T21:54:08.743-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1112798414709506212005-04-06T09:32:00.000-05:002005-04-06T09:40:14.710-05:00

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.

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1112797931391779842005-04-06T09:04:00.000-05:002005-04-06T09:32:11.393-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1112661220324241442005-04-04T19:27:00.000-05:002005-04-04T19:33:40.326-05:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1112590742775092032005-04-03T23:53:00.000-05:002005-04-03T23:59:02.776-05:00

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.

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1112590388342644402005-04-03T23:27:00.000-05:002005-04-03T23:53:08.343-05:00

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,

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1112365227295846572005-04-01T08:09:00.000-06:002005-04-01T08:20:27.296-06:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1112364583169710772005-04-01T08:04:00.000-06:002005-04-01T08:09:43.170-06:00

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

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1112156372951255762005-03-29T22:17:00.000-06:002005-03-29T22:19:32.953-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Walking the dog this morning it was like stepping into a dream: the warm sun smiling down on us, turning a corner I saw a bird pull a worm out of the ground. The trees were alive with the songs of birds and I half expected to see cartoon tulips singing along. It was glorious and warm today, the warmest it's been in five months. And everything felt alive with the promise and

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1112156204035693852005-03-29T21:44:00.000-06:002005-03-29T22:16:44.036-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Our dining room table is covered from one end to the other with tiny clothes, all given by family and friends, all awaiting a tiny baby to fill them. It's overwhelming and exciting all at the same time.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1112080825971736562005-03-29T01:09:00.001-06:002005-03-29T01:27:03.943-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,1,528 United States war dead in Iraq as of today.Happy Easter,Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1111937378142077622005-03-27T09:20:00.000-06:002005-03-29T01:09:33.520-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,The sun--the sun--shone brilliantly off the swooping stainless steel arcs of the Frank Gehry bandshell, visible just beyond the huge arched windows in the nearly-empty room we stood in. The walls were a thick green marble, the ceiling an ornately coffered slab, and our own quiet voices echoed in the expanse of the room. Just outside was a bustling crowd each there for their own

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1111936849239549202005-03-27T08:53:00.000-06:002005-03-27T09:20:49.240-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Today, Good Friday, there were four car bombings in Iraq that killed 19 people. As you go into this Easter weekend, Mr. Bush, how about spending some time reflecting on the countless numbers of dead in Iraq that won't be rising from the dead?Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1111784934648597272005-03-25T15:05:00.000-06:002005-03-25T15:08:54.650-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Remember Iraq? I know it's not a single woman on a feeding tube, but it's an entire country on life support. You and your friends in Congress might want to hold some special sessions on that.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1111671804427837312005-03-24T07:37:00.000-06:002005-03-24T07:43:24.426-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,A couple broke up across from me on the train today. They were both middle aged and kind of frumpy, her dressed in a bulky sweater, him wearing an ill-fitting trench-coat over some kind of novelty sweatshirt. She was soaking up her tears in a tiny shred of a napkin while he kept repeating the phrase "It'll be OK. We'll still be friends like we always were." She'd stare out the

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1111594074256860402005-03-23T09:58:00.000-06:002005-03-23T10:07:54.256-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,This Schiavo mess sure has done a good job of making everyone forget how poorly you've faired on convincing the country that Social Security is on the brink of bankruptcy, huh? That must be a relief.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1111553295695005512005-03-22T21:56:00.000-06:002005-03-22T22:48:15.696-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,I remember visiting my friend's father in the hospital. He was lying there silently, looking soft and slightly waxen, like he'd been cast from still-warm resin. The bed was designed to move slightly from side to side and front to back, to keep the blood flowing smoothly or something--I honestly can't remember. All I remember is that the effect was to cause my friend's father's head

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1111473947004602242005-03-21T23:39:00.000-06:002005-03-22T00:45:47.006-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,That you and many of your Republican colleagues are flying back to Washington right now to craft and sign a bill to keep a single woman on life support, yet can't be bothered to save the lives of an untold number of people by fixing our broken healthcare system, is simply unconscionable. Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1111337207288801392005-03-20T09:58:00.000-06:002005-03-20T10:46:47.290-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Have you ever thought about the babies born in Iraq the night you started dropping bombs, or the mothers in labor when the first impacts bloomed like phosphorescent roses? Well, Mr. Bush, the children that took their first breaths as missiles sailed over them en route to their targets turned two today. Today, those babies are children who walk and talk and laugh and cry and the only

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1111248568499111042005-03-19T10:07:00.000-06:002005-03-19T10:09:28.500-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,I have been lying to Janice for weeks now. I've been covering my tracks well, erecting elaborate ruses and smokescreens to obscure my erratic behavior. I've been sneaking phone calls while she's been in the shower; making plans while she's been asleep. In the last few days it's been almost unbearable, the stress and strain of figuring out new excuses for strange actions. But last

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1111244517128672682005-03-19T08:20:00.000-06:002005-03-19T09:01:57.130-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,As I write this, my sister and her husband are hurtling towards the sun, leapfrogging across the country to meet their new child, born early this afternoon. They have been waiting years for this moment, years that I can only imagine must have been impossibly difficult and frustrating as they witnessed others create families of their own while they sat and waited for a call that felt

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1111088305194261732005-03-17T13:36:00.000-06:002005-03-17T13:38:25.196-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Surely there must have been some other person currently walking the earth with a hair more qualifications for running the World Bank than Paul Wolfowitz.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1110985387613763352005-03-16T08:55:00.000-06:002005-03-16T09:03:07.613-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,I spent my entire day at the office today dealing with little tax things. As I was finishing the last of this mind-numbing work, a friend who moved here from Switzerland walked in. "You know the thing about American taxes?" she said. "Here, you pay all this money and the only think you get back are these wars. In Switzerland, you pay your taxes and you get all sorts of social

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1110912030229537492005-03-15T11:32:00.000-06:002005-03-15T12:40:30.230-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,I've gotta tell you that this whole Social Security stumping is pretty embarrassing. You're a proud man who doesn't give up easily, but as you pull into a new city every day it must take a little more to get yourself excited for another day of stumping for a plan that is going to go nowhere. Good luck,Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1110809201879383262005-03-14T08:06:00.000-06:002005-03-14T08:06:41.880-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,"I just feel like we're running out of time," Janice said to me today, while driving home from visiting some friends. I tried to convince her that we've got almost six weeks left before the baby's born and that's plenty of time to get everything done, but neither she nor I were truly buying it, as another weekend slipped through our fingers.To finding more time,Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1110732668264996412005-03-13T10:40:00.000-06:002005-03-13T10:51:08.266-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,We moved the furniture in our bedroom around tonight, making space for a tiny basket to sit on top of an old wooden trunk pulled up snug against our bed. It's where our son will sleep in just six weeks' time, and after we put everything in position, we lay on the bed with our hands in the basket, softly stroking a child that wasn't there. Yours,Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1110728445950924132005-03-13T09:16:00.000-06:002005-03-13T10:40:17.720-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,I've decided that marriage court is the best place ever. I came to this realization while waiting in line to reserve a space for a quickie wedding (just six weeks to get things legal before the baby comes, after all). It was 9:15 in the morning and the waiting room was getting crowded. In one corner was a well-dressed young professional couple, nervous and joking, holding hands and

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1110585633567385532005-03-11T17:53:00.000-06:002005-03-11T18:00:33.566-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,"I'm starting to worry," Anne said today, after I told her I didn't sleep well again last night. It's been four nights of restless sleep punctuated by nightmares and sharp moments of abrupt wake."There's no need," I replied, "I think it's just stress from last week finally working it's way out. And besides--the dreams are getting more boring every day. Last night, instead of being

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1110495879906977852005-03-10T16:23:00.000-06:002005-03-10T17:04:39.906-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,Sorry for the lateness of this letter. I have been busy catching up on some much-needed sleep these last few days and haven't had as much free time in the mornings as a result. I hope it's not too much of an inconvenience to you to get these letters so late. Today was a bloody day in Iraq--bombings, attempted assassinations, over 40 bodies turning up shot in the head. But you spent

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9000499.post-1110395067047437002005-03-09T12:53:00.000-06:002005-03-09T13:04:27.046-06:00

Dear Mr. Bush,The sun shone brightly today, but it was of no use, as the bitter cold of winter's last gasp hung around the city like a noose. March will do that to you: a day of beautiful, spring-like weather followed by freezing temperatures. Hang in there, though, spring will be here soon.Dan

Sinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652550078623065677noreply@blogger.com0