Letters to Marge (Chapter 19): One Finger

Dearest Marge...

First things first… HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY! You turned 2 today!!!

On to this letter… Last election day (May 10, 2010), you almost lost your index finger. Your playfulness found you sticking your finger through the grills of an electric fan. Good thing all you got was a little cut.

The day marks the first time you cut yourself in an accident of your own doing. It is no exageration when i say that your mom and i were totally nervous. Relieved that you sustained a relatively minor injury, but nervous because it could have been so much worse. And you could have gone through the rest of your life sticking your left hand's middle finger at everybody.

As you go on through life, you will do various things that might result in you hurting yourself in various ways. Some physical, and mostly emotional. But the most important thing you should remember is that like your finger, wounds heal sooner or later. Nature has made it so.

Which isn't to say that you should not be careful. But it should tell you to have faith that no matter how bad things get, things can and will get better with time.

In time, you may or may not hear about a very dark time in our little family's life. And at more than one point, your mother and i were more than tempted to believe it was better to quit, not while we were ahead, but while we weren't as behind as we could be if screwed up any more than we already did. Or at least screwed up as much more as she feared i would.

On another note, that day should also tell you to not stick your finger where it doesn't belong. And as you get older, fingers will become a very tricky subject. But better take care of yours, just to be sure of things.

You be careful, sweetheart. You were blessed enough to have been born with an appendage and organ count considered normal by human standards. Doesn't sound like a big deal right now, but if events last Election Day turned just a wee bit differently, you'd look for that finger whenever you see a piano, think of picking your nose with your left hand, or want to give some idiot the "loser" sign if your right hand was busy holding a frappuccino.

Unless you grow up not liking frappuccinos.

I love you, baby.

Dad