From the Sidelines: A letter to our son
Sports reporter
Dear Mitchell James,
You were born Aug. 23 at 9:22 p.m.
After 13 hours of labor you came out with six pounds, 10 ounces of perfection, and a cone head Dan Akroyd would envy.
Nine months of wondering what you look like and whether you'd be OK finally ended.
Now your mother's and my life will change forever. X-Box playing and shopping sprees will no longer claim our lives (that doesn't mean they'll never happen though).
As a sports writer, of course I hope you love sports. But whether you pitch in the major leagues, or never even pick up a baseball, (which is improbable since I'll put one in your hand) I'll still love you.
Even before we knew each other your mother and I thought about you: what your name would be; how you would look; what will inspire you in life.
Now we start the journey that answers all those questions, and you begin your life in a world much different from the warm-weathered, safe environment you called home the last nine months.
You'll find that Mommy and Daddy share different interests when it comes to colleges. While I grew up a Virginia Cavalier fan and left Lawrence a Jayhawk fan, your mom roots for the purple and gray. (Don't worry, I know when you wear those ugly K-State shirts you're doing it just to make her happy).
There isn't much you can do to upset us, but keep in mind you're just barely more than a week old.
As you practice keeping us up at night, and we practice being good parents, just remember one thing: We love you! Oh, and Rock Chalk Jayhawk.
Love,
Dad and Mom
