My lovely wife is a fan of Dad Gone Mad, the blog of a gentleman who is, unsurprisingly, a dad, and a little surprisingly, not quite mad. He should be, I imagine, because based on the cartoon characters decorating his site, he has two kids. (Both with the same size and color of eyes. Freaky.) One’s enough, and I haven’t even had mine yet.

But, this blog shall not turn into a cheaper version of the insane daddums. It shall not be solely about the kid because the kid shall not rule my life! My wife’s life, on the other hand…

My poor widdle sweetums, struck ill each day as the cells divide, the cord grows, and the DNA dances its genetic jig as it tries to figure out whether the hair color will be dark brown (my wife’s) or a gorgeous red (mine–what little is left). We redheads rock, in case you doubted. Conspiracy nuts blather on about secret cabals of religious organizations, government powerhouses and, one time, a guy named Fred from down the street (that sumbitch was scary), but they do so without knowing that the true power, the tastiest moxie, the proper Fredness, belongs to redheads, whether the Devil’s own auburn or an angelic strawberry-blonde.

So, lil’ kiddo, I bet you’re a redhead. Ruling your mom’s life, telling her through mild nausea and energy-sapping biological e-missives that she is not to touch vegetables—those are the hallmarks of real power. I solute you, kiddo, even if your mom is looking, right now, rather anxiously at a book of exorcism.

Amen.

P.S.: You conniving, devious fetus! Curses! This entry was about you, after all. Damnable wily redhead…