Dear Swee’Pea,

I owe you an apology. But I’m not going to tell you why until I first tell you a story…

I was in Jr. High and I was invited to a slumber party with all the cool kids. These kids were surfer guys who somehow took a liking to a scrawny kid who couldn’t even ride his own skateboard. I was excited to go to the party but there was one problem… I wore briefs while my buddies all wore boxer shorts. This would not do so somehow I managed to get up the nerve to tell my mother (your Grandmother) that I needed to get boxer shorts before the party.

To her credit she agreed to take me. Before I knew it, we were on our way to a department store downtown - the same department store from which I purchased my Webelos uniform. As we headed to the boys underwear section, my mother (your Grandmother) made it clear what nonsense she thought this was. Nonetheless, we were soon picking out a packet of boxer shorts to take to the register. My mother (your Grandmother) was only mildly annoyed that we couldn’t purchase just one pair of shorts. We did have to by the three-pack so I scored in that department.

As we approached the lady behind the register, the lady greeted us by saying, “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” my mother (your Grandmother) replied. “My son is going to a slumber party where everyone is going to be wearing boxer shorts. He just HAS to have a pair for this party, so we need to purchase these.” And she handed the pack of boxers to the lady, who looked at me and smiled.

It was at this moment that I wanted to go hide in lingerie and help some old lady try on bras. Anywhere but right there, right then, as my mother (your Grandmother) continued on and on about how I just HAD to be like all the other boys. I couldn’t dare be different, noooooo. I had to have Boxer Shorts.

And to this day, I am traumatized by that episode in my life. I have odd nightmares where I’m being chased by underwear while the lady behind the register laughs hysterically in the background.

And that is why I owe you an apology, Swee’Pea.

You see, today, as we were getting out of the car and heading into daycare, we ran into Brandon. Yes, THE Brandon. You know, the love of your young life. Well, I had you in my arms because I had just pulled you out of the car and you were acting all shy because the object of your affection was approaching. I tried setting you down but you wouldn’t release from my grasp, so I held onto you.

And, as Brandon and his mother approached, I took it upon myself to tell Brandon’s mother about how you told me that you “love Brandon.”

And as the words left my mouth, I could feel you squirming in my arm and I am certain that at that moment you wanted to be helping some old lady try on bras.

And while I love my mother (your Grandmother), I promised myself that I did not want to embarrass my kids over things like this. So, I am sorry my little girl. I want you to be proud of your old man and not worried about me embarrassing you at the drop of a hat. I will definitely learn to keep my mouth shut in the future.

Unless, of course, you want to buy boxers. Then, all bets are off.

Love,
Daddy.