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So happy it hurts to look at her.

Dear Abby,

I’ve been grappling with my identity as your father tonight.

It isn’t a fear that you are an alien that was implanted in Erin during an ill-advised trip to a cornfield at night.  Nor do I worry that you are a pixie spawn traded out for my actual child when I failed to leave out a saucer of milk for the neighborhood gnomes.  I consider these to be fairly unlikely (but not impossible) explanations.

The questions come in when I look at who you already are, 2 ½ months into your life outside of your mother.

You love strangers.  Where did that come from?  Your mother is quite shy and I loathe my fellow man.  You will smile at anyone that looks your way, like some little joy-spreading fairy.  (Maybe I should have put out that saucer of milk after all…)

You are happy 95% of the time.  Your mother is above the statistical average at roughly 80%, but I’m falling off the back of the bell curve at maybe 10%.  You can’t walk, but if you could, you would do it on sunshine all the time.

You roll with everything.  You don’t mind when someone other than your mother holds you.  You are unfazed by going out to a noisy pub on a Friday night.  You are content to sleep on the floor, on the couch, in a chair, or on a person.  I get anxious going into any situation where I haven’t prepped, met all participants individually on previous occasions, scouted the location, and prepared a backup plan in case I have a panic attack.

In short, you are clearly the baby of your confident and happy mother and some even more confident and happy dad.  I have narrowed down your possible fathers to the following list:

  • Jim Halpert.  No, not John Krasinski.  Definitely Jim Halpert.

That’s it.  I’ll let Erin know that I’ve solved the mystery of the happy baby.

Love,

Dad.

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