Dear Ruby,

Yes, Ruby, of course I am an extremely proud father that you now have a low, "cookie monster" growl to voice fits of metal pleasure, such as trying to kick your rubber duckie out of the bathtub, and bouncing around in my arms to Iron Maiden, SkeletonWitch, and Arsis, complete with tiny fist in the air.  Just as pleased, I am, that you seem to have discovered the secret magic to books, and laugh at a drawing of a baby gorilla crawling into bed with the zookeeper and his wife.  You have never seen a gorilla, yet this is somehow funny to you already, at just short of a year old.  Your endless experiments with the Fisher Price ball popper, your conviction that merely hiding your face with a cake pan constitutes the ultimate in crypsis and hilarity, and a thousand other things convince me that you, the real you, are finally here.  Welcome to Earth Ruby, and happy birthday.  This time, last year, we were taking bets that you would arrive amid whatever Thanksgiving meal we saw fit to make, deciding what to pack for the hospital visit, as if we did not live a block away, and airing our confessions that, indeed, it would be fun to dress a little baby and that is part of the excitement, however indulgent.  You look great today.  Love.  Dad.