Dear Lil Sweet Pea,

A letter for my niece, Penelope Scarlet O’Connell

Me and Sweet Pea

I love you. You’re three months old and you’ve already got me wrapped around that tiny finger. Everyone says you’re the most beautiful baby they’ve ever seen, and I agree. You’re a gorgeous little “beauty girl,” just like your momma. And to put it in Forrest Gump terms, you’re my Bubba. “My best good friend.”

You’ll learn pretty quickly that I’m not much of a religious fella. But I am your Godfather, and I take that job seriously in the ways that count. I show up and I make you laugh, probably at me. And as your Godfather, I’m required to make at least one Godfather reference. So here it is: if anyone ever messes with you, they’ll be hearing from me. I’m not saying I’m dramatic. I’m just saying no one messes with my Sweet PEA!

You aren’t my baby, who knows if Uncle Jessman will ever have any, but you are absolutely a gift to me. Watching your momma become a momma has hit me right in the chest. It’s like seeing my baby have a baby. It does something to an older brother. It calms you down in a good way. It reminds you what matters, and it pulls you back to that simple, pure part of life, even when the world feels uncertain.

Your mom was the baby of our family. The day she was born, your sweet, crazy grammie was worried like moms get worried. Money, being forty, being an “older mom,” all of it. And in walks silly Uncle Jessman, Jessmundo, announcing with full confidence: “It’s okay, Momma, I’ll raise baby Debi if you’re too old.” Grammie still looks forty, by the way, so clearly the panic was unnecessary.

But I meant it in my own way. I didn’t realize then what I know now, which is that a family raises a kid in a thousand small moments. Not just the big stuff. The day-to-day struggles, routines, cries, and the laughs. The way you show up over and over until it adds up to a childhood.

I got to be a small part of raising your momma. I took her with me and my friends on the boat. We snuck in the Wading River Hotel to use the pool for swim workouts and sang Fallout Boy and Panic At The Disco all the way there and back. I took her bike riding. I ran beside her and pushed her up the hills on her little bike, all the way to Shoreham Plaza for bagels on Saturday mornings. I pushed her when she ran too. Even when it was hard and she cried, she didn’t quit. She just ran harder through the tears. She was strong even then.

Me and Sweet Pea’s Momma (Lil Deb)

That strength is in her, and I already see something in you that tells me you’re going to have it too. Especially when you’re squeezing my hand, kicking me, and punching me. I got to help shape your momma, and now here we are.

Now it’s you and me.

I leave you voice messages in the morning because I want you to always hear my voice in your life. I want you to know you’re loved and you’re wanted and you’ve got people around you, but mainly to tease you. Because that’s what uncles are supposed to do. When you don’t sleep, I remind you that if you plan on “hooting with the owls, you better get up and crow with the roosters,” little missy. I tell you to get that little rump-shaker up and come visit when I’m with Grammie, and when you do, we get right to work.

We do our training, you with your little toy dumbbells on your boppy pillow, me acting like you’re my toughest client. We do standing time and walking time. We do dancing time in the kitchen and make silly faces until you lock in on me like you’re deciding if I’m funny or if I need help. It’s the latter for sure. We do tummy time. We giggle like crazy. And then you do that look right before a smile breaks across your whole face and makes everybody in the room softer.

And I already love the part where we do a little bit of “bad stuff,” the stuff your mom won’t always let you do. Uncle Jessman stuff. The extra bounce. When I pretend to give you pizza and ice cream. Or when I kiss you on your head and your mom worries I’m going to get you sick. Just a tiny bit of harmless mischief. Then we look at your momma rolling her eyes and laughing even while she pretends she’s mad.

I love our routines too. Going to Sweetie Pies for Arnold Palmers and coffee, rainbow crumb cake for your momma, and Pashley’s for a new book and a new outfit for you, because I’m apparently incapable of walking out of there empty-handed when it comes to you. Then we come back and read our favorites: Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, The Little Puppy, The Hungry Caterpillar. The classics. And I will remind you that my favorite character is the little mouse.

I loved watching the Olympics with you each day. You’d stare like you were studying the world and taking notes for your Olympic run someday. And I even love how it’s like clockwork: as soon as I grab you, you go number two, which I will bring up at major life events for the rest of your life. That one is forever, Sweet Pea. I earned that.

Your grammie says you’re a little miracle and that you’re always smiling and happy. She’s right. You have this joy that feels like it came from someplace special. The world is yours, Penelope Scarlet O’Connell. Yours to explore, to change, and to love your way through. Even if your mom calls you Steve Buscemi sometimes. We’ll allow it, Penelope. Because she’s tired and deserves some leniency.

Here’s what I want you to know, now and later, when you’re bigger and you read this with a whole different understanding.

You come from a family that loves with all its might. It shows up, checks in, feeds people, laughs too loud, dances crazy and worries too much. It argues, cools off, hugs, and gets back to center. It takes silly pictures and tells the same stories a hundred times like they just happened yesterday. Around here, love looks like staying close. Like sharing rooms and bathrooms together in a crazy house, growing up with love and devotion.

Because we lost your cool guy grandpa, Tough Cop, when your momma was young, the “staying close” part became even more serious. We learned early that time isn’t promised. So we show up while we can, we hold on tight, and we make sure the people we love never have to guess where they stand with us. I’ve loved being part of your momma’s story, and it’s one of the greatest gifts of my life that I get to be part of yours now too.

I’m not perfect. I’m not even close. But I am yours, the Godfather, Jessman, Uncle Jessmundo. I’m in your corner for everything. Your first steps. Your first big win. The days you feel brave and the days you don’t. You will never have to wonder if you have people who love you.

And if you start talking to boys before you’re twenty-five, I’m going to have to pretend to be calm while I give them the Uncle Jessman stare that makes them forget their own name. So let’s not rush that part, little Sweet Pea.

You are growing so fast. One day you won’t fit in my arms the same way, and you’ll likely be taller than me because your dadda is so tall. You won’t want to do boppy-pillow dumbbell workouts. You’ll have your own friends and your own world. But I’ll still be here, teasing you, bugging you, embarrassing you, but always rooting for you, always proud of you, and always ready when you need me.

Because you’re my Bubba. “My best good friend.” I love you, Lil Sweet Pea.

Love always, Uncle Jessmundo

Sweet Pea