Dear baby boy,
On behalf of all humanity, I'm sorry. Really, really sorry.
No child has a say in the parents to whom they're born. It's a crapshoot, really. When the sperm cell that created you was rocketing its little flagellated self into Britney Spears's uterus, presumably marveling at how much stretch-out room he was enjoying on the journey, he didn't stop to think of the fate to which he was dooming an innocent life by penetrating that egg. His job was to make it to the Fallopian tubes, get his fertilization on, and that was it. It's the circle of life, but that doesn't make this any less fair. And for that, I apologize.
If any of us could've changed this, we would have. We may not know you, may never meet you and find out what kind of person you really are, but none of us would have chosen for your father to be someone who skips his other children's birthdays to go dance backup in a music video. None of us would have chosen for your mother to be someone who thinks low-rise jeans, a baby tee, a trucker hat and no bra constitutes acceptable "business casual" attire.
Even the cruelest souls among us would never have chosen to doom you to this fate, Baby John Doe Spears-Federline. And we're going to help you. There's only so much we can do, but we're going to help you.
When your mother drops you off at daycare in three-sizes-too-large jeans, a size-XXXXS wife-beater and a sideways knockoff-Burberry baseball cap, we're going to discreetly straighten your hat and find you a jacket and a belt. (And, most likely, some shoes.) When your dad leaves you with no life lessons other than "If there's grass on the field" and which Vegas concierges will keep quiet when you stumble in at 4 a.m. with a couple hookers, we will do our best to give you the math, science, and English-literature education of which you have been deprived. And when your parents inevitably go through their messy divorce and leave each other for younger (and, as hard as it may be to fathom, trashier) lovers, we will be the ones to sit and listen to you in therapy. As much as it takes, Baby John Doe, because there but for the grace of God go all of us.
It may not take a village, Baby John Doe, but it certainly takes more than two room-temperature-IQ Beverly Hillbillies. So we'll be there for you. When they drop you, we will pick you up. When they leave you with only Red Bull and Hot Pockets, we will give you food. And when you write your tell-all book . . . well, we won't buy it, but we'll at least ghost-write it for you.
It's the least we can do for you, Baby John Doe Spears-Federline. The damage has already been done, but it need not go any further, not if we have anything to say about it. We may not be able to stop them from naming you something like Adonis Lafayette Spears-Federline, but we'll at least try to remember to call you "Donnie."
That is our promise. Godspeed you, sir. And good luck.