January 17, 2026
Dear Sophia,
I marvel at you. Is it because I find the idea of you so surprising to my expectations in life, so alien to me, that you sometimes strike me as an alien being? That and the fact that you just look like a little alien — not a miniature version of an adult human because adult humans just don’t have a four-day-old’s compressed and doughy features, nor their fetal crabwise postures, with the knees curled into the body at all times and the arms that never want to go down from scarecrow mode.
You are the smallest unit of human, a nano human, and I continue to feel amazed that there is a human being curled up on my chest, with room to spare. It’s a surreal, alien experience. You are literally the smallest person I have ever met. I’ve lived nearly 59 years without spending more than a few minutes, maybe an hour, with anyone of your size or heft. That would have been my niece, Brianna, almost 35 years ago. You’re like a human puppy!
And with that old-man face on a puppy-sized body, I get echoes of non-human hominids humans have shared this planet with, like members of pygmy tribes. You’re like a near-human offshoot of a common ancestor with Homo sapiens. A lot like a human, but tiny, mute, lame, uncomprehending, and, monkey-like, always hunched over and curled up in the limbs. You’re also more animal-like in your instincts and drives and your total lack of awareness of who we are or how you relate to us.
For most of human history, humans were not alone in the way we are now. We shared the planet with cousin species who were close enough to interbreed, but probably distant enough to feel uncanny. Neanderthals are the most well-known. They’re gone now, but you’ll have about 1.5% Neanderthal DNA in your little body, courtesy of me, and of the Neanderthal-Homo Sapiens couple or couples who interbred up until about 40,000 years ago. Most Europeans have just such a small percentage of Neanderthal DNA in them.
But the tiny cousins I have in mind are a small species from Indonesia, the Homo floresiensis peoples nicknamed hobbits. They were so different we humans may not have even been able to interbreed with them. And we definitely didn’t interbreed with Homo luzonensis of the Philippines. At three and a half feet tall fully grown, 55 pounds while carrying a small spear, sporting proportionately big heads with tiny brains big enough to make tools and hunt, they’re like scale models that escaped the museum.
Hobbits had a low, sloping forehead. A small, recessed chin. Proportionally large mouths and noses. Features arranged in a way that feels… unfinished. Just like you: the chin hasn’t arrived yet. The forehead is all promise, no execution. The face looks assembled by committee and approved provisionally. None of the sharp geometry of modern adult faces. No angles saying I am done. Just pudge and softness and a sense that the sculptor stepped away for a smoke.
If you saw a hobbit standing next to your bed, with their uncanny heads and eerily-sized bodies, you’d think what I think when I look at you: You cannot possibly be a person yet. You’re the wrong size, the proportions are all cock-eyed.
You’re like a proof of concept. A minimum viable product. You’re closer to the beginning. You haven’t climbed into the tall, loud, upright version of our species yet. You start hobbit-sized, head-heavy, curled inward, looking faintly prehistoric, and asking nothing of the world except to be held while you figure out what kind of human you plan to become.
Utmost,
Pa
[To protect your privacy online, the image in this post is AI-generated. A little like the real thing, but not quite.]
