An Open Letter to My Son

Dear Son,

I hesitate to write this letter. Not because I don’t know what to say, but because I’m unsure where to begin or at what age you’re likely to read this or if you’ll want to read it at all. Whether or not your father’s words bear any importance to you will be determined by our relationship and your perception of me. Will I represent a man of character, principles, and wisdom? Or will I appear unscrupulous, capricious, and a shell of failed ambition? As your arrival draws nearer, the weight of fatherhood hangs over me like an unpredictable cloud, shifting and swelling by the day. Does true readiness actually exist for a first-time parent, or is it simply about plasticity?

For months now, your mother has felt every kick, punch, and hiccup. She’s connected. She feels your movements, your energy, your joy. I remain on the outside. I’m a stranger. I wonder at what point I’ll no longer be a stranger and simply become Dad — when I’ve learned the positions you like to be held in, the sounds that soothe your cries, and the silly gestures that make you laugh; when I’m the face you look for in the crowd for reassurance, the hand you hold for guidance, and the arms you run into for protection.

Surely by the time you read this, you’ll be your own man, even if that’s a young man. You’ll have your own habits and quirks, likes and dislikes, achievements and failures. You’ll know if you like pineapple on your pizza or blueberries in your pancakes. But despite all of your idiosyncrasies, you’ll always be an extension of me. You’ll always be my son. My boy. Just as I am my father’s. Beyond our similarity in appearance, I am my father’s son — for better and for worse. I’m stubborn, hardworking, and incessantly demanding of myself. Leisure invites more stress and anxiety than working overtime. I’m reticent and reclusive. I’m particular about my coffee. I’m monastic in my routines. I isolate and turn inward when I’m overwhelmed. I struggle to pull back from work. I’m egotistic while simultaneously feeling inadequate. Which of these traits do I hope you inherit? Which do I hope you avoid? Is it even up to me? Genetic predispositions only determine so much and my influence as your father is only one of many in your life. I suspect part of being a father is accepting that and knowing when to step back and let you become more of you and less of me.

One of the most exciting parts about becoming a father will be watching how you experience the world. Everything will be new for you. The first time you laugh or ride a bike or watch Back to the Future or experience rocky road ice cream. It will all become new for me again, too. I wonder what I’ll learn from you as you grow and mature. What new hobbies you’ll introduce me to. What songs or shows or foods will be my new favorites because they are yours. I wonder if you’ll have my blue eyes and see the world the way I do? Or if you’ll share the same gentle, hazel eyes of your mother? In many ways, the prospect of you being smarter than me intimidates me, although I likely have at least twenty years before the threat emerges. On the other hand, I want you to be better in every way than the man I am: smarter, stronger, kinder. To succeed in all the ways I’ve failed, and to go far in all the areas where I’ve fallen short.

But what are the steps for raising such a son? Are the secrets tucked away within dog-eared pages of a bestselling parenting book that every other parent owns? What values do I want you to embody? Is it as simple as leading by example or must I sternly instill them? Does a spanking spur discipline or resentment? From my inexperienced eyes, none of this is standardized, which forces you to approach each child like a unique clod of malleable, delicate clay. Clay that is moldable in shape, where mistakes can be easily corrected, but that begins to solidify as time passes and the control of the potter’s hands dissipates.

And what are fathers to sons? Tyrants, teachers, mentors, friends? I’ll likely play each with the intention of playing the right role at the right time. During my childhood, one of my dad’s roles was the enforcer. Not an abuser, but a pillar of order, expectations, and when I needed it, punishment. My last spanking came when I was 7 and I can confidently say I deserved every stinging strike to my bottom. Effective emotional and verbal communication with children is vital, but there’s also a need for them to respect authority. I find this lacking in many households, where kids rule the roost, make their demands, and watch their parents bend to their will. This will not be my household. The question is how to establish such an orderly rule without becoming a domestic despot. But a father’s role extends beyond authority and my father’s did as well. Despite managing an onerous work schedule, he was at every ball game, coached my teams, and was always there for me. And still is. He never shot down my ambitions and supported all of my endeavors, including my attempt at a rap career in middle school. As a man who grew up without a father in his life, he dedicated his entire adulthood to affording me and my brother what he never had. For that reason alone he’s my hero. I hope I can be your hero too.

Along with fatherhood comes new responsibilities and suffocating fears. It’s more than another mouth to feed, it’s another hand to hold, another life to nurture. My throat tightens at the thought of failing to provide. I can count the times I’ve seen my father cry on one hand, and I still remember the last time clearly. It was a regular school day in 8th grade and I began my short walk home from the bus stop. As I came up to our house, I noticed my dad’s car sitting in the driveway. “Strange,” I thought since he usually wasn’t home until closer to 5:30 pm each evening. I slung my backpack onto the kitchen chair and could hear him rustling upstairs. After a few minutes, he came to the bannister looking over the living room and saw me sitting there. It felt as if all the air was sucked out of the room. With a choked voice and swollen eyes, he told me his department was part of a massive layoff. He assured me (or maybe it was himself) that everything would be alright and left to go submit more resumes for open positions. In retrospect, I think he believed his foremost responsibility as a father was providing, and in his eyes unemployment meant he was failing. He wasn’t. Two months later, he began a new position, which required a 2-hour daily commute. Not once did he ever complain. To this day, if he knows how to do anything, he knows how to work. And I’ve subconsciously adopted much of the same work ethic.

Ever since graduating high school, I’ve worked for myself and started various businesses. I’ve never been in poverty or want. But my mind seems to operate under the assumption that disaster is imminent. I work about 360 out of 365 days a year, on weekends, on vacations, on holidays. I’d like to say I’ve never complained, but I must admit I’m not quite the man your grandfather is. Although this severe discipline has afforded us comforts and security, it also makes me fearful. Not for financial collapse, but for my presence in your life. I want to be there for every ‘first’, every recital, every ball game, everything, just as my dad was for me. Failing to live up to those expectations wouldn’t be a mistake, it would mean I’ve failed as a father. That’s what scares me most: absence. Possessing the image of a shadow rather than flesh and blood. I hope those brooding fears are enough to rip me from my keyboard and center my attention on you and your mother.

Becoming parents also means your mom and I are no longer living just for ourselves. Our wants and needs become secondary to yours. For many, that level of self-sacrifice is terrifying. They see parenthood as a metaphorical funeral for their dreams. I view it as an opportunity — a chance to live beyond yourself, to see the world through a child’s eyes, to let your child reconfigure the furniture of your mind into a more beautiful arrangement. For those reasons, I welcome the imminent sacrifices ahead.

Can I be everything I need to be as a father? Will I be patient or temperamental? Strong or break under pressure? Wise or obtuse? Am I capable of being the emotional rock not just for you, but for the entire family? Am I placing more weight on myself than my shoulders can bear? I’m not sure. Undoubtedly, in my efforts to become dependable, shrewd, and composed, I’ll still be a foolish, imperfect man. In a word: a Dad. I suppose the primary responsibility of a father, and a mother as well, is simply to be there and to be whatever your child needs in the moment. Growing up, my father was always there in the ways I needed him. He was like an immovable stone in a river, capable of withstanding the raging current no matter the force. His love language with me was baseball. We spent thousands of hours on fields together across various counties and states, sharing laughs, memories, and plenty of arguments. As I got older and he was no longer my coach, he was still my dad. I want to be that immovable stone for you. I want to be the first phone call when you need pointed advice; when you don’t know what the hell a deductible is; when your check engine light comes on; when your stubbornness wears thin during a house repair; or when you just want to talk. That’s the kind of father I want to be.

I suppose this is an ongoing letter, one that will continue through verbal instruction and parental guidance until my last breath. This is merely a beginning, a soft opening: a reminder of my hopes, fears, expectations, and questions. It’s also a formal and public statement of the father I want to be, as if the pressure of fatherhood doesn’t already demand enough accountability.

Perhaps it’s the first of many letters to come. And with just a few more weeks to go, I feel ready to welcome you into this world, to be all that I need to be as a man, as a husband, and as a father.

I love you, and I can’t wait to meet you.

Dad