Dear 20-Years-From-Now Me,
I
hope this letter finds you well. My apologies for the boring opening; I don’t
write a lot of letters, particularly letters to myself.
But
enough with the formalities, I have some things I need to tell you and I don’t
have much time. M has taken the boys shopping so I have a very brief window to
get this done. I wonder if you remember what that urgency feels like. That
pressure to take advantage of every precious minute of quiet when the kids are
away. How down time is never truly relaxing because your mind starts racing and
calculating the second the kids are out the door. Exactly how much time do I
have? Should I go to the grocery store or do laundry? I don’t have enough time for both. If I
squeeze in a thirty minute nap, because I was up with the baby three times last
night, I’ll still have maybe an hour left. Is that enough? Should I go for a
run or write a letter to my future self? The permutations are endless, really.
I
wonder what it’s like now that the boys are grown. How do you fill your time
now that you don’t have to stand guard over the dog bowls twenty-four hours a
day to intercept the army-crawling baby hell bent on baptizing himself in
slobbery water as if that were his life’s mission? Does sitting down by
yourself for five minutes to sip a Starbucks latte and savor a few squares of
dark chocolate, which I’m doing right now by the way, still feel like heaven?
I
really have so many questions for you. Mostly about the boys. Do we still call
them the boys now that they’re grown
men in their twenties? Do we still refer to them as J and B in text messages to
save time? Is text messaging still a thing?
But
I know you can’t answer me, and anyway, all my questions will be answered in
due time. So, I’m writing not in search of answers for myself. I’m writing to help
you remember.
J
just turned three a month or so ago. B is nine months. A new year has just
begun. J constantly amazes us with his sweet disposition, huge heart, and
developing imagination. B delights us with his smiles and laughter, outgoing
nature, and boundless energy. Full disclosure -- that last one often perplexes
and frustrates us as well. There are many sleepless nights and there are some
long days filled with disagreements over what foods to eat, what clothes to
wear, and which types of tumbling stunts are and are not appropriate on the
living room gymnasium (also known as the couch). You probably don’t remember
much of this, at least not with any level of detail. That might be a good thing
in some ways, but there are some things I need you to remember.
In
the past few months, J has taken to asking me, usually when he senses I am
frustrated with him, “Daddy, are you happy?” It shocked me a little the first
time he did it and it continues to gnaw at me. It’s a question you expect from
your therapist, not your 3-year-old son. There’s no doubt it struck a chord
with me because it’s the type of question I ask myself a lot. I’m prone to my
share of dark moments and self doubts. You know that better than anyone.
Parenting small children is hard work. It’s tedious. It can be very boring at
times. For some reason I can’t quite pin down, happiness and sadness aren’t feelings
I associate with any of it. First off, I don’t think they’re mutually
exclusive. They make up just a small part of a continuum of emotion upon which
I float and oscillate as each day unfolds. There’s happiness and sadness, but
there’s also equal parts frustration, exhilaration, self-doubt, guilt, and
nostalgia. And even more, I don’t think big picture, abstract feelings are
particularly important. It’s the tangible and often seemingly insignificant
little moments that matter most.
For
example, I need you to remember how when I put J in his bed at night he
arranges his stuffed animals – two puppies, a bear, and Mickey Mouse – and he
lays his head down on his favorite blanket. I always say, “Good night my sweet
boy,” and ruffle his hair. He looks up, says “Night night daddy,” and blows me
a kiss. I can’t name the feeling I have every night when I close his bedroom
door. It’s a bit of everything. It’s joy wrapped in a cloak of sadness with a
bit of nostalgia thrown in. I feel nostalgia on your behalf. And for one-year-from
now me. Because I know with kids everything changes so quickly. Nothing makes
you appreciate (or fixate on) the passage of time like having small children
does. Just this week, he’s started insisting on having mommy put him to bed.
Maybe it’s just a phase. But I know any night could be my very last goodnight
kiss and “Night night daddy.” Or maybe those are already a thing of the past
and I don’t even know it yet.
I
also need you to remember J’s quirky, wildly imaginative three-year-old
personality. How we make silly movies about our trips to the North Pole, which
is conveniently located in the guest room closet. How he’s always inventing
scenarios for us to act out, like the one the other day starring a highly
deviant Santa Claus with a penchant for stealing presents rather than delivering
them. How he comes up with dialog for us to recite to pass the time while we’re
driving in the car and makes us practice until I get it right, complete with
the proper inflection, facial expression, and delivery. Like one he made up the
other day when we were going to the park.
J: “What’s this car
doing?”
Me: “Going.”
J: “Noooo. Going to
the park!”
Me: “Oh, right.”
The
first time we ran through it, I laughed. He said, “No! Don’t smile.” Eventually
though, I got it right and was able to deliver my lines with the gravitas they
deserved. He rewarded me with a, “Good job!”
And
remember how bad J was at hide-and-seek?
I mean, like all-time bad. He actually prefers to tell me where to hide,
which is probably for the best because otherwise I could probably stay hidden
for hours (hmm, that actually gives me an idea).
And
I will always love how J ascribes feelings and personality to inanimate objects
-- always making sure to say goodbye to trains passing by and the slide and
swings when we leave the park. He has a huge heart.
And
that heart really shines through when he interacts with his little brother. B
just cracks up at everything J does. They love each other so much. The current
dynamics of that relationship are certainly fleeting.
I
could go on and on really. There are so many things you need to remember. Why?
Because I know the boys won’t. And since they can’t, you have to. I know you. I
know you ask yourself sometimes, was it all worth it. Because there were
sacrifices. Every parent makes them -- putting a career on hold, setting aside
personal goals, giving up free time, or saying goodbye to sleep for a few
years. The sacrifices are different for everyone, but they are real. And it’s
okay to call them what they are. Sacrifices. Ones made willingly, but
sacrifices all the same.
For
me, it’s these moments and details that make everything okay. Because they let
me know, through all the ups and downs, the long days and nights, the tantrums
and meltdowns, that M and I are doing something right. No matter what words I
might choose to describe my emotional state, my little boys are happy. Except,
of course, for the times they hate us for not arranging the juice cup and
cereal bowl in the right configuration. But overall, for the most part, in this
finite moment in time, they are happy. And no matter what happens in the
future, that’s real and it’s valuable.
So,
enjoy your free time, buddy. You earned it. And try not to be too sad about your
little boys being grown up. You were very lucky to get the chance to be with
them so much in these first years. It’s truly the best thing we’ve ever done.
Sincerely,
Me
(ver. 2015)
This post originally appeared on the Huffington Post Blog:
Letter to My Future Self
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