Letters to My Children
To Summer at EighteenNovember 1994
Dear Summer,Eighteen years ago I stood looking at you—fresh-born—through the big glass window in the hospital nursery, watching the nurses try to count your tiny toes. Minutes old, you were bright-red-screaming-at-the-top-of-your-lungs unbounded life, squirming and kicking in every direction—quite a challenge to those toe-counting nurses. How I wanted to reach through the window, to be closer to you as you celebrated your newfound freedom. From behind the glass, I breathed a promise: I would never stand in the way of your freedom.
When their counting was completed, the nurses managed to wrestle you into a little yellow sleeper (with built-in mittens so you wouldn't scratch yourself). They swaddled you in soft blankets, then placed you in a toasty-warm infant bed. It comforted you. You became quiet. Then you fell asleep. Being born must have been quite a shock. How I wanted to reach through the window, to be closer to you as you slept your peaceful sleep of newborn innocence. From behind the glass, I breathed a second promise: I would always protect you.
It seems I took my eyes from the nursery window only a moment; now I look again, and you are a young woman. Eighteen years old, you are poised for yet another giant step into your future. And I, once again, find myself staring in awe, trying to fathom the miracle which you are. And I think back upon the promises made long ago.
Keeping those promises has proven far more difficult than I imagined. When I vowed never to stand in the way of your freedom, I had no idea how many ways we would be different, how many times your need to be yourself would clash with my need to be—as I saw it—a responsible parent. How was I supposed to know that you, barely out of diapers, would already have your own ideas about things as basic as what is hot and what is cold, and what clothing fits the weather. From age four you have dressed for warm weather when it is cold, wrapped yourself in cold weather clothes for stifling heat. I had to curb my "better judgment" in order to give you freedom to choose what you wanted to wear; I comforted myself with the knowledge that no child ever died from wearing a sweater on the hottest day of the year, or a midriff top on the coldest.
I didn't realize so few decisions would feel 100% right. Often when I supported your freedom, I wondered if I was abdicating my parental duty. And often when I exercised my parental authority, I wondered if I was crushing your spirit. Choosing when to offer you freedom, and when to lay down the law, has been exhausting work—and humbling. I have done the best I can. Sorry about those times I insisted on counting your toes when I should have let you dance.
When I promised to protect you, I had no idea what forms that protection would take. It was easy at first. You were so fragile; you needed me so completely. I enjoyed the feeling of being needed (except at 3:00 AM when I preferred to believe you needed your mother more than you needed me). There is a part of me that always wanted you to grow up, but another part of me that has always wanted you to stay little, so I could take care of you.
It was hard to watch you venture out beyond my protective care. On your first solo visit to our next-door-neighbor's house, you came home proudly displaying the new haircut you gave yourself (with the help of the neighbor's six year old). It was a reverse pony tail—shoulder-length everywhere except for a short blunt patch cropped off near the top of your head. A failed protector, I went momentarily berserk, but only because I hadn't yet learned the most important of all parent maxims: Hair grows back. Of course I forgot all about this maxim ten years later when you emerged from the bathroom with your hair permed into oblivion and dyed black.
When I promised to always protect you, I didn't realize that most of the time I would be protecting you from yourself—trying to help you understand the consequences of your choices. And then when you became a teen, I found myself not only trying to protect you from yourself, but also trying to protect you from your peers, whose zest for life often superseded their common sense. I've done the best I could to teach you how to protect yourself (and others around you). Much of that teaching you now carry inside yourself in the form of values, morals, and manners. If my too-long lectures had the power to protect, you'd have been untouchable. Sorry about the lectures—and especially for those times I failed to protect you from my own upset feelings.
When I watched you that first day through the nursery window, I desperately wanted to reach through the glass, so I could be close to you. The opportunity came. My eyes fill with tears of joy when I think back on all the wonderful moments of closeness we've shared through the years. But eighteen years have taught me that parenting isn't just about being close; it's also about creating space. I've had to learn to be happy looking at you through glass—contenting myself to watch you celebrate your freedom, without always joining your dance; standing by, always ready to protect you, but not always holding your hand.
Summer, you are a gift—the wondrous creation of a boundless grace beyond all words. A great man, Irenaeus, once said, "the glory of God is a person fully alive." That you are, Summer; you are exuberantly alive. Whether holding you close or watching you at a distance, nothing in my life is more fulfilling than being your dad. I am deeply thankful for that privilege, and I look with excited anticipation to the next eighteen years.
Yours, Dad
Note: Summer earned a Ph.D. degree in industrial-organizational psychology and is an executive consultant to life sciences companies.
She and her husband have a daughter.
To Ryan at EighteenAugust 1997
Dear Ryan,Back in 1969, when "consciousness raising" was sweeping college campuses, I took a course called "The Population Crisis." I decided then that the world was becoming overcrowded, and I had a moral responsibility to limit my family to two children. Your mother wanted the same, so after your sister was born, I knew our next child would be my last.
When your mother became pregnant, people asked me if I was hoping for a boy or a girl. My standard response was, "It would be nice to have a son, but we'll take whatever we get." True, I'd have been thankful for a healthy child of either gender, but there was a deep longing in my heart I seldom expressed. I wanted a son. I really wanted a son.
Your mother and I bought a book which described a way to increase the odds of conceiving a male child. I don't know if the technique worked or if your mother and I were just lucky, but we did conceive a male child. And you were that child, Ryan, and I was happy. No, I was ecstatic.
I'd always heard that fathers feel a special connection to their sons, but I didn't want those feelings to cause problems for you. After all, if a father identifies too closely with his son, will he allow the boy enough space for self discovery? I didn't want to mold you into another me, yet I couldn't deny how strongly I felt connected to you.
I sensed that connection every time I sat in the bleachers watching your little league games. I'd tense-up when it was your turn at bat. One day I noticed that as each pitch came toward you, my own body twitched at the moment I thought you should swing. Oh, I knew it was your pint sized body standing in the batter's box, but that didn't stop my own adult body from swinging for the outfield fence. Fortunately, you didn't swing when I twitched, because I was never a good hitter. In baseball, and everything else, I wanted you to make your own choices and rely on your own abilities. And you are blessed with many abilities.
The more I recognized your abilities, the less I worried about turning you into a junior version of me. You were quite young when I realized just how intelligent you are. Like any parent, I hoped my children would be healthy, smart and well-behaved; but I hadn't considered that my children might be more intelligent than me. I was relieved that you were as well-behaved as you were smart; had you chosen to match wits against me, you might have won—and paid a great price. Though you may be smarter, I'm older and wiser. I'm taller too; and though there's no logic to that thought, as you well know, it comforts me.
Life is full of many questions, Ryan. Most of them you need to answer for yourself. There are a few, however, which I can answer for you. Two of the most important questions are already answered in this letter: Am I wanted? Am I special?
Always remember that I wanted a son with all my heart, and that I rejoiced when you were born. And always remember that I know you are special, and am thankful for every quality that makes you who you are. Though you will always be my son, remember that you are also the child of One whose love for you is even greater than mine. Happy birthday, Ryan. Thanks for eighteen years of joy and fulfillment.
Love, Dad
Note: Ryan earned an M.D. degree and is a Resident Physician in orthopaedic surgery.
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