A Letter To My Son

Whenever I describe your birth, I describe it as the best and most memorable moment of my life (the best day of my life was the day I married your mother). 

I vividly remember that day.  I know how you love it when I tell the story. 

So here it goes again. 

It started with your momma thinking she peed the bed (it was her water breaking).  

And a chain reaction was set in motion when I fired off a simple text “Meredith’s in labor.”  The text sent our whole family into a tizzy, especially Grammy.  

Side note: Grammy’s herd of friends were cheering for her to fulfill her life’s aspiration of being a grandma (you were it, buddy).  

Then hours of painful agony your momma endured (+12 hours of labor) to squeeze you out into this world. 

And your birth(I am crying right now just thinking about it). 

There was a love born at that moment that I never knew existed. 

It was a love for you, my sweet baby boy, and for your momma, who did all the hard work to bring you into this world. 

The pride I had for my new baby boy as I clipped the umbilical cord and you laid lightly crying with your pink and blue-veined skin covered in a waxy gook (vernix). 

The excitement and tears of joy as momma and I tossed names out for an hour and a half until we found the name that fit you, Henryk. 

Finally, we decided that we had held off the feral grandparents long enough.  We asked the nurses to open the gate to let your fiending family finally meet you. 

They tore back the curtain, and we announced you to our world (your family). 

“We want you to meet your new grandson, Henryk Wyatt”.  

There were so many hugs and kisses and tears of joy.   

You couldn’t leave the hospital without an examination.  The nurse came in, and Mimi and Grammy joined me to do a complete once-over. The nurse noted you looked healthy and normal except for one thing.  

The nurse said she had never seen anything like it in her 32-year career. 

“This is the tightest butt hole I have ever seen.”

Don’t ask me how she measured tightness or why that was the thing she chose to say but it makes us laugh every time we tell that part of the story.

That is your origin story.  

I needed to be reminded of the greatest moment in my life before I share with you the heaviness I am feeling today. 

One day, probably in the not-too-distant future, you will be able to read this.  

There are three things I hope you get from this letter; mistakes, emotions, and being a dad is tough at times.   

First, mistakes are an important part of life. I hope you will look at my mistakes with grace because I’m trying.

Here is an interesting way to look at the importance of mistakes.   

I recently listened to a podcast that interviewed Chamath Palihapitiya (a controversial billion with an amazing rags-to-riches story). 

Chamath said this about mistakes, “life's success is how you control your mistakes. You control your mistakes by making a bunch of mistakes.”  

Here’s how I interpret his quote. 

Success in life is about the speed and intensity of learning, and learning comes only through trying and failing. 

And the more we fail (make mistakes), especially early in life, the quicker we learn what works and how to succeed. 

I hope that my mistakes now will make me a better dad tomorrow. 

The second thing I hope you get from this letter is how I feel in this challenging phase. 

This letter is me showing you that all emotions (even negative ones) are ok and my attempt to share them in a healthy way with you.    

We are in a low, right now.  

What does a low feel like? 

It feels like being in the dark: a little scary and unclear which way is the right direction.  

I feel this way because we have tried everything, and nothing seems to be working right now. 

It feels like my senior year of high school soccer and getting knocked out in the playoffs. We put in so much work to get to that point but it was not enough.  

Your momma and I have put in a lot of work trying to be the best parents for you and your sisters.  

I’m also feeling frustrated that I can’t figure out what you need.  

You’re four and a half.  

I know it must be hard to express how you are feeling.

The frustration is also a frustration with myself because at times I let my emotions get the better of me, and I’m not always the calm emotional example you need.

As I write this letter, I am committed to you, your sisters, and our family that I will keep trying.  

Keep trying to be a better dad, understand what you need, and help you find ways to share your emotions in a healthy way. 

There are no bad emotions; all emotions are ok. 

My role as your dad and our role as parents is to show you and coach you how to share your emotions (even negative ones) in a good way that doesn’t harm you or those around you. 

Finally.

I love you, son.  I am proud of you.  And I am proud to be your father.