It started with a nightmare. When you were about two, I dreamt I had brain cancer. In my dream, I had months to live. As in, less than 12.
“Damn,” I thought. “Who’s going to teach Sam all the important shit he needs to know about being a man?”
A side note on “being a man” I’m not talking about punching people in the dick and not having feelings. Hopefully, you’re not burdened with that kind of toxic masculinity. Rather, my hope is that you grow up to be someone who’s kind, tough, caring, persistent, courageous, gritty, and empathetic. The kind of person who only punches bullies in the dick, and only in the defense of yourself and people who can’t protect themselves. And for fuck’s sake, feel your feelings. Real men can cry.
Anyway, while I did wake up from my bad dream relieved that I didn’t actually have brain cancer, I’m not going to live forever. And we’re also right in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic, so while death isn’t knocking on our door, I’ve seen him driving up and down the street more than I’d like.
Right now, you’re too young for most of life’s important lessons. Your Mom and I are working hard on making you feel loved and getting you to shit in the toilet, but beyond that, most of this will go over your head for a few years. So I imagined an adult version of you and wrote these missives to him. That way, when the situation in question arises, if I’m not there to point the way, you can still get some advice from your old man.
And look, I don’t expect you to take this as gospel. Experience is a better teacher than I’ll ever be, and the odds are good that by the time you’re old enough to start reading and understanding these, you might think I’m an idiot. I’m aware that might sound sanctimonious, but kids in their teens sometimes think their parents are morons. I did, and by the time I was 18, I was convinced your Papa and Nana didn’t know their asses from a hole in the ground.
Thankfully, they figured it out. They’ve gotten smarter as I’ve gotten older. Maybe you’ll think different, but I’m not holding my breath.
Take what you can from what I’ve written. Use it to help point the way when you’re not sure which path to take. Disregard the advice that doesn’t fit, and ignore the parts that don’t make sense. This is my attempt to always be there for you, even when I’m not.
I love you,
Dad
I originally planned to finish this series in twelve months, intending to write one entry a week for 52 weeks. But, other things came up and I didn’t have as much time as I thought I would. We moved, you started a new school, I had other projects, etc. But finally, I’m starting my last entry in September, nine months after I’d planned. Which is the perfect intro to this one.
Time is funny like that. It marches on like a metronome, indifferent to how much you wish it would slow down or speed up. It offers no do-overs, no matter how frivolously you spend it. And it gives zero fucks what you planned to accomplish in the time you had. Once that time is over, you’ll get no more. But, it also stretches out ahead of you into an unknown future, offering untold possibility and infinite choices.
Which is why I hope you both learn to make choices about how you spend your time and understand what those choices mean. Because while there’s never enough time for everything, there’s still enough time to do almost anything.