A Letter to my Child

I think about death a lot.

Sorry. That was a bit blunt. You may have started reading thinking you were going to see a sweet, father-to-child letter that would bring some "aww's." Don't worry -- I might get there eventually. But I thought I should give some kind of rationale, while I'm thinking of it.

I'd say that's my #1 fear in life -- death. I always considered it a pretty rational fear, really. "Thanatophobia." Which is, apparently, a real thing.

But be not a-fear'd -- to the best of my knowledge I'm not dying, or in danger of dying any time soon. I'm a relatively healthy 31 year old male, with a proud family history of "longevity," to go along with a relatively healthy lifestyle.

However, I'm still preoccupied with my early demise. I ride my bike to work, often...and (don't tell Erika this, but) there are some times when I have a premonition the night before that I'm going to get into a horrible accident on my way in to work.

Of course, all thoughts of the premonition vanish when I'm on the road...and so far, my "future telling skills" are historically lousy. I've started to use it to the effect that I'll wish bad things upon people just so it won't happen to them.

But because of this, and because my wife is now about 10 weeks pregnant, my thanatophobia has been thrown into hyper-drive. Now I think, what if my kid never gets to meet me?

Macabre, I know. Sorry. Again, this might be me "wishing bad things upon myself" just so they won't happen. Bear with me.

Anyhow, to allay this fear...I thought I might write a letter to that little alien-looking mini-person...just so he or she could have some kind of idea what I was like, and what I would have been like if I hadn't died heroically, saving the life of dozens of orphans from a warehouse fire (because orphans love warehouses).

Okay. On with the madness.


Dear Bean,

That's what we called you, early on. The bean. Our little bean. Two little centimeters of human, growing inside of my wife. Or, at least you were the first time I saw you.

It probably doesn't mean much to you now. If you're old enough to be reading this, you're probably old enough to forget about all that crap that happened while you were in the womb. The placenta, the uterine lining, the umbilical cord, the muffled sound of the theme song to the show Top Chef...all a distant memory.

Who am I? Who was I? Well...I'm your father, dammit. Don't you ever forget that. Mom says to eat your vegetables, so do it, dammit. Listen to your mother.

Sorry. Truth?

First, I'll give you some history. To be frank, I had a bit of a different idea in mind when I thought about "me being a father." I thought what I wanted to do was bring a child into a perfect little world, where I owned a home, had no debt, and had enough money to cover a full college tuition to the "Ivy League University of your Choosing." I wanted to be making a bunch of money that I could give you so you wouldn't have to actually hold a job until you graduated college at 23.

But that wasn't reality. I have a hell of a time trying to save money, and I've never really been much for "stability." When I met your mother, I fell madly in love with her, and I believed that I owed it to humanity to bring a copy of her into the world.

Consequently, all my thoughts of this "perfect little world" fantasy met with my new reality. But, I mean, no parent is ever really ready to embark on this "child rearing" adventure, right? So, once the "let's make a baby" idea was proposed to me, I thought, "Yeah. Let's do it. Sounds like fun."

So we made you. You're probably not old enough yet to learn how we did it...but needless to say, it's one of the great perks of trying to have children. The process was, really, much easier than I thought it'd be. Two months of (really) inconsistent attempts and suddenly you blipped into existence. Heck, the ink was barely dry on my health insurance plan...if you'd come two months earlier, you would have been a really terrible financial burden.

Not that that's your fault, or anything. You're just a prune-sized glob of goo. In fact, I hear your baby teeth are just starting to form as I type...so congrats on that. I have grown-up teeth...which makes me better than you. Boom. How does that feel?

Sorry. So, who was your dad? I know, I haven't answered that yet. It's a good question.

Well I tell you, I have one hell of a dad (which means you've got one hell of a granddad). He's a guy that I deified, really...which means, I made him to be "God-like" (sorry, I'm going to use some big words here -- ask you mother what they mean if you're confused). In fact, he's such a great guy that I can't imagine being as great a dad as he was...and I find it hard to believe that one day you could be typing a letter to your unborn child where you're saying that you ever deified me.

Don't get me wrong. It'd be an honor. I'm just saying...it's hard for me to imagine.

Because, who was your dad? Again, I'm failing to answer the question. But, to be honest, it's a hell of a question.

I don't know who I am, really. You little bastard. Geez. Get off my back.

Sorry. I get angry sometimes.

I'm a guy who likes new paragraphs and sentence fragments.

Apparently.

Here's the truth: I'm scared. You're probably scared, too. You're all, "Where the hell am I? Why's it so dark? Why do my fingers have webs?"

Of course, all new dads are scared...I guess that's just part of the experience, right? I'm thinking, "Jesus...I have all this credit card debt. I don't even own a car, or a home. I don't know what I'm going to do for money when my wife is out of work. And I'm supposed to be the provider? Holy crap."

But the reality is, I'm going to do the best I can. You won't know any better -- hell, you probably won't be smarter than me until you're well into your 20s, and I'll have built up enough life experience by that time that I'll seem smarter than you anyway. And you will respect me, dammit. No child of mine is going to go through life not respecting his damn parents.

So, who was your dad? Dammit, that's a stupid question. Who is anyone? I'm just another guy, trying to enjoy himself in this short time that he's schlepping around this rock. I'm not perfect. In fact, I'm probably less perfect than most people. I found my soul mate, and we decided to create you.

We were successful...lucky you.

The better question is, what did I want to be once I found out you existed? Well, here's how I feel now:

I will do everything in my power to make sure you have a great life. I will try my hardest...sacrifice every part of me...do whatever it takes to give you happiness (hee hee...penis), and make sure you stay happy. I might suck at it. You won't know, of course, because kids never know whether or not their parents suck at being parents until they're much older

Regardless, I'll try to be (objectively) the best dad possible. I'm not working with much, frankly. As we speak, I've got about $150.00 to my name. I mean, I've got a good job with health insurance and everything...but things are pretty tight right now. And you're due to pop into the world in about 6 months. Yikes.

Luckily for both of us you've got a terrific mom, and we work really well together. You've also got a great extended family, who will probably be very annoyed with me as they're reading this...talking about death, debt, and all that icky stuff. But the Rhoades' and Godwin's are all very sane people...especially your mom and I. So you won't have to worry about turning out mental because part of your genetic seed is faulty.

Though, hopefully, whether you're a boy or a girl, you end up with more of your mom's looks than mine. Or, at least, you're spared my overly broad nose, squinky eyes, and receding hairline. But there's nothing you can do to help that -- I mean, I've lived with those things, and I managed to attract a babe like your mother, so it's probably not nearly as bad as I make it out to be.

But more than anything, I hope you're happy. Content. All that. You don't need to be successful, or rich, or powerful, or famous, or any of those things people strive for. You don't have to achieve great things, or leave some kind of lasting impression on humanity. I just want you to enjoy yourself. Do things that make you proud. Things that interest you; excite you. And if you're doing something that makes you unhappy, knock it off and do something else.

I'll be chock full of wise wisdom like that...provided I don't die suddenly before you're carried to term. Because, even though I'm scared, feeling unworthy, and totally unprepared for your arrival...I'm really looking forward to it. It's one of those unselfish, rewarding parts of human nature that I want to experience. I think I can help raise you right. If, somehow, I failed? Well...I hope you can see that I tried with every ounce of my being, and gave you as good a shot as anyone out there.

Guess that's it. Did I answer your questions? Did you have anything else? Shoe size? Um. 11 1/2. College GPA? 3.3. Any other questions, I mean, about my personality or anything?

No? Okay, good. Good luck. And make me proud, dammit. As if I could ever not make me proud, you rad little bean.


Love,

Dad