Through a Glass, Darkly

Dear Atticus,

One thing that made me hesitate about having children is that I know people who don’t seem to like their own. They take no apparent pleasure in spending time with their kids or focusing on their kids’ interests. They roll their eyes at their children and don’t seem to engage them very much. It seemed as if the parenting options were to be disinterested or to be like the chirpiest Christmas letter imaginable. I wasn’t happy with either end of the spectrum. (I am not known for seeing things in moderation.)

A few years ago, I was hanging out with some other women who were doing the thing where they complain about their husbands. Afterwards, one of them said to me that she noticed that I don’t complain about your dad. Which is true. I don’t talk about him dismissively or roll my eyes at him (except maybe when he makes a terrible joke). I enjoy spending time with him, and I try to take an interest in things that are important to him.

But for some reason, Atticus, I didn’t realize that I would feel the same way about you. I thought you would be a kid, and I am not so interested in kids. I am sorry, sweet boy, that I wasn’t more excited about you joining our family. I didn’t know you would be a person. I didn’t know you would be you. If I had known how bright and funny and wild you were going to be, I would have been so much more excited to meet you.

Maybe people tried to tell me, but I just couldn’t understand. Maybe it was something that I had to experience in order to learn. I was afraid I was going to have to hang on until you were older. I was prepared to do that, because I hoped you would one day be interesting. It took a while for me to be won over. I had a lot of ideas that needed changing. Even if every minute is not a joy, I don’t mind spending time with you. I don’t dread all those soccer practices and piano recitals like I used to, because you interest me even if those things don’t particularly.

This, of all the letters, is my love letter to you. I saved it for the end, but it sums up what I have been trying to say all along.

Watching you emerge has been a revelation.

Love,
Mama

Dear Atticus,

A few weeks ago, one of your classmates took her first steps! Your teachers called her Mom excitedly. Mom excitedly called Dad. And Dad said, “That’s nice.” This was not a sufficient response for Mom. However, a little while later, as Mom watched on the video camera, Dad showed up and tried to get your friend to walk to him. Turns out her Dad is a softie after all.

Your dad saw her walk again that afternoon when he picked you up, said he cheered with everyone else. He told me the story when I got home. There was a lot we didn’t say that day. Neither of us voiced the question we were thinking: What would we do if you took your first steps at school instead of with us? It’s the kind of question I squint to avoid looking at directly, averting my gaze lest it burn me. Apparently your dad felt the same way, so we spoke solely about your friend and her great accomplishment.

You have been close to walking for a while now. Grammy and I were both walking at nine months, and we thought you would be right behind, surely be walking by ten months yourself. But you got lazy, preferring for us to hold your hands and let you walk around. (Sometimes I would see you on the video camera at school, walking around with your teachers, and I was thankful that someone else was dealing with a sore back while I sat in my comfy chair.) You got to the point where you would take a step without knowing it while cruising the furniture, and your dad started winding you up (as it were) and letting you walk across a room on sheer momentum. When you figured out no one was holding you, you got mad.

But now you are finally doing it, taking steps on your own. The first time was in the back room at your Great-Grandma’s house. You did it a couple of times for your dad, and then once for me. I like to think that you waited for us to be able to see you, and you waited so that you could do it somewhere important (even if your dad and I were the only ones to see). You did not want us to have to answer those unspoken questions. And now? Now you are cruising down the hall.

You have been so unsettled as you have been learning this new thing. You were acting like a growth spurt/Wonder Weeks checklist: sleeping poorly, being clingy, eating less. It has been hard for you to settle down at night, hard to slow your brain. I know the feeling, buddy, and I am sorry. I hope that getting the hang of this walking thing will help you feel like yourself again.

We hear that things are over for us now, but it has seemed like they were over for a while, since you were mobile. I always wondered if it would be hard to let go in order to teach things like walking and bike riding and going off to college. It turns out that we were so busy being proud that we didn’t notice.

You still get mad when you realize that we have let go. But it already takes you the whole hallway to figure that out.

Love,
Mama

P.S. At school, you generally crawled around with another little boy. I loved watching you on the video as you entertained each other. Now, though, there are three of you–your walking friend has started playing with you as well (and I guess she is a good influence). Your teachers say you are inseparable, call you the Three Musketeers. When your dad told me about this, I said how nice it was that you guys started letting her play with you. Your dad looked at me and said, “Maybe she lets them play with her.”

P.P.S. That’s why I love your dad.

Mike contributed this letter.

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Dear Atticus,

Early in April I took you to meet a friend and she asked me how I had changed since you arrived. What had I come to appreciate more about life? She didn’t mean for me to share “how precious sleep” was to me. It was intended for me to think about how you are making me a better man, how you are helping me to better appreciate the world around me. I didn’t have an answer that I found sufficient. But I often think about that question.

I know I have changed since your birth. I know I am happier than I’ve ever been (and that is saying something because your mom and I were pretty happy before you arrived). Your complete helplessness those first few months gave me purpose. You broke through my hidden rooms and softened hardened parts of my heart. Cradling you while you slept made me cry like I hadn’t done in decades. I was proud to be your father. I was determined to give you the love and tender care you deserved. I longed to instill in you the hope I have for this world: that one person’s actions can change the world, but even if they don’t, at least that person can leave the earth knowing it is a little better than how they found it.

You’ve lived on Earth less than a year. However, in that time, you have done exactly what I have hoped you would do with your life. You have made your part of the world a better place. You have healed broken hearts. You have shared your joy with others who needed it. You have made two very selfish people give more of themselves than they ever thought possible. You have had a small carbon footprint thanks to your cloth diapers, second generation clothes, toys, and books (I’ll explain that one to you when you are older).

Another way that you’ve changed me is that you are making me better at my job. On the first day of school this year, I told my class about you. I showed them a slideshow of your best pictures from this year (they “Oooohed” and “Ahhhhed” in the right places). I then let them know how you make me a better teacher. I have seen at the beginning level a person who needed to be taught everything. The patience needed to teach my students grew enormously. I’ve worked with your mom to teach you how to eat, sleep, drink, play, sit up, roll over, stand up, learn language. We are teaching you to be filled with wonder, to ask questions, to figure out how things work. All of that takes patience. It takes repetition. It takes an understanding that you don’t know how to do those things. I realize that you want to do those things, both to please us and also to push yourself.

When talking to a friend who is a priest earlier this year, he shared with me how frightening it is to have kids because they can innately model your negative qualities (as well as your good). He said I will see you do something wrong or annoying and I’ll instantly know that is something that I do or have done. I try to be aware of my actions, my choices, because I know that I am, at least for a time, a role model to you. Therefore, you also have changed me because you have exposed my insecurities and my faults. I don’t want to pass those on to you so I’m trying to face them or figure out a way to keep you from picking them up. It will take courage, honesty and consistency.

I want to teach you how to be part of a family, how to be a good friend, and how to work well with others. The best way I can teach you this is by, first, modeling my expectations and then guiding you when you don’t know how to follow my example. I won’t write out a sad tale of woe, but I know that in order to teach you these things, I need to be a better relative, friend, and coworker. I am saddened that it has taken me this long to figure it out. I hope I have the courage to change or the honesty to tell you how painfully lonely it can be sometimes to live this way. I want to change because I know it will be best thing for you (and, coincidentally, me).

Can you believe that your tiny little self has had that much of an impact on such a tall, bearded man? I can’t believe it myself.

Love,
Dad