Dear Jackson:
Seven years ago tonight, I feared for your future. I didn't
know if I was up to raising a child without his mother's help, and I didn't
know if you were up to the emotional challenges of growing up without her. It
was a really scary moment, knowing that I’d be solely responsible for guiding
you from the age of 8 all the way until manhood. It’s a huge job—too much for
one person, it seemed to me at the time. Who would be my system of
checks-and-balances? Who would rein me in when I was flying off the handle? Who
would stop me from spoiling you? Who would make sure you occasionally ate
something besides red meat?
And ya know what? In many ways, it was too much. We got too
much of each other, and we argued like a husband and wife, often driving
everyone around us nuts. Some of your childhood characteristics became like
fingernails on a blackboard to me—probably because they reminded me of myself
at a similar age. And I know that my tendency for over-reaction pushed you away
more often than I’d like to remember. I can’t tell you how many times I sat on
the couch feeling like such a jerk, and wanting so badly to take it all back. But
just like I couldn’t bring your mom back, I knew I couldn’t undo my reactions.
I hope you can forgive me.
Still, despite the MANY mistakes I've made along the way, I
must have done something right, because you’ve grown into the vivacious, stubborn,
life-embracing soul I'd always hoped you’d be. You've been strong since day
one, and now you've gotten through the hardest stretch of your loss. They say
life progresses in seven-year increments, so perhaps you can look upon this
date as a rite of passage of sorts, a doorway to the land of emotional
freedom—the first day of the next stage of your life without Mom. There
shouldn’t have even had to be such a stage, but we play with the cards life
deals us.
And you, my son, have played your cards pretty well so far.
You remained upbeat more often than you had any right to be, and you stayed
engaged—with school, friends, activities, family, and anything else that
brought you joy. While many other teens—with far less emotional
justification—spend their time sulking and staring at computer screens, you
spend them skating, producing amazing videos for your own YouTube channel,
golfing for your high school team, and (occasionally) playing with your little
brothers. (Okay, sometimes you sulk and/or stare at your computer, too—no one’s
perfect.)
What’s more, you never stood in the way of my journey. You
embraced Taylor when I dated her, and you seemed to be genuinely happy for me
when I subsequently met and fell in love with Sarah, despite all the
indications that she would frequently take me away from you (probably a good
thing!).
And speaking of Sarah, you never once made her feel
uncomfortable, no small miracle given that she was following in the footsteps
of a ghost. Your willingness to accept her as your stepmother is a big reason
why she’s so willing to be tough on you; believe me, Sarah’s toughest when she
cares deeply. Try to remember that when she’s riding you to do your chores.
I have no way of knowing what the next seven years will
bring (although a college diploma would be nice), but if they bring us as many
good things as the last seven have—hello, Sarah and Max and William, and
cousins Emma and Lennox and Sage and Riley and Charlotte and Clara, and Albany
and Cornell Avenue, and all the good times you've spent with Alex and Owen, and the countless other treasured aspects of our lives!—we will
be two of the luckiest people in the universe.
All of this is why, as I sit here tonight, seven years after
ushering you through your terrible loss, I have complete confidence that you're
going to go out into the world and take care of business, and have a good time
doing it. A dad can't ask anything more.
I know that almost nothing I’ve written here is something
you haven’t heard before. But I wanted to get it all on “paper”, in one stream
of consciousness exercise, so you would always know how I felt about our most
tumultuous years.
I love you, Jackson. Your mom would be proud of you. I know
I am.
Love, Dad
No comments:
Post a Comment