I figured that, while my son remains firmly lodged in the wife’s uterine grotto, this was a good time to write him a letter for when he’s born — especially since, when he’s born, I won’t have time to write this letter, I’ll only have time to wash the poop out of my hair. We are now just about at “full-term” (though we’re likely to have a handful of weeks remaining where he stubbornly hides out and refuses to emerge). So, here we are: a letter to my as-yet-unborn son. Please to enjoy.
Dear Son:
Hello, boy. Welcome to the world.
I am your landlord overlord ski instructor father. You will be seeing a lot of me, and so it behooves us both to find clarity in terms of our relationship. Do you agree? (Pee in my mouth once for yes, twice for no.)
I’d like immediately to express my sincerest apologies because, as it turns out, I am clueless as to how to be a father. I don’t just mean how to be a good father, but rather, how to be a father at all. One supposes that since the title is earned by dint of breeding and not necessarily by habit or by skill, I guess being a father is no more the sum of being a human piping tube whereupon I… erm, frosted your mother’s, uhhh, cupcakes and made a soft, spongy-headed cupcake baby like yourself (we’ll get into the specifics of sexual reproduction when you’re a little bit older, like, say, when you’re around 24 or so). That said, being a father is an entirely different enterprise then Being A Father, and it’s this latter identifier that gives me trouble.
Consider: I can barely take care of myself. If I did not have your mother present, one could make a safe bet that I’d be found on a ratty couch out in the woods, my hair a nest for nuthatches, my body encrusted in the debris and feces of nature. I’d be trying to play XBOX by plugging a controller into the puckered knothole on an oak tree. I’d be surviving on a diet of acorns and venison ordure, which is just a fancy of way of saying “deer poop.” (This is one skill I may be able to offer you, the skill of making things sound much better than they are. I am a writer, after all, or as your friends’ parents will call it, a “marginally-employed drunken vagrant.” We are also talented liars, and so you should expect that at least 33% of the things that come out of my mouth are utter bullshit, usually said in response to answer a question I have no idea how to answer. I will never lie to be malicious. Rather, I will lie to shellac over my ineptitude.)
The point being, I am a woefully clueless human being, and so you will come to me at times looking for answers, and because I’m kind of a dick, I’m going to pretend I have the answers rather than highlighting my own deep uncertainty. You’re going to ask things like, “Daddy, what are clouds?” or “Where do puppies come from?” or “How do I navigate the terrors of a solipsistic universe?” And, instead of being honest with you, I’m just going to make stuff up. “Clouds are unicorn farts,” I might say. “Puppies are made when human babies are stolen from their cribs and taken to the moon to be turned into werewolves.” “Because bees, that’s why.” I will pray that these answers satisfy you. Sorry if they don’t.
Actually, in thinking about it, there exists an unholy armada of things for which I should apologize.
Here they are, in no particular order.
One: I am terribly clumsy. It’s a good bet that I will drop you. So, wear a helmet.
Two: I have all the patience of an ant on a sugar rush. This, combined with my general lack of manly skills, will ensure that all your Some Assembly Required toys will in the future be put together by a liberal swaddling of duct tape and super-glue. In fact, it is safe to assume that all your toys will lie embedded in a big wad of tape with only meager hints of proper “toy shape.” This should explain your stroller, by the way.
Three: I cannot promise I’m going to be very good at assuaging your childhood fears. “Daddy, I think there’s a monster outside my window.” “Holy crap, I know, right? There’s monsters everywhere, kid. Did you see this image of the chupacabra I found on the Internet? That’s crazy, right? Not nearly as crazy as serial killers, though. Those dudes will sneak into your room and steal you away into the night so that they can use your bones to build their Scarecrow Gods. By the way, have I told you about skin cancer yet? Here, look at this mole. Does it look like skin cancer? It feels like skin cancer. I think I’m dying.”
Four: We live in a world where terrible things exist. Like, for instance, jeggings. Sorry about that.
Five: You’re going to find a lot of pressure exerted upon you to “be a man.” Nobody knows what being a man really involves except for the biological factor of likely owning and operating your own penis. Beyond that, it’s all a big hazy fog of nobody-really-knows. It isn’t about carpentry or karate, it isn’t about deer hunting or banging bar sluts. It might have something to do honor and loyalty and being a stand-up dude. It definitely has something to do with peeing in the snow while standing up. Like I said: hazy. Worry less about being a good man and worry more about being a good person.
Six: I’m probably going to make you watch a lot of Star Wars. But maybe not the prequels? I dunno. Do you really want to watch a movie that talks a lot about “trade federations?” Besides, the protagonist of the first three movies spoils the really cool reveal in Empire Strikes Back (if I recall, it has something to do with Bruce Willis being both alive and dead at the same time). Further, the protagonist of the prequels is a total douche. He ends up being a wife-abuser and a child-murderer, which puts him somewhere on par with Freddy Kruger from the Nightmare on Elm Street movies. So when the time comes where we’re supposed to believe that Darth Vader has some good in him, you’re suddenly all like, “Yeah, but that guy was a real asshole, and I’m suddenly having a hard time getting on board this whole ‘redemptive path’ thing — maybe Luke should’ve just lightsabered that guy in the head and washed his hands of the whole affair.” Plus, then Luke makes out with his sister? Wow, yeah, I dunno, maybe we’re not going to watch Star Wars after all. Too complex. Here, read some James Joyce instead.
Seven: No, really, I’m going to make you read James Joyce.
I’m sure I’ll find other things for which to apologize. Keep an eye out.
All that being said, this feels like a good time to let you know of my Blueprint For Fatherhood, which is to say, the designs I have for you, my son. Some parents have great, often vicarious aspirations for their children: “He shall be a doctor.” “He will be a powerful litigator.” “He will marry a woman with good breeding hips and a kick-ass dowry.”
My aspirations are admittedly meager in comparison.
These are my aspirations for you.
First, that you are not eaten by squirrels. I figure that, as a father, my first task is to keep small woodland creatures from trying to eat you. They will constantly be trying to eat you. I am the thin bearded line between life and death by squirrel-nibblings.
Second, that you grow up and become a functional human being who can exist amongst others without pooping up the metaphorical hot tub that is our society.
Third, that you are not a drug addict. Or a Republican.
I’m just kidding. You can be a drug addict and we’ll still love you.
Fourth, that you love books. And also, that you love stories in general.
Fifth, that you become a famous anthropologist, just because it’d be really cool for me to tell other parents, “That’s my son, the famous anthropologist.” To be clear, I might tell them this anyway. So, you don’t actually have to become a famous anthropologist. In fact, we might just make that your first name. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Famous Anthropologist Wendig.” Nickname: Famanthro.
Sixth, that you’re not a jerk. The world is home to too many jerks.
Seventh, that regardless of all of the above, you’re a healthy and happy little human. Or, if you don’t end up being human, that you’re a happy and healthy robot, Sasquatch, demigod, or dryad.
Oh, and eighth, that you don’t end up being a writer. Because those guys are fucking crazy.
To recap:
I don’t know what I’m doing, I will lie to you, but I will protect you from squirrels.
In return, you will be a famous anthropologist who reads books and isn’t a jerk.
One day I hope that you look back upon this letter and realize that, despite the face of confidence I put forth, I actually don’t know anything about anything and that it’s okay that you don’t necessarily know anything about anything either, especially when the time comes to have a child of your own. I also hope you think back to those first moments, days, even years of your life, and this letter helps to explain the competing looks upon my face of Pants-Shitting Terror and Blissful Wonderment. Because I must say, I am eagerly looking forward to meeting you, my son, even though your first instinct will probably be to poop in my hair. In fact, that will probably also be your instinct through much of your life, especially when you become a dread teenager. It’s okay. You can poop in my hair and laugh about it. It’s part of our contract, I suppose.
I expect to meet you soon. Likely in the next month or so. Even though I do not yet know you, you are my emergent progeny, my heir to der Wendighaus, my cherubic spawn.
I love you, son.
Peace in the Middle East.
Love,
Your Father
P.S. If you happen to be a girl, that’s okay, too, though you might have some explaining to do in regards to the so-called “turtle shot.” What was that thing, then? The Loch Ness Monster? Regardless, your nickname will still be Famanthro, so don’t think you’re wiggling out of that.
P.P.S. Your mother is awesome. We’ll defer to her judgment in times of confusion.
