I begin my morning writing letters.
Not knowing what else to write, I start with gratitudes.
Last night, my daughter gave me a hug. I didn’t know I needed it—but she did, and she helped me feel loved and better.
This morning, in letter, I return the love.
All Christmas break, my youngest son’s wanted to play with me: ping pong in the basement, catch on the trampoline—I toss a football high; he makes diving catches and wild bounces. We’ve gone for rides on our road—he on electric scooter and I on bike, each new to us. We box—he beats on me and I laugh, letting him build the confidence and controlled aggression I believe is necessary for all boys if they are to grow into strong men. This is a father’s duty, to help their sons learn their strength and not leave them undeveloped as weaker lessers exploited in a world that will neither respect nor fear—but simply use or discard—them.
The last, though, is more than a nine-year old’s lesson or philosophy—even if its principles are practiced in the ordinary nature and growing-up of a boy.
Writing, I thank my son for always wanting to play with me, for always wanting to share time and things together.
Last night, we played Connect Four. One game, before his last move, he congratulated me on winning—he threw the game. He hates to lose, but I guess he saw sometimes there’s more to life and games than winning; and sometimes, someone else needs it more. He shows his love to me in many ways that child-eyes can see, and these I’ve never lost.
Letters written, I write this now—repetition of a “just done” but why not? Isn’t life a little better when we share more open and often with the ones we love all the things for which we’re grateful—especially when it’s them?