To Ryan at Eighteen
August
1997
Dear Ryan,
Back in 1969, when "consciousness raising" was sweeping
college campuses, I took a course called "The Population
Crisis." I decided then that the world was becoming
overcrowded, and I had a moral responsibility to limit my
family to two children. Your mother wanted the same, so
after your sister was born, I knew our next child would be
my last.
Your mother and I bought a book which described a way to increase the odds of conceiving a male child. I don't know if the technique worked or if your mother and I were just lucky, but we did conceive a male child. And you were that child, Ryan, and I was happy. No, I was ecstatic.
I'd always heard that fathers feel a special connection to their sons, but I didn't want those feelings to cause problems for you. After all, if a father identifies too closely with his son, will he allow the boy enough space for self discovery? I didn't want to mold you into another me, yet I couldn't deny how strongly I felt connected to you.
I sensed that connection every time I sat in the bleachers watching your little league games. I'd tense-up when it was your turn at bat. One day I noticed that as each pitch came toward you, my own body twitched at the moment I thought you should swing. Oh, I knew it was your pint sized body standing in the batter's box, but that didn't stop my own adult body from swinging for the outfield fence. Fortunately, you didn't swing when I twitched, because I was never a good hitter. In baseball, and everything else, I wanted you to make your own choices and rely on your own abilities. And you are blessed with many abilities.
The more I recognized your abilities, the less I worried about turning you into a junior version of me. You were quite young when I realized just how intelligent you are. Like any parent, I hoped my children would be healthy, smart and well-behaved; but I hadn't considered that my children might be more intelligent than me. I was relieved that you were as well-behaved as you were smart; had you chosen to match wits against me, you might have won—and paid a great price. Though you may be smarter, I'm older and wiser. I'm taller too; and though there's no logic to that thought, as you well know, it comforts me.
Life is full of many questions, Ryan. Most of them you need to answer for yourself. There are a few, however, which I can answer for you. Two of the most important questions are already answered in this letter: Am I wanted? Am I special?
Always remember that I wanted a son with all my heart, and that I rejoiced when you were born. And always remember that I know you are special, and am thankful for every quality that makes you who you are. Though you will always be my son, remember that you are also the child of One whose love for you is even greater than mine. Happy birthday, Ryan. Thanks for eighteen years of joy and fulfillment.
Love,
Dad
After his
18th birthday, Ryan went on to earn B.S. and M.D. degrees.
Today, he is the final year of training as an orthopaedic
surgeon and is engaged to be married.