Yes, I’ll Wrestle with You

I don’t have many memories from my life as a young child: a few images or feelings that, given the malleability of memory, may or may not represent reality. With this letter (and perhaps others in the future), I hope to provide my son with a window into his life and our relationship during his early childhood years.

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A Letter to My Three-Year-Old

Dear T,

When you first arrived, I didn’t know how to take care of you. I never babysat young children, especially not infants. But I learned how to change your diapers, warm your bottles, wash your body, and put your clothes on.

I watched you grow, and now you are three.

You and I can talk to each other now—tell each other our thoughts. You tell me you love me sometimes. When it’s spontaneous it makes my week. I love you too, in ways you won’t understand until you have children of your own, the same way I didn’t understand until I had you.

Mainly, you ask me to play. Sometimes mom and I are too busy in the evenings to play with you as much as you (and we) would like. We always make sure you eat (or at least get presented with) a good dinner, and while we prepare the food, you entertain yourself with “projects” and—on special rare occasions—a TV show. Most days I am impressed by your patience.

Over the past few months, your favorite pastime has become an after-dinner wrestling match. You like to pretend we are lions: I am Scar and you are Simba—from The Lion King—and we fight for control of one of our couches, which doubles as Pride Rock. Sometimes we are other animals: rhinos, wildebeests, hippos. But it doesn’t matter much to you, as long as we are rolling around on the living room carpet.

When it’s time to stop, you are upset. You stomp your feet and want to wrestle a little longer. Your mom and I try to be firm, especially if bedtime is near. Often we settle on one more minute of wrestling, and then I challenge you to a race up the steps to prepare for bedtime.

Your repeated requests to wrestle are cute. But the tenacity of your requests make me wonder why it is so important to you, and what goes through your mind when I sometimes have to deny your request. How does this look from your perspective? I don’t know why I have not contemplated this before, and I am frankly ashamed of myself for that. Obviously I have reflected on how you see and interact with the world ever since you first opened your eyes, but less so on how I might appear through your eyes.

What are you thinking and feeling when I tell you that I can’t play right now? Can you understand that I would love to spend more time with you? If you become upset when playtime is over, do you understand my reasons? Do you know that I worry about you: what you eat, how much you sleep, who your friends are? Can you comprehend the responsibility I feel for your life?

Only you know the answers to these questions. But through your words and actions, I understand that spending time with me is important to you. It’s too easy for me to become lost in the complicated adult world, when your world is a much better, simpler place. You live in the moment. I plan on spending more time there with you.

The other evening I was busy: chopping vegetables, turning on some music, talking to your mom, thinking about work, contemplating a new house, and wondering what to name your future sibling. I was reading a recipe on my phone as you tried to get my attention.

“Daddy.”

“Daddy.”

“Daddy!”

I finally looked up and, with a squint and a mischievous grin, you asked, “Do you wanna wrestle?”

“Yes, I’ll wrestle with you.”

Love,

Daddy

photo credit: Brian Auer Lucha Libre via photopin (license)

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Dr. Curious

Dr. Curious

As I approach my fortieth birthday, I wonder what I will do for the rest of my life.

It’s not exactly a mid-life crisis. I married a wonderful woman, who birthed one spirited child and is incubating another. I have a dog who breathes on me until I wake because she loves breakfast so much. I am a doctor and I like my job (a bit of a rarity for doctors these days). I generally have fun. I consider myself happy.

I am also lucky. I am not particularly worried about financial security, personal safety, or any other existential threat that might keep others up at night. I had the fortune of being born in a developed country to a non-poverty-stricken family who didn’t abuse me; that may sound pretty normal, but most people entering this world can’t check all three of those boxes.

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