An Open Letter to My Son

Dear Broosevelt,

I just want to start by saying that you, my son, are the best boy in the whole entire world.

You’re kind. You’re chill. You’re handsome. You’re smart. You always put away your laundry. You usually practice piano. You sometimes shower. You set the table. You clear your plate. You smother your mother and me with hugs and kisses. You give your sisters money when they need it. You pass the ball to the open man. You don’t swing at bad pitches. You don’t wear your cleats in the house. You only curse with your friends. You’re a good boy. The best boy.

Once when you were about five and pestering your twin sister because pestering sisters is what 5-year-old boys do, your frustrated, anti-boy mother said, “He’s just a bad kid.” I still give her shit for that ridiculously inaccurate assessment because you are a good kid. The best kid.

One day when you’re a father, you’ll realize not only how much I love you but also how scary it is to raise a son. Raising girls is easy: I let your mother do most of the work and, as my friend Sam likes to say, my only job is to keep your sisters off the pole. With a son, however, all the pressure is on me. I need to make sure you’re sensitive yet strong, sweet yet resilient, and humble yet confident. I don’t know if I’m doing any of those things, but I do know a few things my little man, first of which is that you need to grow a pair.

I’m sorry, Broosevelt. I apologize. I’m a little upset. Unlike your father and at least one of your sisters, you are a genuinely good person. But good doesn’t mean meek. When a waiter takes your order, speak up and look him in the eye. When your stupid coach tells you to slow it down but you see a teammate wide open under the basket, make the pass. When your sisters ask for even more money, say no. Be strong. Be bold. Be brave.

I love you and I even love some of your little dufus buddies, but you can’t stop your friends from tearing the hoop off your wall. You can’t stop your friends from grabbing handfuls of chocolate chips. You can’t stop your friends from barging through the front door, trashing the basement, and eating goldfish on the couch even though you know that no one can ever eat goldfish on the couch and that your friends can’t be over when mommy and daddy aren’t home. And, yes, I know that you calling us mommy and daddy is emasculating but, like I said, I don’t really know how to raise you so it’s time for you to stand up to your friends on your own.

Your friends aren’t bullies; they’re a bunch of simps who would get destroyed if it weren’t 2026, the softest era known to man. They cry on the basketball court, they bring their lovies to sleepovers, and they play cartoon games on their phones. Yet you, my dear son, are the one who often gets pushed around, at least when it comes to the goldfish. You feel insecure when your friends tease you for having a big forehead. You feel sad when you miss three questions on a science test and your friend calls you dumb. You feel powerless when your friends kick the ball over the sport court. I know you have feelings, I validate those feelings, and I want you, my son, to have, be aware of, and express those feelings. But I also want you to just grow a pair.

Speaking of awareness, the second thing I need you to do is wake up, dude. Listen. Look around. Sim lev. Dry yourself off before you get out of the shower. Stop using my towel and, if you do use my towel, bring it back to my bathroom and hang it up. Don’t leave it on the carpet in the middle of your room. Keep the food on your plate and off your shirt. Get your hands out of the chicken. Brush your teeth before you leave the house. Eat a vegetable. Pay attention to the conversation at the dinner table and in the car and any time you’re with other human beings who have words coming out of their mouths. Sometimes when you’re sitting next to me at dinner, I secretly watch you eat, deep in your thoughts. I feel happy because I know you’re counting how many games out of first the Cubs are but I also feel sad because I know my son is lost in the clouds.

Put the toilet seat down after you pee. Don’t leave your filthy socks next to the toaster. Hug me but don’t choke me. Just pay attention man. Focus. Your grandpa was a world-renowned physician who went glassy-eyed in long conversations. Your uncle is a PhD who has lost his wallet 37 times. Your father is a famous writer who falls asleep anywhere at any time. I see my own genetic shortcomings in your general cluelessness but I know you can be an even better version of the men who came before you.

Maybe you didn’t notice, but it mattered when you had three missing assignments. You should have felt scared, worked your butt off to finish them, and never missed an assignment again. Maybe you didn’t notice, but it mattered when you failed miserably at yout piano recital. You should have felt shame, practiced hard as hell, and crushed it the next time. Maybe you didn’t notice, but it mattered when you walked seven hitters. You should have felt embarrassed, thrown me 100 pitches the next day, and struck those motherfuckers out in the next game. I feel awful when you fail but I’m not sure I can, or should, help you any more. It’s time for you to help yourself, my boy. Much of my own life has been acknowledging and learning from my mistakes. Now it’s your turn: wake up, smell the coffee, and fail better.

And speaking of failing, my boy, my precious boy whom I may be failing as a father, I need you to step up your game here and there. I tried to teach you how to tie your shoes but you still run around on the soccer field with your laces everywhere. I tried to teach you how to hold and use a pencil but I can’t read anything you write. I tried to teach you how to put on sunblock but you look like a clown with special needs. Your grandpa was a practiced violinist who couldn’t do his own laundry. Your uncle is a former college athlete who was banned from his own mother’s kitchen because he is a walking disaster. Your father is a hirsute sex-pot who can’t get his chest hair out of the sink. Broosevelt, my job, I think, is to make you better than all of us. You can be a doctor, a writer, a musician, an athlete, and even a sex-pot if you just put your mind to it and decide that you will be a better man, and ultimately a better dad, than I am.

In your soccer team’s tournament championship, your coach asked who was gonna take the first penalty kick. You demonstrated bravery by saying you would. You demonstrated awareness by knowing your teammates needed your leadership. You demonstrated competence by making the shot. The young man who volunteered to take that shot is the best version of you, the one I’ve played a minor role in cultivating and the one you can now choose to be every single day, especially when your friends are eating the goldfish.

Love,

Daddy

P.S. Part of being brave is being okay with being naked. You don’t have to be an exhibitionist like your sex-pot father but I will be very upset if we can’t play grab-ass in the shower anymore.