Even before Will was born I wondered what he’d look like, how he’d act as a toddler, taking him to Fenway & Gillette for the first time and how he’d act as a precocious teenager. But then I stopped because I remembered my own teen years and the mere thought of being on the other end of that hot mess scared the holy hell out of me.

So I decided in that moment to write a letter to future Will, eight years from now on his 12th birthday, which I’ll keep and hopefully read in the future when I’m ready to tear my hair out. Here goes:
To my oldest son William on his 12th birthday.

Dear Will,
It seems impossible to me that in one more year you’ll be a teenager.
You are so big now, and every year I get more and more proud of you.

I wanted to write you this letter because maybe I can explain
what I want to say in writing better than I can in person.
As you get older, the pressures on you will get tougher and tougher.
You will have to make important decisions almost everyday,
decisions which will affect your life forever. Decisions like
“Should I try smoking cigarettes?” “Should I try any drugs?”
“Should I drink beer or alcohol?” and “Should I have sex with anyone?”|

You are also going to have feelings or desires to do things, or ideas
that you’ll think about that you think makes you weird. What you won’t realize
is that everyone is weird—just being you is what’s important.

Growing up is hard on a kid—I know. And it helps a lot to have parents
you can talk to, who will listen and not make fun of what you think.
Your mother has always been a great parent. She listens and understands.
I’ve always been too busy or impatient to really listen to you, and I know
you think I’m an old fart who doesn’t understand.

But the truth is, as you grow up Will, I’m growing up as a father.
Now I know it’s more important to listen than to yell.
I can remember how hard it was being 12 and I want to be there to help you.
It’s important to have a father at home to talk to about stupid things like girls,
or being embarrassed about something, or to ask if this ever happened to him.

As great as your mom is, some things you want to discuss with your dad.
I want you to know that I will try to be a listener, not a lecturer.
I will try and help you help yourself, not tell you what to do.

I know I haven’t done a great job so far, but I hope
you’ll give me a chance and trust me. I won’t let you down.
I love you,
Dad

Cool letter huh? Wanna know something even cooler? This is the exact letter my own father wrote to me 20 years ago when I turned 12.

Call this one of the perks of moving back home at 32—you find funny stuff from decades ago. But the silver lining is I’m once again reminded I never had to look beyond my own two parents to learn how to be a good one myself.

So I guess it’s only natural for him to wonder how they come out too.

It started Saturday when I told him Jordan was born and showed him a picture. He was ecstatic and wanted to hold her, because he recently held Amy and loved it. It was so cute because of how focused he was. He took his responsibilities as a baby-holder ULTRA seriously and was all business. It took major coaxing just to get him to loosen up and smile. But I digress…

So long story short, Will asked me how baby Jordan came out of Kelly’s stomach. I wasn’t sure how to answer, so I bought myself more time by asking him how he thinks babies are born.

“Baby Jordan came out of Auntie Kelly’s bellybutton,” he said.

We all have different parenting styles. For instance, some parents would be tempted to concur with Will’s explanation of childbirth and leave it at that. Others opt to make up a story that loosely resembles the truth but skips all the uncomfortable parts. I don’t fault the parents who go these routes. I get it. But ultimately, when faced with these situations, I’ve chosen a vastly different path.

Honesty. Brutal honesty.

“Not quite buddy,” I began gingerly. “Babies don’t come out of a bellybutton. Actually, they come out of a woman’s vagina.”

“WHAT?!? ‘Baginas??’ Stop it dad. You’re kidding.”

“Nope, I’m serious,” I said. “The mom pushes the baby out through her vagina. That’s how it happens.”

But apparently the mere notion of natural childbirth was decidedly unnatural to my son. He really didn’t believe me. So, faced with his continued curiosity and the fact that he doesn’t believe me, I did what all modern parents do when facing a quandary.

I asked for advice on Twitter.

I got some well-intentioned, run-of-the-mill advice at first but then someone suggested something very simple and brilliant. He said there are many videos of natural childbirth on YouTube, so why not show Will what I was talking about instead of inadequately attempting to describe it?

I know what some of you are thinking. You’re screaming “Are you crazy??? You’re going to show your 3.5-year-old a video of a partially nude woman giving birth?! That’s so inappropriate!” And that’s fine, you’re welcome to your opinions. I know my sister-in-law Melissa had the same reaction, and she’s a medical doctor. But I see absolutely nothing pornographic or inappropriate about childbirth, and therefore I see no reason not to show Will. It’s pretty much akin to breastfeeding. Yes Will sees a glimpse of a woman’s breast at times when she’s feeding a newborn, but so what? We tell him that’s how babies eat. And he accepts it, realizes it’s no big deal and moves on.

I want to be honest with my son and give him straight answers whenever possible. And this was one of those times when it made total sense. So, I showed him.

The video was of a woman engaged in a homebirth. She was pushing and grunting, and Will watched with a look that conveyed interest mixed with confusion. Then the woman got on her knees with her back to the camera, gave one final push and suddenly the baby’s head was visible. Will’s jaw dropped and he smiled, pointing to the baby. And for a moment, I was very proud of my son for being so adult, and for my parenting techniques and decision to show him.

“Do you have any questions bud?” I asked.

“Yeah dada. Why does the baby come out of the mama’s bum?”

Ruh-roh Shaggy.

“No no no, the baby didn’t come out of her bum. It came out of her vagina.”

“Um Dad, ACTUALLY it came out of her bum. Look.”

“Will, I know it kinda looks like the baby came out of her bum, but trust me. It didn’t. Babies come out of vaginas.”

“How do you know, Dad?”

“Because I watched when you were born and I would’ve remembered you coming out of Mom’s bum. Trust me, you came out the vagina.”

“But Dada, there’s pee in baginas. Did mom pee on me?”

At that point, far off in the distance, I thought I heard the distinct sound of a train derailing, crashing into a building and then careening over a cliff landing with a fiery explosion. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, I went from teaching my son a valuable life lesson to discussing ass play and golden showers. And the worst part is he’s obsessed with babies right now and he talks to anyone who will listen about babies falling out of bums and how mom peed on him.

Needless to say I’m dreading the inevitable call from his preschool teacher, and having to explain to her that my son and I were watching YouTube videos together and talking about vaginas and assholes.

That stupid stork is looking more and more appealing.

In college I drank a little bit. And by a little bit I mean everyday. Ultimately this was not a positive aspect of my life, but the one good thing that came out of it was a supremely high tolerance. At the height of my college days I could take down a case of beer during one night and—while I was still drunk—I was also still functional and upright while some of my peers were passed out or falling over.

I know, you’re wondering how I’m going to possibly bring this back to parenting. And the answer is “tolerance.”

If you have (or currently are) dealing with a 3-year-old you know they can be evil little monsters. In addition to testing their boundaries at every opportunity, they’ve also learned to talk. Which means they’ve learned how to cop an attitude and talk back. Will has been particularly whiny for the last couple of months, and each time he doesn’t get his way he throws attitude and whines our way.

When I was Will’s primary caretaker I knew this and dealt with it on a daily basis. I was prepared for it. My skin was thick and it took a lot to penetrate my defenses. After all, if you discipline your kids with timeouts or make them pick up their toys when they don’t want to, you get used to hear him whine and it just becomes background noise.

But all that has changed.

I’ve been working at my new job for a month now. Four hours of commuting a day means I see him for five minutes in the morning and an hour or so at night. All day long I miss him and desperately want to get home to him. I put all the whining, temper-tantrums and negative stuff out of my head and view Will through the rose-colored glasses of a working dad who just wants to get home and have Kodak moments with his little boy.

This, of course, is completely unrealistic since I’m bound to catch some of his whiny moods. Especially as he prepares for bath and bed, because he NEVER wants his day to end or to go to sleep.

Yet I expect a well-behaved boy who’s happy to see me and wants to drop whatever he’s doing to spend precious minutes with me. But what I get is a whiny, normal 3-year-old. The only problem is I have no tolerance for the whining anymore. I’m never around it and so I’m very thin-skinned now. That means I come home, he whines, I get frustrated and yell at him, he yells at me, I give him a timeout, he gets more pissed off and soon it’s time for bed. And I’ve spent my 30 minutes of father-son time yelling at him and disciplining him.

It’s tough and I don’t have an answer or solution at the moment. I know I don’t want our brief daily interactions to consist of punishments, but that whining seems to go through me like nails on a chalkboard these days. I know that’s perfectly normal for a kid his age and I’m expecting way too much of him, but I can’t help it. It’s just another shitty part of being a part-time commuter dad.

Maybe I should work some of that alcohol back into the equation…

Photo by Mike Baird (http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikebaird/)

An otherwise pleasant morning ground to a sudden halt when Will uttered that aforementioned sentence. It literally stopped me in my tracks and sent me reeling, like a gunshot. I asked him to repeat what he said, thinking maybe he was saying something different. But he wasn’t.

After some coaxing, he told me he felt sad after we played baseball a few days ago because he didn’t hit the ball much. After a few swings and misses, he grew discouraged and got down on himself. And then, in a roundabout way, he told me he didn’t want me to be mad at him when he strikes out.

I was just about to launch into a “What are you talking about? I’m always proud of you. How could you think that?” speech, when a slew of images all popped into my head simultaneously.

I pictured Will watching me watch Red Sox games. Seeing dad get visibly upset at the television, all the while screaming at the under-performing players. How many times have I lambasted Carl Crawford after his unsuccessful trips to the plate? How often have I verbally eviscerated Jacoby Ellsbury for striking out like my Great Aunt Mabel? One time after Jarrod Saltalamacchia struck out, I’m pretty sure I openly questioned whether or not he actually possessed male genitalia.

Even though I obviously have never and would never say such things to Will, I do say things like that in front of him about others. So it goes without saying he’d pick up on that negativity and apply it to himself. As simple and obvious as that sounds, it really didn’t dawn on me until now.

But even more than that, I’m worried because self-doubt and having a negative opinion of yourself is my Achilles’ heel. And I was hoping Will would skip that awful trait of mine and harness his mother’s self-confidence instead.

I was a neurotic mess of a kid. I showed athletic promise very early, and when I was nine years old I made the baseball all-star team. I made it the next four years as well. During that time, I put so much pressure on myself I’d make myself sick before, during and after games. If I struck out I cried like I had just let everyone in my life down. If I hit the ball but still didn’t get on base, I cried. Hell, one time I remember hitting what I thought was a homerun but ended up hitting the top of the fence for a double. While standing on second base, I cried because it wasn’t a homer.

I played the piano, clarinet and saxophone as a kid too. My grandmother was a piano teacher and a member of the Boston Pops and Tanglewood. She was incredible. But because she was so skilled, I felt the need to match her even as a little kid. That’s why I could nearly get through an entire piece on the piano, but if I made a mistake right at the end I’d throw a HUGE fit. Then I’d start over from the beginning. I wouldn’t stop until I had played the entire piece without a mistake. I never enjoyed the times I did play it right because I spent the whole time crying and engaging in relentless self-flagellation.

Although I no longer burst into tears at the slightest miscue, I’m plagued by a lack of confidence to this day.

Ask MJ what she hates most about me, and she’ll tell you it’s my failure to give myself any credit whatsoever. I’m convinced I have no talent. Every day I run on the assumption that I’m truly a dime a dozen. I think I’m a mediocre husband, father, writer…you name it. Any time MJ gives me the slightest compliment, I tell her it’s not true. I always thought it was just me remembering the importance of remaining humble, but MJ claims I lack even the most basic levels of self-confidence and self-love.

I don’t want that for my son.

Will is amazing. He’s smart and handsome and—up until this unfortunate incident—has attacked life with vigor and zeal. I love that about him. Hell, I’m jealous of him. He’s only 3, but even at this young age he possesses the elusive knack of being comfortable in his own skin. Of being at ease with himself.

I won’t see him torture himself with self-doubt like I’ve done my whole life.

So I told him he does not stink. I reminded him about the time he hit a ball so hard and so far it hit the side of our neighbor’s house about 15 feet high. I told him he’s the best 3-year-old ballplayer I’ve ever seen, and no matter how many times he swings and misses he’s still going to be great. Trying hard, practicing and having fun are the truly important things, I told him, and he does all of them.

“Hmmm. So Dada, we play baseball later?”

Absolutely buddy. And maybe while Dada is teaching you how to hit better, you can teach him a little something too.

I was surprised because he told me he doesn’t take showers unless his daughter is napping during the day.

I’m totally on the other end of that spectrum. I take a shower first thing in the morning and I let Will have free reign of the house, because MJ is already gone. I used to keep him contained in the bathroom but when he learned how to open doors and turn knobs, there was nothing to stop him. That and he broke our baby gate.

He questioned how I could leave Will to his own devices for that long. Now granted, we live in a ranch style home so there are no stairs for Will to fall down. And I told him we babyproofed the house enough that Will can’t really get into anything that can hurt him. Hell, usually he just pops in and out of the bathroom saying “Hi Dadda” or he watches Mickey Mouse on TV. Honestly, Will is pretty good and can entertain himself without getting into too much trouble. And when I told the other dad this, he was very impressed. And I, being extremely competitive, felt pretty damn good about myself and my parenting ability.

Then came this morning.

I took my shower, as usual, and turned on the TV for Will. Usually when I shut off the water in the shower he runs right in and says “Dadda, out!” But when I turned off the shower this time, I heard nothing. I called out his name, but received no response. Worried, I rushed out sopping wet wrapped in just a towel to my bedroom. The TV was on but no Will. Quickly gearing up toward a full blown panic, I ran out into the hallway and into the living room. And that’s when I saw it.

Will was standing up on the couch. He had a stainless steel pot on his head, and was holding a fork in one hand and a hammer in the other. He looked like some sort of whacked out handyman superhero, the only thing missing was his cape.

“Hi Dadda,” he said, as if nothing peculiar was happening.

I still don’t know how he got the hammer. I really don’t. I have no clue where it could’ve been stored that it was within his reach. When I realized he was OK, I started looking around for collateral damage he may have inflicted upon the walls or our furniture, because he loves swinging things. And a swinging hammer might put a hole in the wall. Or a cat, which wouldn’t be so bad.

Needless to say, I’m no longer planning to brag to other parents about Will’s self-sufficient nature or my own parenting skills. But if he does become a hammer-wielding superhero, you better believe I’m taking all the credit.