Dear Boot,
Happy 21st Birthday, today. We love you.
Now, sit back and shut your mouth because I'm mad at you. I'm really, really mad at you. And I'm going to tell you why.
There's nothing in this Open Letter to the Internet that I wouldn't say directly to you. Maybe you'll see it. Read it. And understand me if you're out there surfing, myspacing, utubing, whatEVer.
Assorted cool boots readers who also love you and have SENT YOU GIFTS thru the years and ALSO HAPPEN TO BE YOUR FAMILY will also read this.
Others who don't know you but who know ME will read this. They know we love you and they always make a point to ask me how you are getting along.
Your dad probably won't read this. He doesn't read the cool boots blog and his mother-in-law canNOT understand why. (Thanks, Mom.)
So, here's the thing. You are 21 today. Born at straight up 5 p.m. your dad has always said. I haven't known you all of these 21 years, but I've known you for 14 (shoot ... long time) years and I've pasted your baby pictures into scrapbooks for you so I feel like I knew you when you wore saggy diapers and loved ninja turtles and had a favorite stuffed animal you called "puppalump." I didn't know you when your Dad read bedtime stories to you, but I know that when he reads to your little brothers, he pronounces "Dr. Seuss" as "Bidersuess," and I think he does that because you did. Right? And I wasn't around when you were a sleepy toddler, but I know that when your little brother, The Short One, waddles into our bedroom at night and approaches your Dad's side of the bed, permission to sleep next to his Daddy is instantly granted because your Dad thinks of you waddling in w/ wet pants every night to his side of the bed. And "reaching down and lifting him up and tucking him in next to me," in his exact words. And being close to you was the very best thing in the world. Because in a few years he wouldn't be.
I wasn't around in the first couple of years when your Dad struggled to maintain his health, mental and physical, by being a single father and being with you only when a judge said he could, but I know when he is away from your brothers now ... and from you ... his heart aches and he isn't quite the same. I know that we can be having a perfectly normal conversation and there's "this look" that passes across his handsome face and I know that look means, "Where's Boot? Is he OK? I miss him and I want to talk about him but I don't want to upset you, My Sweet, by interrupting your ramblings and letting you know I'm not listening to a word you're saying." And I don't mind. So, then I bring you up. And we talk. And we wonder where and how you are.
I know that when he travels with your brothers for long distances in the car, he always takes a pillow for each of them. And he worries that they're comfortable when they fall asleep. That their heads aren't cocked too far to one side or too far forward because that might disturb their rest. Because he did that for you when you traveled so many miles in the car w/ him ... back and forth between visits. He told me the story of how he would hold your head in a comfortable position against your pillow and away from the seat belt while you traveled more than 90 miles between his house and your mom's. He talks about not being able to feel his arm ... only you. You should know that.
I didn't drive the approximately 1.7 billion miles your father did to see you and touch you throughout your growing up years. 1.7 billion miles, I tell you. Weekend visits there, here and back. That's two trips for you, four for him. Lots of times. That's a lot of miles. But, throughout all those hours and all those miles, while I may not have been THERE, he wasn't HERE. And there were times when I worried for his safety and for yours ... late at night ... in poor weather. But, there was never a doubt where he would be come Wed. evenings, 1/3/5 weekends or any significant sporting event. And thru the years, I, and then your little brothers, came to partake in those events too. And I learned to HATE the losers' bracket in baseball tournaments and ANY track and field meet. Give me football or basketball, ANY day, but baseball and track and field were HOT, boring and generally sucky. But, that's not why I'm mad.
I marvel at how from young ages your little brothers knew that you were their big brother even tho you weren't w/ us every day. I assumed little minds would forget ... since our visits became less frequent, but they never forgot. And, you know what? Neither did you. When I view your My Space page, I see that you've listed the fact that you've got "three little brothers." Two here. One there. Good for you.
You should know your dad expects enormous things from you. Enormous. Because he wasn't able to shape you each day w/ his mind and his heart and his honor, he did the best he could, when he could. During the occasional visit and with intense and soulful prayer. Because you two were not blessed with the gift of each other each and every day, you had to find much of your way on your own. And so did he.
You know how when your high school teacher tells you that you can use a cheat sheet for a big test and then when test time comes you don't need it because after you've crammed everything on a 3x5 notecard, you know all the answers? Well, start cramming. It'll make us think you have all the answers. Cram a few thoughts into an occasional email. A text message. A phone call. (And I'll be damned if you didn't go and make moot certain points of this letter by CALLING your dad this evening while I was typing.)
Five weeks had passed since our last visit with you. And while families may go months, years or even decades w/o speaking or with ISSUES amongst them, we don't DO estrangement. We just don't. So, good for you for calling your Dad on YOUR birthday.
So, why am I mad? Probably for the same reasons your grandparents stayed mad at your dad when he was a new 21. Probably the same reasons my parents grew frustrated w/ me when I was a new 21. And why they fumed when my brother, your uncle, was 21.
When you're 21 you DON'T get it. And, as parents, we get MAD when we think you don't GET IT. And I guess you won't GET IT until, as a parent, you're fuming too. You cannot fathom how much your parents love you. You can't wrap your arms around how terrified we are when we don't hear from you. YOU are well, happy, alive and kickin' over there in your 21-year-old world, and to your father you are still the soggy-diaper-wearing, obscenely-long-lashed infant who came to him for comfort in the night. He so deeply respects the man you've become, but he expects more. Because that's what parents are supposed to do. We're never satisfied.
He expects to share in good times and bad. Sickness and health. All that stuff. Don't just call when you've done something good. Call to say, "Shit, Dad. This real life stuff is TOUGH." I swear he won't say "I told you so." You KNOW that given the chance he'll call you. Don't make it hard for him to find you.
We never stop loving. "I know, I know," you'll say because that's what 21-year-olds say. "I know, Dad." Whether he's told you to change the oil in your car or that he loves you more than anything and that his heart feels like you've backed over it in your 4x4 when you haven't called or answered your phone in 5 weeks. We are selfish beings, your parents. We expect receipt of your love, and that's pretty much it. Oh, and your honor, respect, trust and all that junk, too.
But, you don't have to earn our love. That was automatically granted 8/15/86 at 5 p.m.
Just CALL YOUR FATHER!! CALL HIM PLEASE!! Bottom line.
Happy Birthday, Boot. We love you.
