Letter to Cass (open when you're 18)

Dearest Cass,

Your dad is the bomb (although I doubt that's still the word de rigeur among the kids these days).

From the very beginning, when he would spend hours, your fuzzy head cupped in his hands, bouncing you to peace and quiet with help from Sonic Youth and Radiohead, your dad has been embraced the business of fatherhood with more dedication and wonder than I ever could have hoped. He goes beyond diaper duty and early morning play sessions and elaborate bedtime routines--all areas in which he has taken the lead. Your dad chases you around the house, while you giggle wildly--around the dining room table, up the stairs, through every room. He sacrifices his body as a jungle gym, even though he's less flexible than a steel rod. He programmed an iPod to assist in your musical education, so proud whenever you exhibit early signs of refined taste by, nodding your head to, say, The Replacements or David Bowie. He has a favorite kids' book author, and likes to buy and read you books by this goofy Sandra Boynton woman, because they make you laugh. To my horror, his latest purchase--something about hippos partying 'till the hippo break of day--is the only book you'll listen to from start to finish without hijacking the story with your own agenda. Your dad breaks the no-TV rule every morning for ESPN, indulging you in important father-to-son lessons about why the Tigers either won or lost last night's game. He gives you your bottle before bed, your body tucked perfectly into the bend of his arm, and sometimes I think he's going to cry, why with the way he looks at you, your perfect face, looking back at him with absolute adoration.

I'm telling you all of this, because unfathomable as it seems, one day you will squirrel away in your room. You will want privacy and an allowance. You will have secrets and misgivings. You will talk about things that make your dad red in the face. There will be awkward moments and tension and angst. You will be like other teenager boys, who think they know better than their fathers.

But for now, you are your father's son. You are his to poke and prod, to wiggle and wrestle and tickle, to hug and kiss and cuddle. You are his to teach and mold, which must be where your sweetness comes from. You might look a lot like me, Cass, but I see your father beneath the surface of that baby-soft skin. And for that, you are one lucky lad.

Perhaps this is heavy for an 18-year-old, but you've made a better man out of your father, Cass. Watching him tweak his priorities and personality to create a happy life for you--for all of us--has been like falling in love with him all over again.

Mister Vanity

In the last couple months, Cass has arrived at the realization that people can exist in another form. First came the infatuation with the mirror. Like all babies (I'm guessing?), he loved to stand on the bathroom counter, touching hands with the baby in the mirror, leaning in for a wet kiss only to bump his head. The baby in the mirror had a familiar quality, and he immediately sensed an intimate connection, but he didn't yet understand the concept of reflection. No amount of head-bumping helped.

A month or so later, I hung our family portrait in the living room. Cass was fascinated by these miniature versions of his parents. He would stand on the floor, pointing up at the framed photo, giggling uncontrollably at his discovery. "Ha! I know them! Looky, Mama--there you are. Up there! Look, look!," he shouts silently with his teeny pointer finger rigidly extended. So adorable, I nearly melted into the floor every time. He begged to be picked up and delivered to the photo for close-up inspection, resulting in more massive giggle attacks. He immediately led all guests to the photo, so they, too, could marvel at this photographic miracle. He was so proud.

Lately, with the onset of the summer heat, we've been taking Cass to the Riverfront, where squealing kids run through a ground-level fountain spouting up like mini geysers in a criss-cross pattern. The kids dance around in bare feet, some in bathing suits, while adults snap photos and sit on cement benches, looking out over the Detroit River to Canada, with a backdrop of the city in the other direction, enjoying the unspoken camaraderie of raising kids in Detroit. It's after-work--that time when families are usually home eating dinner--but parents of small, excitable children find themselves instead administering snacks from tupperware containers, so we can stretch these magical summer evening hours closer to bedtime. People smile and chat freely, and Cass--the most social of all--is in his glory.

For our most recent Riverfront outing, I decide to bring the video camera, since I've only ever used it one other time (his first birthday), and I'm feeling kind of guilty about that bad-mommy fact. In an effort to right my wrong, I plan to capture him testing the water with curious trepidation, then heading into it's center streams, getting caught in a sudden outburst, as the water height goes from ankle-level to well above his head with no systematic cycle that I can detect. He springs to attention every time, scampering on his tip-toes to safety, making futile efforts to dodge the jets. He's like a bowling ball baby, knocking down water pins; a drunken football player who can't weave through a field of linebackers. He gets absolutely soaked. This night, of course, video camera in hand, it's viciously windy and Cass is wise enough to steer clear of the resulting spray. He gets nary an arm hair wet. I am deflated.

My video is uneventful, but I review it anyway when I get home. Cass peers over my arm with a wrinkled brow. He looks at the screen, and before I notice the sign of recognition spread across for his face, he makes a sudden advancement toward the camera. He's a boy with an obsession for anything electronic, so this doesn't surprise me. But instead of wrestling the camera from my grip, he sweetly kisses its screen. Then he kisses it again. Open-mouth, dripping in drool. I can't stop laughing, and he looks confused. He sees himself running away from the fountain, hair blowing wildly in the wind. Recognition. And another big kiss. I wish I could get that on video.

See Cass at the Fountain