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.