I'm Raising a Son
Dear Myles,
This week you started 3-K, and I spent a lot of time reflecting on how quickly time is moving. I still can’t believe that you are the same child who could barely fit into preemie clothes, who once barely fit in the palms of my hands. And now, here you are. Going to school. Growing up right in front of me.
I am raising a son whose joy in his body cannot be contained in his body. Who loves to run when there is space and loves to dance when the beats drop. Will run laps around the grocery store and try to handstand at a party that’s not even his. He believes the world revolves around him. And as his father, I allow him to revel in the thought that he is the only sun in this universe—because who am I to tell him otherwise?
I am raising a son who still loves to cuddle, who gives the softest kisses that smooch every time, who asks for hugs as if his whole life depends on it. Who still asks for you to “hold me, please” when he is scared, who will cry if you yell just a little too loud and remind you that you just told him that yelling is not nice.
I’m raising a son whose tantrums make me question who pays these bills. Who makes me walk away, and makes me understand why my mom did what she had to do to get me right. I’m raising a son who makes me want to get him right
so
many
times.
I’m raising a son who loves to play. Who can catch a ball like someone slathered honey on his palms. Who can throw a dot that makes other dads say, “Wait, did he just do that?” I’m raising a son who’s confident—who knows he’s not just another toddler. He knows God wasn’t playing and put a little extra sauce in this spot when he was making this one.
I’m raising a son who already knows he is brown and his good friend isn’t. And knows how his friend can play in the sand, but knows he himself needs permission first and a durag second because his hair is different. Who knows that these knees need Vaseline and these cheeks need to be greased up so when the sun shines on it, the sun squints.
I am raising a son who loves the blue pack of fruit snacks, hates getting his hair done unless Lyla in the Loop is on, who loves stuffing things in bags, lining up his toys, and reminds you every chance he gets that “I can do it all by myself.”
I’m raising a son who reminds me of my purpose, that when things in life get hard, there is someone waiting for me to come home. A son that reminds me there is still so much good in this life. And maybe that’s what happens when you’re raising a son.
Love,
Daddy
These letters are a labor of love. All funds collected from writing these letters go toward Myles’ college savings. A paid subscription also gives you access to all letters I’ve written to Myles, including these letters where I explore fatherhood more deeply, discuss my own upbringing, and reflect on what it means to be raising a Black son.
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