Hey, Henry
I sure do love you, kid.
You’re at school right now so I can’t squeeze you and tell you that I’m thinking about you. So I’m making a note right here; something for you to dig up in years to come, maybe.
I sure do love you, Henry Leo. I sure do.
xxx,
Mom
Filed under Dear Henry | Comment (1)someday we’ll go all the way, little man
Hello boy
You’re gonna inherit a lot of crap from me, son: those blue eyes of yours are gonna hurt in broad daylight; we’re gonna have to watch your teeth like hawks and swoop in the first time something goes crooked; you’re gonna be a giant, and if you’re like me, that’ll mean growing pain so horrible you’ll seem to go whole summers without sleeping; migraines and that temper and god only knows what else.
Worst of all, you’ll find yourself inheriting a fiendish loyalty to the Chicago Cubs, a baseball team that hasn’t won the World Series since before your great-grandparents were born. And since that one’s NOT genetic, as far as we know, I have some explaining to do.
This year, your Chicago Cubs made it to October, just like I promised you, but we didn’t make it very far into October, which, while I never would’ve promised, came as no surprise.
We practically led our division and our league wire-to-wire; we brought in 97 wins, the second-best in all of baseball, and Carlos Zambrano pitched the first Cubby no-hitter in thirty years.
Then we blew three in a row and that was that; the season ended in LA. And it was horrible and sad and awful and sickening and infuriating and GOD it sucks but… but that’s okay. We shook it off and that was that. It was okay. Because we’re Cubs fans.
There’ll come a time when you’ll want to know why we’re Cubs fans if we lose all the time. You’ll see October after October come and go and some other team grabbing the pennant and then storming through the series like titans and you’ll turn to me and say, well, Dad, why the hell are we rooting for losers?
Because we’re Cubs fans. Losing is what we do. Losing is what we’re used to. Losing is why we love our team. Losing is what makes us strong.
I mean, it sucks, but it’s true.
It’s now been 100 years since the Cubs won the World Series. That is a very, very long time, son. It’s the kind of wait that makes grown men cry. There have been lifelong Cubs fans that went cradle to grave without seeing their team win in October. It’s the kind of losing streak that breaks faith and makes fair-weather fans depart for greener pastures on the south side.
Not me, boy, and not you, I hope.
(Baseball’s one of those things that easily lends itself to pastoral metaphors and cheap-ass symbolism, so forgive me for indulging in it. Drawing comparisons between life and baseball is as hoary a cliché as they come and, for a guy that makes his living trying to write I should know better, but bear with me.)
In life… you’re gonna lose. If you’re like most of us you’re gonna lose a lot more than you win. Not much will be handed to you, although your mom and I will do our best to equip you for everything you’ll encounter. You’ll get knocked down again and again, in spite of all your best intentions and planning. It sucks, and it’s awful, and no, it’s not fair.
There are always gonna be guys (read: “other teams”) with more money than you, with more talent than you, that stay healthier than you, and that’re just plain luckier than you. They’ll seem to skate to victory without breaking a sweat. They’ll seem to simply show up and walk to wherever it is you want to go and can’t quite get to no matter how hard you try.
What’s important isn’t the winning. What’s important is the trying. That you get up and try again.
Being a Cubs fan kinda prepares you for that. It teaches you patience, forgiveness, and loyalty. This is our team, boy, and we’ll stick with ‘em. Otherwise, what are you worth to your friends when things get bad? What kind of man bails out on his team?
You don’t complain about the umps making lousy calls when the game doesn’t go your way. Play harder and fight harder and don’t whine while you do it. Calls are going to get blown. The game goes on.
And you don’t boo your own team. Get sad, get mad, get angry, get blue– there’s a reason our guys wear that deep Cubbie blue, son– but don’t boo our guys.
We’re not entitled to anything in this life. Behaving like everybody owes you something will leave you direly unhappy, bitterly disappointed, and surrounded by people you exhaust and exasperate.
And never stop thinking you can turn it around or that the race is over before the finish line.
It’s not all bummers, though. Being a Cubs fan means you’ll learn about magic, too. And curses. About goats and black cats and holy cows and Rynos. About Baseball’s Sad Lexicon, a poor guy named Merkel, and a grown man named Dizzy. About Billy and Jackie and Ron Santo, who keeps standing up, even after his hair caught on fire. And about bleacher bums and walls of ivy and Friendly Confines forever named after the man that built ‘em, and not some goddamn cellphone company.
And you’ll learn about Mr. Banks, the very best we ever had, who loved the game so much he wanted to play two, even when we were losing.
Most of all you’ll learn that winning might make you great but it doesn’t necessarily make you good. Getting knocked down isn’t the measure of who you are. It’s that you get up again. And the people in life worth surrounding yourself with will be the ones cheering you on.
Oh! And we’ll get ‘em next year. I promise.
Dad
PS- Fans of both the St. Louis Cardinals and the Chicago White-Sox are the kinds of hollow shells that made Vichy France possible. Never forget that.
Filed under Dear Henry | Comments (2)PS
Henry,
I totally forgot to tell you: YOU PANTSED ME.
I was standing in the kitchen fixing my coffee and you grabbed hold of my pants, asking me to pick you up and instead… you pantsed me.
So, um, loose-fitting lounge pants around you might be a bad idea for a while.
Filed under Dear Henry | Comment (0)Sick Day
Mr. Henry,
Miss April is out sick today and you and your daddy are both fighting the same cold. You’re losing. On top of that, poor thing, you’re cutting four teeth simultaneously. The one on the top right has broken through, at long last, but your gums are a bit discolored there which concerns me. (You fell and hit your mouth last week and it bled from that spot. I’m hoping the discoloration is just a bruise or something and not a broken tooth in the gum. Since you’re perfectly willing to let me touch it, I’m going to assume it’s a bruise. I imagine a broken tooth would hurt something fierce.) We’ll keep an eye on that.
So this morning hasn’t been our best. The first incident was when you flipped over mid-diaper change (on the floor) and crawled over to the bookshelf. This isn’t unusual — you don’t like sitting still for diaper changes and I’ve gotten into the habit of letting you crawl around a little with your junk hanging out. Get some air circulating down there, I guess. But today, for the first time, you tinkled on the carpet. I wasn’t mad, just surprised. And a little flummoxed when you reached to play in your little puddle. I stopped you and mopped up the spot — spots, actually, there were two — with your pajama pants as those were the only absorbent items within reach. Sorry about that. I didn’t put them back on you, if that’s any consolation.
Later you tried to pull the same stunt during a poopy diaper change — this one up on the changing table. You were strapped in, but you managed to flip anyway (bravo!). Of course, that made a nasty mess and I had to sweep you up and plop you down in the tub immediately.
After your bath, I tried to put you down for your nap. You were obviously sleepy — you could barely keep your eyes open on my lap — but every time I put you in your crib, you raised holy hell. You screamed and thrashed and kicked and reached for me and even managed to pull out a hank of hair at one point. I muttered some ugly, un-motherly things under my breath. Things like, “Dammit, Henry…” and “If you kick me again, I swear I will pop that leg off and make you grow another one.”
You won.
I gave up and brought you back downstairs. We used the nasal aspirator to get a metric ton of snot out of your nose, which I hope made you feel better. Your daddy’s trick of counting “1…2…3…” before letting go of the bulb seemed to help — you giggled like it was a game. I was grateful for that.
You ate some cereal and applesauce and then started rubbing your eyes again so we went back upstairs and gave that nap another go. You fell asleep on my lap again and again protested when I put you in your crib. I stayed and rubbed your back and sang to you and did everything I was supposed to but you just seemed to be headed in the wrong direction — more awake instead of more asleep.
I sat down in the glider and started reading OPERATING INSTRUCTIONS, hoping you would play for a bit and then fall asleep, but it didn’t happen. You did play, but there was no sleeping. We did that for half an hour before I finally gave up and got your daddy. He got you down for your nap in about 10 minutes and went back to bed. I felt bad for waking him, but man, am I glad you’re resting.
Uh oh. I spoke too soon.
…
Okay, well, now you’re up and you’ve got the hiccups and you’re cute and funny and I’m going to go back to cuddling with you on the couch.
Before I go, though, I want to you to know why I’m writing this. I’m not really complaining (even though I know there’s something of that), I’m not mad and I hope I haven’t embarrassed you. I’m writing so that one day when you’re grown and you’ve got kids of your own, and you’re having yourself a day like I’m having today, you’ll be able to flip to this page in your digital baby book and you’ll know that you’re part of a long tradition. You’ll be reminded that these things pass and that you are very, very loved.
And maybe you’ll laugh. I hope you laugh.
Okay, you’re on the floor now barking at me like a dog. Gotta go.
Filed under Dear Henry | Comment (1)