An Open Letter to My Four Year-Old Son

Dear Son,

First of all, you know how much I love you. I tell you all the time, and unlike the issues I will bring up in this missive, you seem to understand what that means, and you respond that you love me too. I also want you to know that I am very proud of you; you are a VERY smart, very loquacious, wonderful, and thoughtful boy. No father could want more in his son. But there are just some simple concepts that, God bless you, you just can’t seem to grasp. I hope that by putting them down on paper (or the modern equivalent) I can perhaps think of a way to try to try to make them clearer to you.

1) Please, for the love of God, stop elbowing me in the crotch.

You won’t know how unbelievably painful this is until you’re older. It’s not even pain, really, it’s something far beyond and so much worse than pain. It’s a slow, horrible sensation that begins deep in the pit of your stomach and is so far-off, so dull, you begin to think gosh, maybe he didn’t get all of it. But oh no…soon it feels as if someone is slowly shoving a dull post-hold digger through your prostate and into your rib cage. Seriously, you’re better off just punching me full-on in the face. And if the urge to elbow your old man in the nether regions is too much to overcome, fine - hell, I’d like to give my old man a hard one to the gonads every now and then. Just stop laughing after you do it. The way to stay in my good graces and keep yourself awash in candy and toys does not involve you laughing hysterically as I double over in pain and pray to God for the sweet release that only death can bring.

2) For that matter, stop elbowing me anywhere.

I love it when you jump in the bed with me so we can watch TV. It’s fun to watch you laugh at Spongebob and sing Little Einsteins songs. But the fact is it’s a California king-sized bed. It’s enormous. As much as I love you, it is not necessary to spend the entire duration of the program seeing if you can find my geographical center by crawling all over me. As you know, I lost about 60 pounds last year and don’t have as much padding as I used to. You, on the other hand, continue to look like an albino Ethiopian kid, or a concentration camp survivor. Even that’s not quite right – even in a concentration camp you’d have other prisoners pointing at you and saying “jeez, that kid should have something to eat.” What I’m trying to say, son, is that while you do have the uncanny ability to give me the perfect Charlie horse with your knee, knock the wind out of me with a well-placed elbow to the trachea, or come very close to knocking me unconscious by violently whipping your skull into my nose, you should be using these powers for good, not evil. Remember when you made daddy slip two discs in his spine? Remember when you gave him a hernia? Remember how we couldn’t play for a while afterwards, and daddy only kind of grumbled and cursed when he saw you? Let’s not do that again, okay? The bed is plenty big enough for both of us, and frankly, I really don’t even like your mother to be that close.

3) Please keep your hands off your Johnson.

I had hoped that we could avoid talking about private parts until you were much, much older. But since we’ve already talked about mine, we should discuss yours, and how the whole world doesn’t need to see you fondling yourself. Now, I’m not going to deny that it’s lots of fun. As a very funny man named Woody Allen once said, it’s the most fun you can have without laughing. But there is a time and a place for it - the place is anywhere I’m not, and the time is anytime I’m not around. I think we should agree that you limit it to your bedroom, since the people at McDonald’s, Kohls, Safeway, Target, DSW, your daycare, your grandparents’ house, the synagogue, and any of the other hundreds of places you decide to start copping a feel on yourself, probably don’t want to see it.

4) Please learn to keep a secret.

As you get older, you will hopefully learn two completely immutable truths:

1) I am fun.
2) Your mother is not.

Your dad has a lot of experience with fun, and that experience has taught me that sometimes – often, in fact – it’s better if other people don’t know what crazy things you’ve been up to. Namely your mother. Therefore, when we do something, or buy something, or go somewhere, or eat something, and I tell you not to tell your mother, please don’t immediately yell the secret at the top of your lungs without her even prompting it the millisecond she comes into your sight.

I know mommy has told you that it’s not good to keep secrets. Well, let me tell you a secret: your mommy is no fun at all. It’s imperative that you and I have secrets between us. Otherwise the women win, son, and then…well I don’t want to imagine that kind of world. Remember during Chanukah when we went to that fancy jewelry store because you wanted to pick out a necklace for mommy? And that nice jewelry lady helped you pick it out and was so nice to you, and you picked a great one and she was so proud of you but in the end asked for Daddy’s credit card anyway (even though you’d thought you’d won some kind of contest)? Remember I told you NOT to tell mommy where we got the necklace? And when we got home, she asked where we’d been, and you yelled “TIFFANY!!!” as loud as you possibly could? That’s called not keeping a secret. It’s the exact OPPOSITE of keeping a secret, and you’re very good with opposites. Which brings me to my final request:

5) Please stop asking me questions that can’t possibly have answers.

I know you’re young and trying to learn the ways of the world. And I strongly encourage you to ask me questions about things you don’t understand, as I know how important it is to impart wisdom on such a young impressionable mind. But Jesus, son, stop asking such stupid questions. “What’s the opposite of a box?” What the hell kind of question is that? Like I said, you know your opposites and therefore you know that question doesn’t make a lick of sense. Or, for example, we’ll be walking by a store and the store will have pictures of, say, poodles in the window. You’ll ask “Why are there dogs?” I don’t have a degree in advertising or interior design, son. I can’t get into the mind of whoever put those poodles there. And you know it. So let it go. And while I know you’ve got a very inquisitive mind, you can stop asking “Why?” after everything I say. I certainly appreciate your use of the Socratic method, but good lord kid, sometimes things just are the way they are.
“Why is the sky blue?”
“Well son, the sun reflects off the moisture in the air, and…”
“Why?”
“Well there’s always moisture in the air, mostly because…”
“Why?”
“Because water evaporates, and…”
“Why?”

And on and on. I think from now on when you ask “Why?’ my answer will be “Because you keep touching yourself and elbowing me in the crotch.” I’m willing to try anything at this point.