Dear Evan:

Once upon a time, I had a job where I traveled. Not an excessive amount, but enough, and other than the inefficiencies of air travel it was okay.

Then I moved home, and we had you, and I took a job with much less travel. And now I don’t want to. Isn’t that crazy? I just want to sit in the battered camp chair on our back porch and listen to you make up stories while you play with your Mighty Machines.

Most of the time, I feel singularly underqualified to be a father. I’m not young, and I don’t always have the energy or the patience to keep up with you, and I didn’t spend years preparing in any way.

You, though, have started to bridge the gap. You coo “I looooove you” and put your hands on either side of my face, or say “I missed you when you were at your office,” that sort of thing. You give sudden smooches, and throw your whole little body into hugs.

So I don’t want to go away for almost a week. At least coming home will be even better.

In case you ever read these letters in the future, I want to add a quick note about what’s going on in the world.

This past weekend, the first openly gay player was drafted in the National Football League. I hope that someday you read this and shrug. That it’s as uneventful as a black man playing professional sports is to me, when certainly that wasn’t the case not too long ago.

I mention it because your middle-namesake, Doug Bastianelli, was a football fan and a proud gay man. He would have cheered, as we did, and cried a little, as we did. I wished he could have seen it, but am glad you did in his place.

I love you,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

Yesterday evening, I sat on the floor next to you playing cars. You stood, having created a combination parking lot (for the fire trucks, sports cars, etc.) and construction site (for what you call “mighty machines,” still very much your favorites). I noticed, in a rare quiet moment, that if I slouched a bit, you were as tall as my upper body. It was a startling, happy moment.

That’s an odd statement, I know. Bear with me.

Not so long ago for us, you weren’t even as long as my forearm. I was nervous to hold you in NICU, nervous I would somehow break just a tiny, gangly thing. Months later, once you were home, I could easily cradle you in one arm, head near my elbow, while I worked on my laptop with the free hand.

But there you were, chattering away to the both of us, almost half as tall as me. Height is a big deal to you, and I’m not surprised. Your personality may fill a room (and it does), but you’re still a tiny person living in a place where almost everything is out of reach.

It’s no wonder you idolize your 6’6″ cousin (though you call him uncle) Scott. To you, he can literally touch the sky, the moon, the clouds.

But don’t let him have all the fun. You’ll get there. You’ll be tall, like me, like your mother, like your cousins (Scott and otherwise), like my brother and sister.

No matter how tall, though, I’ll always want to cradle you in the nook of my arm.

I love you,

Daddy