Dear Evan:

I think you’re inheriting your daddy’s love for scary stories. Recently, you ask every night for a scary story — “but not *too* scary, just a little scary” — after we read books at bedtime.

Sometimes, I’m able to oblige, though I have to admit more often that I start in on what *I* think is only a little scary, and you plug your eyes and stop me right away.

(Looks like the Headless Horseman will need to wait another year.)

You may also have inherited your daddy’s love for storytelling. A few nights ago, we were driving home from errands and I heard from the back seat:

Halloween 2014

“…and the ghost became a *witch*… and the witch became a *monster*… and the monster became a *gob-uh-lin*… and the gob-uh-lin became a *pile of zombies*!”

All complete with dramatic enunciation and growly whisper. I laughed. “What are you doing, bug?”

“Telling a scary story.”

If you get an agent before I do, I’m just going to be crushed.

I love you,

Daddy

Dear Evan –

Today is Election Day 2014, but I’m not sure I want to write much about that. Your mother and I voted early last week, while I was off work for your birthday. I am interested in politics — it was my minor at college — but pessimistic. Your mother is even more interested, and motivated. However you turn out, I hope you always take time to vote. It’s a privilege not granted in many places. It’s a privilege often not granted here in the United States, which is why I hope you vote for the people who will serve all Americans, not just a few.

Well. I guess I wanted to write more about voting than intended. I’ll stop now, though. Maybe I’ll write more about it later this week, when the shenanigans of today are less top of mind.

Mostly I want to share snippets of your now-four-year-old life.

The most embarrassing (right now): Your mother and I, early on, decided against circumcision. Obviously, that means you’ll need to clean the bits yourself. Your doctor was worried, though, because your foreskin hadn’t been cooperating. We had some success for a bit, but then you went back to being unable to pull it back far enough. I explained after one bathtime that if we didn’t keep at it, you might need to get the circumcision. You asked what that was, and I simplified by saying you’d need surgery to remove the foreskin.

To my surprise, you began wailing. I was startled, and then laughed at your next statement: “I hate everything now!”

I hear you, little man.

I love you,
Daddy

Dear Evan:

Yesterday Gus, our sweet, dumb, gassy golden retriever, left us.

“Left us” is a weak euphemism. We put him to sleep, a less weak euphemism but still somewhat heartless. He was mostly unable to work his back legs; he lost almost all control of his bladder; he was losing what little mental faculties he had. He was in pain, panting constantly, up most nights unable to get comfortable or to slake his thirst or because he still tried to get outside to pee or poop. His right eye drooped and was somewhat sunken after what we think was a stroke. He had cancerous growths on his tongue and neck and belly.

And yet he still had a sparkle, still occasionally rolled onto his back and kicked his legs in the air, his version of playing. So we held on until the bad times clearly outweighed the good.

I will write later about Gus’ awful early life, how he was found and rescued by your mom and Aunt Rachel, how his name was your first word. I can’t do it now. I can barely write this without bawling.

On his last few weeks, we indulged Gus more and more. We fed him scraps, something he repaid by gassing us liberally. We played and let him sleep (something he did a lot lately, often not waking until we shook him) and petted him until our hands were tired.

We put off the decision again and again until we couldn’t without acknowledging it was for us, not him. He was hurting. So we made an appointment with the vet that had seen him regularly the past few years.

On his last morning, we took Gus to a local taco shop, got him a big plate of brisket and bacon. I forked it out in smaller segments, so quickly did he wolf it down. He got tortillas, too, and half of my burrito. I wasn’t really hungry. We cried, there at the outdoor patio. I’d spent the night before dreaming that we got word he was fine, that it wasn’t cancer, that we could help his joints. I hate those dreams now. Hate them.

We took him to the vet. Once in the holding room, Gus got nervous, as he always did. He hid his head between my legs; your mom and I just petted him, over and over and over, until I said, “Okay” and she poked her head through and called the vet. Gus was led in back, given a catheter, and brought again to us. We laid him some towels on the floor and sat with him, petting him, crying our fool eyes out (as I am doing now), and the vet gave him one shot — he relaxed almost immediately, and his head drooped to the floor, and the harsh panting he’d had for months eased.

Another shot, then, and he slowed, and I wept, hiccoughing, unphotogenically. The vet listened through a stethoscope, and just when I thought I’d gone dry, she said quietly, “He’s gone.” And he was. And I wasn’t dry of tears after all.

We petted him for a long time after that. He had one paw reached out, touching my foot, as he did every day I worked in my home office, every weekend morning when I sat at my desk and watched movies or played video games or wrote. I refused to move my foot from his paw, even as I felt it lose its warmth. We’d brought his favorite plastic bone; we couldn’t afford to have Gus cremated, so I asked that they take his bone wherever he wound up. We got a lock of his tailfeathers, and asked that they make a pawprint as well. I don’t know that I can ever look at that, though.

And that’s it. We left. We went across the street to a bar and began drinking before noon. I wrote sunglasses inside, like some celebrity, but we explained to the bartender and she understood. And then life moved on.

We’ll get a pup to replace Gus, but not soon, not just yet. I hoped beyond hope last night, the night of his last day, that I’d wake to hear his panting, or leave the room to see his dark outline on the cool tile just outside the back door, like some fantastic story. But no.

You’ve asked, of course, and we’ve read you the tale of the Rainbow Bridge and all sorts of niceties. I suspect you won’t remember Gus other than as a smelly golden blur. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you will. And maybe I’m wrong about other things, and he will be waiting for me somewhere, someday. Maybe.

I love you,

Daddy

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

Dear Evan:

Looking back, I’ve been remiss in writing about your third birthday. How did I miss that? I’ll admit I write less frequently than I want to, but I was sure I’d covered you turning three.

Evan and Daddy

I hope memory can do the day justice. It was overcast and chilly, but not too chilly, which is good. Wait, I’m starting in the wrong place. Let’s start with your love of animals.

Right now, you are absolutely in love with two categories of animals: ocean creatures (and octopi most of all) and butterflies. I wonder whether that will carry through your life. Will you be a marine biologist? An entomologist? Will you somehow combine your love for construction vehicles? Or will this all fade? (I hope not.)

So, butterflies. One of your favorite places is the Butterfly House in Dallas’ Fair Park. (Bonus, you can go there and the Fair Park aquarium in the same day.) The house is a two-story glass structure that’s warm and humid and filled with exotic plants and flowers. And, of course, butterflies. Lots and lots of butterflies. Somehow, the Blue Morpho is your favorite, though it’s much more likely you’ll see Monarchs fluttering around our yard.

For your birthday, your mom invited some of your favorite people — all adults; you don’t have many friends your age yet — to the Butterfly House. The day was overcast and chilly, but not too chilly, which is good, because we set up at a picnic table outside. Your mom made a chocolate cake decorated with a skeleton (after all, your birthday is almost Halloween). My parents — your Lovey and Grumpy — were there, and your mom’s parents, Mimi and Papa. Miss Charly and her then-boyfriend, now-fiance Corey showed up, as did your mom’s friend Miss Jessica. We sang songs, opened presents, went inside and watched the butterflies.

I’m not a butterfly guy, but it was absolutely beautiful. Peaceful, even. Well, as peaceful as a place can be when a toddler is chasing butterflies. It was a good third birthday.

And so: octopi.

Ev and Mommy

Your love of sea creatures has been longer in the making, long enough that I’ll write more about it later. What’s less clear is how the octopus became your favorite. I think it’s because they use tentacles much the way you use your hands, so you can pretend to be one. And they don’t have sharp teeth, something I’ve written about before.

I can tell you why your octopus toys are mostly named Frank: You have a habit of adding -y to the end of your favorite toys when you name them. So: Bulldozery, Excavatory, Dump Trucky. Duck Duck was an anomaly, but not Dolphiny. Do you see where this is going with Octopus? If not, set aside this letter and read it again when you’re older.

Your mom warned me, the first time you brought home an octopus toy, and so when you held him up and asked his name, “Frank” was the first thing to leave my mouth. And now, every octopus you see, real or toy, is named Frank.

And that, as Paul Harvey used to say, is the rest of the story.

I love you,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

I love words. I like to say I can taste words, and I sort of can, if that makes any sense. So I love that your quick little brain arranges words exactly as you think they should work.

Right now, you’re full of questions. I’ll set aside our immense frustration with “Whyyyyy?” for another letter. More endearing is how you ask “Have you ever seen…?”:

“Ever you sawn a…?”

We love it. We’ve started saying it, correct grammar be damned. I think you know by now that it’s not entirely correct, but you play along. Maybe by the time you read this, you’ll wonder why we still say such a weird phrase.

Almost as cute is “What is this a?” complete with the article at the end of the question. When you think about it through the lens of a toddler still learning the language, it makes sense. After all, we always reply with, “This is a (whatever).” So why wouldn’t you ask what it is a?

You talk so much, and know so many words, it’s sometimes difficult to remember you’re only just three years old. I hope, when you’re reading this, we haven’t treated you as such an adult that you missed out on childhood. It happens sometimes; on weekends, you tend to be my conversation companion for the many hours you’re awake before noon. So we slip like that, and I apologize in advance. Please know we always catch ourselves, and remind ourselves you’re still a child who needs to play and explore and make up your own words and not be told a phrase is wrong just because adults think it is.

I love you,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

For Halloween, you were supposed to be an octopus. Your mama spent days, weeks, hand-making an octopus costume out of a hoodie, complete with tentacles and googly eyes. And when it came down to it, you trick-or-treated as a bee.

You’re three years old now, of course, and fully engaged in the Terrible Twos (which last until, if I’m doing the math correctly, you turn 25). So the day of Halloween, you took a late nap and, half-awake as daylight faded, threw a temper tantrum when we tried to make you into an octopus. Luckily, we had a bee outfit (antennae, wings, a wand that you deemed a stinger) on hand, and soon after buzzed out the door.

Your first trick-or-treating trip, in 2012, you didn’t quite understand. You mostly wanted to explore strangers’ houses. This time around, you soon realized it was better to get candy. And so we toddled down the street over (dogs in tow, one dressed as a bee and the other as a ladybug), stopping at lighted porches and reminding you to say “trick or treat!” and “thank you!” You got lots of compliments from our neighbors and other trick-or-treaters. Enough to offset your mama’s disappointment at the the lack of costume? I don’t think so.

The best stop was at a house where the young man handing out candy had on a Texas A&M T-shirt. Your mama is an Aggie, of course, and early on taught you to say “Gig ‘em, Aggies!” So at this particular house, she was pushing you to say *anything*, but especially that. You didn’t.

Until you were walking down the driveway, candy in hand: “Trick or treat gig ‘em Aggies thank you!” *pause* “I said *all* my words!”

A postscript: A few days later, you and I were walking down the street to the mailbox. You asked whether we could stop at each house for candy.

“Halloween’s over, sweetpea,” I laughed. You considered that in silence… until we got to the next house, where the porch light was on.

“Their light is on!” You danced on the sidewalk in excitement. “We will say trick or treat and they will give us CANDY!”

I love you,

Daddy

Dear Evan –

Please, be an engineer.

Right now, you’re all about tools. You so badly wanted to help your mommy and me around the house that I bought you some toy tools, which you promptly left at your Mimi and Papa’s place. What to do? Oh, use real tools.

Probably that’s not the safest choice, but you’re intact so far.

With the real tools, you’re learning how things are put together. You haven’t destroyed anything (yet), but definitely know about nails and screws, wrenches and drills. You can tell a Philips from a flat head.

This is all build-up to last night’s events. Late last week, you realized you could crawl out of bed, open your bedroom door and escape into the world. (Well, the house.) Monday night, I was surprisingly sick for me: fever, nausea, the works. Your mommy had to teach, so I was left to wrangle you while shivering uncontrollably. I think I did a good job.

Except…

Except you kept leaving your room. Eventually, I just huddled in bed and let you play, until putting you down for good around 9.

Last night, I put one of those doorknob protectors on the inside of your bedroom door, the kind that you need to squeeze at just the right angle for the knob to turn. That done, I read some books, snuggled and put you to bed. When I left your room, you protested, but I fairly skipped away at the thought of the doorknob protector keeping you in until sleep hit.

I sat on the couch, ready to veg and continue recuperating. And five minutes later, you toddled out.

That’s right: Without tools, you’d managed to take apart the safety device and get out of your room.

Hmmmm. Maybe add “Vegas magician” alongside “engineer” on your career options.

I love you,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

Last night, you took a tumble.

A few months ago, we converted your crib to a bed. We were worried, because when you sleep you twist in every possible direction. As when you’re awake, you simply can’t stay still. That was fine when you had the barred crib front to hold you in, but how would you do without? So, a compromise: We taped a cut-down pool noodle to the edge of your mattress, under your sheets.

For the most part, it worked. We think you may have fallen out once or twice early on, but weren’t sure. It was just as possible you climbed out, and certainly there was no damage.

Last night was different.

I was half-awake because Lil’ Bit was unusually annoying, stretching and poking and scrunching as close to me as possible on an already warm night. At 11:30, I heard you squeak “Mama!” interrupted by a sharp smack and then wailing. I ran to your room, sure you’d fallen, and you had. You held out one hand but wouldn’t let me “hhhmooch” it, so I held you instead. Your crying grew more passionate, louder, punctuated by coughing from a lingering cold. Your mama came to check on us, and you asked her to hold you, and so she did.

When I looked down at my shirt, I noticed a spreading bloodstain. Sure enough, your mama’s shirt was stained too, and blood was dripping from your mouth. I stripped off my shirt, wet it in a sink and went to wipe your face, but that just made you angry. And so I gave up, and you went into full-blown tantrum mode, and the blood… well, it must’ve all been wiped on your mama’s T-shirt.

Soon, we got you calm enough to put back to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I crept back in half an hour later and arranged pillows from the guest room around your crib. Just in case, you know. You woke, and I hummed deep in my chest while holding you, until your eyes closed again.

Today you seem none the worse for wear, but I am. I’m tired, but more, I’m worried about more falls. You’ll be sleeping above a landscape of pillows for the near future, I suspect.

I love you,

Daddy