When there was just you and me.

Dear David,

Today was another wonderful day with you. You slept until about seven, then I went into your bedroom with a nice, big cold milk and we snuggled for a good half hour as you woke up. Then you wanted to watch TV in our bed, and further, wanted me to carry you there. I obliged. I showered, got dressed, got you dressed, and packed my Blue Backpack for our adventure in the city. We drove in The Big Red Truck to Orient Heights to take the Blue Line (or as you call it, “Gordon”) to the Orange Line (“Skarloey”), and got off at Chinatown. Once above ground, you announced that you wanted to ride on my shoulders. You are getting a little heavy for this at 35 pounds, but nonetheless it’s easier to navigate the crowded sidewalks of Saturday shoppers with you on my back. It also makes you happy, and that’s most important.

The weather was perfect today. We walked down Washington Street and then to Tyler and climbed up the 23 Magic Red Steps to China Pearl and got a table. David’s Chair arrived and our table was soon overflowing with steamed dumplings, sticky rice, and barbecue pork buns. You ate all the shrimp dumplings and had a cup of mango pudding for dessert. We ordered extra dim sum to put in paper cartons and bring home for Momma.

Then, back down the 23 Magic Red Steps we went. I lifted you back up onto my shoulders and we walked up to the Boston Common. We crossed the street at Tremont and Boylston and looked for the policeman on the nice big brown horse that is sometimes there, but you said that he must be sleeping today. You wanted to get down from my shoulders and walk on top of the wall beside the path. I held your hand as we walked along, then you jumped off at the end.

We arrived at the nice new playground at the Frog Pond. Because of the fine weather, it was bursting with kids and their parents. You ran inside the gate, climbed up on the jungle gym, and forgot all about me. I sat down and watched you, making sure to sit in my usual spot, so that when the sudden worry struck you about my whereabouts, you’d have only to look over and see me there smiling back at you.

It was only 10 o’clock. You and I had been cooped up in the house for most of the previous week as you got over a bad cold. The day was sunny and mild, so I decided to let you play for as long as you wanted. Not surprisingly, you played for almost two hours, only stopping by to see me once, to ask about the availability of a juice box, which I promptly produced from the Blue Backpack.

As the church bells tolled Noon, you resumed your perch on my shoulders, and we walked over to see the waders in the Frog Pond. A few weeks ago it was funny to hear you cry when you saw the waders, and insist they go away so that you could go skating, as we do on our winter trips. We looked again for the policeman with the horse, but he must have still been sleeping. Then we walked past the great fountain, chased the pigeons around at Park Square, went down the stairs to get onto the Green Line (or “Henry”) and head home. You started dozing off on the car ride home from the train station. I carried you upstairs, gave you a Nice Big Cold Milkie, and tucked you into your bed. As I went to leave, you touched my arm and asked me to go to sleep, too. I lay there for a little while waiting for you to fall asleep, and then fell asleep myself. I woke about an hour later. You were still sleeping beautifully. So I tip toed out of your bedroom and into my office, to write you this letter.

You are only four, so it will be some time before you are able to read this letter. It may be decades before you will read it and fully understand. Maybe you will have to have children of your own before you fully realize how wonderful I feel to have you as my son. I hope to be around to cheer all your accomplishments and discoveries, although nothing is ever certain.

But, what is certain is that you will grow up. I know that days like today will not go on forever. The things we did today will become less possible. First among these is probably riding on my shoulders; you are getting so big! But soon even snuggling and holding hands on the Boston Common will seem awkward and embarrassing for us both.

Soon, you will have friends of your own, be off to elementary school, play sports and have other interests. Then I can only stand by and watch, proudly. You will assert your independence and individuality, go off to college, get a job, and perhaps move away, and you and I will be much less connected than we are now. But, for now, there is just you and me. We are the best of friends and neither of us has a worry in the world. All we have is fun and love.

So, while these days are ours, I thought I would write you this letter. I have learned a lot in my years, and hope to learn more. But at this moment, I thought it might be useful to write down for you some pieces of advice that I hope will be helpful in your life. While fathers rarely find any shortage of advice to inflict upon their children as they grow up, it tends to be more of the situational variety. Wherein a child does something the parent does not approve of, and the parent prescribes some “advice” to remedy their actions. You are likely to receive that kind of advice from everyone, throughout your life. Unsolicited advice is seldom in short supply.

But now, at four, you are completely without the means to make mistakes of any serious nature. The only things you are capable of doing wrong is to accidentally knock some things over or have a tantrum because you are having too much fun to go to bed. That frees me to give you advice with might be better described as a life philosophy, rather than a set rules.

So I have decided to write you these 101 Pieces of Advice for you, my Son. I'll try to post a new one every few days for a year. I hope they are helpful. You may ask, “Why 101?” I don’t know. Maybe there are 102. You find out.

Love,

Daddy