The cloud service where I keep my photographs holds thousands of them, twenty-some years’ worth, and every time I log in it serves up a handful it claims were picked at random. I stopped believing that a while ago. Lately, nearly every one has been of my youngest son when he was four or five years old. This is his birthday week. I can’t prove the service knows what week it is, but I’m not going to argue with it.
In one, he’s about five, dancing across the carpet in camo pants and a T-shirt that reads “I’m with handsome,” an arrow pointing at his own face. He’s playing air guitar, eyes squeezed shut, mouth wide open, one sock sliding off his foot. Nobody in that house was going to talk him out of whatever song was playing in his head. In another, he’s about four, wearing a tiger cap, one hand on his hip and the other resting on the shell of a giant tortoise. He looks like he’s introducing me to an old friend.
I look at those photographs and wonder how that little boy could possibly be in his mid-20s. Somewhere along the way, the years slipped past, although I certainly don’t remember giving them permission. But the more I look at the pictures, the more I realize that while a lot has changed, much of what makes him who he is hasn’t. The independence, the determination, and the stubborn streak were all there from the beginning. They’ve just grown up with him.
“I do it myself” was his motto before he could tie his shoes, and it never really went away. Try planning something with him today. He’ll decide quickly whether he likes the idea. If he doesn’t, he’ll explain why the plan is wrong and suggest something better. If that fails, he’ll explain it again. Eventually, he’ll announce that he won’t be joining us. Some call that persistence. Others call it annoying. I call it stubbornness, and I know exactly where he got it, so I’m in no position to complain.
But there’s another side to that stubbornness, and it’s grit. At eight, he wanted to be the closer on his baseball team, the kid who gets the ball when everything is on the line. That’s a tall order when you’re eight. Tennis gave me even better evidence. I watched him play matches he had no business winning, except that he refused to lose. The one I remember best came at the state tournament. He was trailing 3-7 in an eight-game set, one game from losing. Plenty of players would have mentally packed their bags. He won the next game. Then he won the one after that, and the one after that, and eventually he won the set 9-7.
I’ve seen that same determination in high school, college, and now at work, where he gets up early, puts in the effort, and gets things done. He gets that grit from his mother. In fact, when I look at his best qualities, I see a lot of her. From me, he inherited his stubbornness, his height, and, of course, his handsome good looks. I think it’s fair to say his mother did most of the heavy lifting, although I made some important contributions.
This week, the boy in those photographs turned 24. He’s mostly off the payroll, which is a development his mother and I enthusiastically support. He enjoys his job, he’s fun to be around, and he cares deeply about the people close to him. That little boy with the imaginary guitar became a young man I’m proud to know. And looking at those photographs got me thinking about what I’d want him to know about the years ahead. So here’s what I’d say, if he’d let me finish.
The years go fast, ridiculously fast, and it feels like yesterday you were standing beside that tortoise. The next twenty years will move just as quickly, whether you’re ready or not. The trick is to make sure you’re doing something worth remembering while they’re passing.
So plan at least one big experience every year. Take the trip you keep putting off, and say yes to something that makes you a little nervous. Save for the future, certainly, but don’t spend your entire life getting ready to live. The nicest car and the biggest house won’t mean much when you’re looking through old photographs. The people and the experiences will. And while we’re on the subject, take the trip to London… on your own dime, not ours.
Set your goals high, but understand why they matter. Goals give you somewhere to go. Your why gives you a reason to keep going when you’re down 3-7 and everyone else thinks the match is over. You already know how to dig in. Just make sure you’re digging in for something that matters. Not every disagreement needs to be fought down to the last game, although I recognize that may be a difficult concept for you to embrace.
Find someone to share the journey. The right partner makes the good days better and the difficult days bearable, and the years will bring plenty of both. It’s a lot more fun to have someone beside you who remembers the stories, too.
Mostly, though, keep being yourself. The determination and the loyalty, and even the occasional stubbornness, have served you pretty well so far. When you were little, “I do it myself” could drive me crazy. Twenty years later, I realize that raising you to the point where you actually can do it yourself was the whole idea.
I’d tell him all of this in person, but he’d probably interrupt halfway through with a better plan. That’s fine. I’ve spent 24 years watching him figure things out for himself, and I suppose there’s no reason to expect that to change now. I just hope that somewhere along the way, he’ll take a few photographs of his own. Someday, he’ll understand why I keep looking at mine.
