A letter to my ten year old.

A decade’s worth of these words. Of this boy. That’s got some weight to it, no? (The words, not the boy. You’re still all skinny legs and skinned knees.) 

It feels like we’re at the cusp of something. Maybe that’s the defining trait, the very essence, of childhood. It’s a precipice, this whole kid thing. And here I am, right next to you, holding your still-small hands as you squint and squirm, just trying to get a glimpse of what’s to come. I can sense how eager you are, how jittery, to move into the fog, into the future, toward whatever is next. Your only job right now is to explore every path, every turn, every conceivable opportunity this world has for you. 

You are made of stuff that might not look all that sturdy from the outside: long, lean limbs that look fragile but that stretch and flex. Big emotions that seem heavy, but are the source of all your magic. A vocabulary that still involves a lot of fart jokes, but will grow into a mastery of language that will unlock and open whole new worlds. 

You are made for this job of growing up.

My job? My job is to let you. To figure out how to give you the freedom to experiment and explore, while still making sure you feel safe, learn to trust yourself, and always know where home is. Those are really big jobs for both of us. But if we do them well, we’ll be able to let go of each other when it’s time. (It’s not time yet.) 

You come to the table — proverbial, literal, any table, any situation — with a lot of answers. With no shortage of middle-class white boy confidence. But you’re a question-asker, too, and I want you to lean into that. That curiosity. That drive to know more, have more, understand more clearly. It’s the only way to make sense of the world, and the best way to make it better. 

Here is a small sampling of your recent most-asked questions: 

• Is this real? (Probably not. AI is wild. And exciting. And scary on levels I can’t even wrap my head around yet.)

• Can I use your phone? (No.)

• Can I get my own phone? (No.)

• Is this because of your menopause? (Probably. Sorry.)

• Will you lay with me just a little bit longer? (Always.)

Keep at it. Question everything. Me, your dad (more your dad than me, please; if he disagrees he can write you his own letter). Question authority. Question your faith. Yep: It is okay to question grown ups and God. We might bristle at it sometimes; God won’t. Questioning something doesn’t necessarily mean the same thing as doubting it, or even challenging it. What we’ll work on is how to question without sounding confrontational. How to question with curiosity, not combativeness. How to question what something means, but not the facts themselves. It’s kind of a thing for all of us these days. 

You’re growing so fast. And you’re growing so well. You’re doing your job, exactly right. I hope I am too. 

How I love you, Emmett.