The Soldier Next Door

Frustration is a feeling that one as a Marine experiences on a daily basis, yet you get frustrated because whatever you have planned has not gone the way it is intended. I know that sometimes I can be a bit hard on Ana with discipline, I would like to say that I am an easy-going, free man, yet I would be lying.

Now, much to that very frustration, Ana has taken that little white envelope, and she has gone to take a nap. Now, can you only imagine the trickles of frustration that are boiling from my ears in utmost torture? I am starting to learn that the woman is doing it on purpose.

So, I am being the patient man; well, I am trying to practice patience while she has her nap, and I have taken this time to add one to my collection of many that I have written to our unborn baby so far. I think if Ana finds the box, she will have a good old laugh.

At least I am not calling her a big green truck, but I might have referred to her as ‘Old Maggie.’

That one might just be killed for later.

So…I think this one counts as number five…

My dear unborn baby…

There are still a few months until we meet. I am writing this for you. Not for anyone else. For you knowing you were in my thoughts before I held you. And yes, I believe you are going to be a boy, unlike mom that wants you to be a girl.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot these days. As I rub your mom’s stomach with coconut oil, I can feel your kick. And I hope that’s coming from curiosity and not anger. I wonder what the shape of your nose will be. What will make you laugh and cry, and what your face will look like when you do. What foods you will like. What will be your favorite stained shirt you wear every day. If you will play drums or ride skateboards. The thought of you going through all your stages terrifies the shit out of me.

So let me be honest by saying life is going to be hard. Your heart will be broken many times, as well as at least one bone in your body. For me, well, I have broken a few, but I broke them doing something I loved doing. You will too. The world will try to prove you wrong. And no matter how much your mother and I do for you, the world is the world. We can get you in the air, but you’re going to have to learn how to fly on your own.

There will be days you don’t like yourself and days that you do. People will disappoint you. Many won’t like you back. Some will be mean, and you won’t understand why. You will be judged and gossiped about. And most likely have issues with your body.

There will be things you don’t like about me. We will have fights. You will be mad at me. I will hurt you. You will hurt me back. And some days, you may wonder who the parent is. I may have dropped you already or left you on the roof of the car with my coffee. I’m sorry. It was never on purpose. You will slam doors. I will make you talk. And you will hate me for it, but only in the beginning. We will play tug of war a lot. I can feel it already. But at the end of the day, you are my son, and I’m your dad, and we will make it work. Not because of blood. But because we believe in good. And good means forgiveness. Good means compassion. Good means understanding.

I will make you laugh. Or die trying. With your mother’s approval, I will take you on motorcycle rides when you’re old enough. And for pancakes on Sunday. I will listen to you and not pretend. I will create the safest space I can. Try not to make things about me. Not treat you like a child unless you stay one. I will listen to your horrible music, partake in your activities, and make it to things you invite me to. I will throw the ball with you. I will be your friend as well as your dad. And you don’t have a choice in that. We will go on trips. Do things that scare you in a good way. We will get dirty and play in the world. Experience weather. Pet animals. See good movies. I will listen to all your ideas because if you’re like me, you will have many.

In all these letters, I find myself imagining the dad I hope to be when you arrive. That dad I picture, he is a tall order, but although there’s a whole lot I can’t plan for, there are also some promises I vow to keep.

I promise to begin and end your days with the reminder that I adore you. At night, you’ll hear “I love you” loud and clear, and I promise to wake you up each morning with a soft voice and a genuine smile, just the way my dad did with me. That might seem like a small thing, but trust me: it makes for a nice start to the day, and when you’re a teenager, you’ll be grateful that I’m not shoving the curtains open and yelling for you to get up.

When you try new things, I promise not to show you that I’m a tiny bit or, more likely, very scared. Deep down, I might be worried or anxious or slightly terrified of what might happen if it doesn’t work out for you, but I won’t let my fears slow you down. I’ll tell you to take chances, to go for it, to trust yourself. I promise to trust you.

I promise to make your birthday a big damn deal. Whether you’re turning 1 or 35, I promise balloons and streamers and surprise parties and the cakes of your choice. Some years you might love that, and other years it might feel sort of cheesy, but when you look back on birthdays past, I promise you’ll know that you were celebrated by the people who cared about you most.

If you mess up in a small way, I promise to acknowledge it, help you, then let it go. And whenever you mess up in a big way, I promise to feel the weight of it and push you to do the same. I promise to let you make those tough mistakes, to address them when I need to, and to keep on loving you all the same.

When you have a bad day, I promise to listen. Or give you room to breathe, whatever seems best at the time. And when you get upset or angry or really, in-your-bones mad at me, I promise that I’ll try to understand. I’ll practice patience; I’ll try, anyway.

I promise to be honest with you, even when it’s hard, but I also promise to protect you. When there’s something you need to know, I’ll tell it to you straight, and if it might do more harm than good, I’ll keep it to myself. I promise that I’ll try to recognize the difference.

Speaking of difference, I promise to celebrate what makes you different. I promise to let your weirdness shine.

I promise to mark the major moments as they come, to take pictures and fill out scrapbooks, and document the biggest milestones of your life. It’s important to acknowledge the little things, too, so I’ll do what my mom did, and at night, I’ll ask you what you’re grateful for. It’ll give you perspective and a sense of calm. Hope, too.

Mostly, sweet baby, I promise to show you love in all its best forms. I’ll love you and your mom and our friends and our families. With words and with actions, I’ll say it, and I’ll show it, and if just one of my promises can be kept, let it be this: that you’ll feel it. A love so big that it fills you up, that it makes you feel safe.

But the best part, before I say goodbye for today, you will become a Marine just like your dad. You will become the greatest one, even better than me, and you are going to love it. But we first need to convince your mom about that. It will give you all those things up here; it will make you happy, it will show you that you matter, but most of all, it is going to make you a great man, and one day you will be a good day just like I will be to you.

So it is time for me to say goodbye for now.

If I am ever not there, you may print this letter and use it against me.NôvelDrama.Org holds this content.

That’s the other reason why I wrote it.

So you can make me accountable.

Because I will need help.

Dad…

And as I am just about to fold it in a nice little square, I see Ana standing in the doorway; now I from the look on her face, it does seem that she has got up on the wrong side of the bed, though I just hush and wait for her to say what is on her mind.

“Soldier, did you open that envelope?”