This is an excerpt from “This is Fatherhood, 7 dads describe the moment it got real by Amy Joyce post in the Washington Post June 13, 2019“
I embraced fatherhood the moment my wife exclaimed, “It’s plus, it’s plus!” notifying me in the wee hours that the early pregnancy test was positive. But it was a query by a 2-year-old while standing at the mailbox that inspired me to become more intentional about fatherhood — to examine who I wanted to be in the eyes of my child.
I should have anticipated the mail request, “Daddy, where is my mail?” Whatever his daddy did, he did. Wherever his daddy went, he went. If daddy received mail, so, too should mini-me. The demand for mail was the outward expression of my son’s inward imitation of me.
Standing at the mailbox, I attempted to dissuade him from wanting mail. “Naeem,” I said, “the only thing in the mailbox is junk mail and bills; trust me, you don’t want either, especially not bills.” It was as if my lips moved, but I was mute. “Daddy, where is my mail,” he said again.
So, I set out for Target. I figured I would pick up some postcards and greeting cards, mail them to him intermittently, and that would be the end to his fascination with mail. However, as I wrote in the first card, almost immediately, my goal changed from offering my son occasional patronizing platitudes to sharing words he could live by the rest of his life.
After signing each card, my heart opened wider. I communicated all the things I hoped for Naeem’s life. The depth of my love for him, I confessed honestly. With every written word, I did what my dad would never do that I longed for him to do — love me unconditionally.
You see, I’m the product of a broken father-son relationship. Upon discovering I was going to be a father, I pledged, like many men, to be a better father than my dad. But new dads often make pledges, and good intentions that never manifest. Too often, like my son imitating my receipt of mail, well-intentioned sons become our undesirable fathers.
My son and I held hands as we walked to the mailbox that day. When we returned, I held his hand, and the makings to be the father I always wanted, more important, the father Naeem deserved. I now know writing Naeem was the prescription I needed to recover from a broken heart and the contractual language cementing my pledge to be a better man.
Twenty years later, I still write to my son, my best friend. Although the hundreds of cards, postcards, notes, and letters are his, they continue to serve us both.
Who could’ve known that five words, “Daddy, where is my mail?” would change my relationship with my son forever?
- Nathaniel A. Turner
