Dear Spike,
You're 17 now, and lately I have found myself in a slow-motion sort of mourning. A year from now you'll be old enough to strike out on your own, and whether you decide to do that or not, the mere knowledge that it could happen is enough to make my chest feel heavy.
Eventually, of course, it will happen. A year from now or a little more. Maybe a lot more, if your mother and I are very lucky. But eventually. And that's OK. This is how it is supposed to be. We get you for 18 years or so. We do the very best we can in that time. And then you get to be the final arbiter of you.
Oh, we'll be here to offer advice when you want it. Sometimes when you don't, too, I suppose. But we'll no longer have a veto, or even a vote.
You'll be ready, though. Or as ready as any young adult ever is. There's still a lot about the world you need to learn, but that's true of every adult. Nobody who tells you otherwise should be trusted.
You're going into your adulthood way ahead of the game. You graduated high school when you were 14. You're on track to finish your bachelor's degree before you turn 18. I'm still trying to wrap my head around that. But educational precociousness aside, you're ready in others ways.
A half century ago, Robert Heinlein wrote that "a human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly."
That's not a bad list. And you've got quite a bit of that down. But you can also make friends in many languages, crack a joke, shovel snow, sprint a mile, write a play, find your way in the woods, use public transit, shine on a stage, lead a team, be an observer, stand up for yourself, throw a punch, accept criticism, quote Shakespeare, analyze a film, sing in harmony, leave your phone in your bag, be comfortable with stillness.
You'll add to that list as you go along. And I am eager to watch you do so. You've been a better child than we could possibly have hoped for; you're going to be an even better adult.
So, yes, my chest is heavy. But that is because my heart is so full.
Love,
dad
