A thank you note

Dear Mom,

I just wanted to drop you this note to thank you for the wonderful gift you gave Chris and Tommy. They sure love it! They’ve been playing on it all day. I can’t tell you how happy you have made them. I guess I should try, though.

But first, you might be wondering why I’m sending you this thank you note.

After all, you’re dead.

For almost 3 months now.

You know, better than anyone, how terrible I am at thank you notes. I remember, even if you don’t, how you would have to sit with me and make me write them after every birthday, every Christmas, for far more years than you should have. Even as an adult, knowing better, I always seem to get them out late, or not at all. At which point I have to make a phone call and deliver a verbal ‘thank you’ along with an apology for being socially inept.

But this note is not one I put off for so long that you up and died before I was able to send it, thank goodness. I wouldn’t want the last thing you remembered about me was, “That’s my son – can’t find the time to write a simple thank you note!”

No, this note is for the gift you gave the boys after you died.

Anyway, Mom, Chris and Tommy absolutely love the swing set you bought them. You remember - the one you had talked about buying for them for almost a year. I told you many times how much the boys love going to the park to play on the swings and playground equipment, and you would always say to me, “Why don’t you buy them a swing set of their own?”

To which I would reply, “We can’t afford to do that right now.”

“Well, one of these days I’m going to do it for them. Just help me pick one out, one that they would like. I want them to have that,” you’d say.

Well, Mom, I never did get around to picking one out, even though you kept asking me about it. I always thought there would be plenty of time. Plenty of time for you to come out here to visit us. Plenty of time to spend with the boys and give them this gift yourself. Plenty of time for you to sit on our back deck, watching the boys play on a brand new swing set. To watch them run, climb, swing and play. To see them interact with each other. To see what fine young boys they have become. I thought there would be time to do a lot of things.

I was wrong.

But I did have a plan, procrastinator that I am. I thought maybe we’d sit down and figure out the swing set thing when we all got together at the beach this past June. We’d look at some catalogues; you could make your choice, and tell Chris and Tommy about it in person. Then maybe later this summer you’d come out and see it for yourself.

But you died two weeks before our trip.

I never told the boys what you wanted to do for them. I wanted you to be able to do that, to show them the picture, to see the joy and excitement on their faces when you told them they would have their very own swing set in their own back yard.

And when it didn’t work out, I figured we’d just let it go. We have several parks in our area. They’re really quite nice. The boys wouldn’t know any differently. They would still have fun.

But as I thought more about it, I realized that you would want them to have this even if you couldn’t be there to see it. So much of you, your life, was about doing for others. It was never about getting the credit. You were the very embodiment of the adage ‘it’s better to give than to receive.’

Over the course of your life you have given so much to so many. To me, perhaps, more than anyone. And I could spend the rest of my life trying to thank you and never come close to expressing just how much you have meant to me.

And if I did, you’d roll your eyes and say, “Enough, already!”

So I won’t go there.

But I know you’d have been angry if I left one of your last wished unfulfilled. Especially one I know would have given you so much pleasure.

So MBW and I went through the catalogues. We went to the showrooms. And we found a very nice swing set. One we knew the boys would love. One we never would have bought on our own. But one I know you would have.

We knew we couldn’t afford it. But guess what? It just so happened that the manufacturer was offering no interest, no payments for one full year. That weekend only.

Was that a coincidence?

So we bought it. Knowing that a year from now your estate will be settled, and there might just be enough to cover the cost. And if it falls a little short, well, we’ll figure out a way to make up the rest.

Anyway, this weekend the crew came to set it up.

It’s wonderful.

It’s one of those redwood monstrosities with a fort, a slide, tire swing, sandbox, rope ladder, trapeze bar, and three regular swings.

As you might expect, Chris and Tommy are out of their minds with excitement. They can’t figure out what to do first. They run from one end to the other, trying every single thing, wrestling with each other over who gets to do what first. They race up the ladder, down the slide, over to the tire swing, and back again. They play ‘pirates’ in the fort. They build cities in the sandbox. They swing for the sky, trying to touch the clouds.

But you already know all that, don’t you?

I’m pretty sure you were there.

Chris knows how to swing. He has the whole ‘pumping’ thing down. He can go from a standstill to full height very quickly, without a push.

Tommy cannot do that yet. He can climb up into the swing, but he hadn’t figured out how to pump yet. So whenever we would go to the park, I’d have to stand behind him and push. Of course, I didn’t mind. I knew he’d get it one of these days.

But today, when he climbed onto one of the swings for the very first time, he started to pump. All by himself. Without any help from anyone.

The look on his face told the whole story. He was surprised, then happy, as he exclaimed, “I’m pumping, Mom! I’m pumping, Dad. Look at me!”

“Look at me GOOOO!”

And sure enough, he was. Pumping. With no help from MBW, Chris, or me. Slowly, at first, but as his confidence grew he went higher and higher, his smile bigger and bigger. Zooming through the air, back and forth, his hair flying in the breeze he was able to make for himself, for the first time ever.

It was wonderful to witness. He was so thrilled – the new swing set, his new achievement.

I think you were there, giving him a little push.

I’m not talking about some sort of creepy ‘Sixth Sense’ kind of thing. I don’t think you’re hanging around the house, wanting to tell me something. I don’t see you; I don’t get chills for no reason.

But I do think, somehow, somewhere, you’re watching the boys. Not always, but once in a while. Sitting out there, a smile on your face. “They’re doing okay, my grandsons. They’re doing okay.”

Or maybe I just want to believe that.

The biggest sadness in losing you when we did, for me, was knowing you wouldn’t get to see your grandsons during some of the most enjoyable years of their lives. I so much wanted to share this part of their lives, and mine, with you. It would have meant so much to the boys, to me, and, I think, to you.

But your health was failing, and I think you were ready. You had so much pain for so long, it was time for the suffering to end.

Perhaps now you’re at peace.

But I think, in some way, you’re out there, somewhere, taking in some of what’s going on in their lives.

Because I never did tell the boys the swing set was a gift from you. They know you are dead, even though they really never knew you that well. You got to see Chris exactly two times in his five years. Tommy, only once in his three. That just wasn’t enough. They really never knew you.

So maybe you can tell me why, that night after playing on the swing set all day, Tommy told me this as we tucked him in for bed.

“Dad, Nana’s dead.”

“That’s right, Tommy, she is.”

“I still love her, though.”

Go ahead, mom. Tell me you had nothing to do with his learning to swing. On the swing set you bought for them. The very first time he tried it.

I don’t believe it.

Thank you, mom. Thank you for everything.

It’s great to be The Family Man.