Hi B,
You’re playing Animal Crossing as I write this. There’s a whole world of stuff you can do in that game, and you’ve sampled all of it, but for the most part you just design clothes, and complain about your mortgage. And then after a while you’ll switch to minecraft, where you’re working on a scale model of our office. Whatever a game is supposed to be about, you find a way to bring it back to art, and design, and testing out your ideas. On your iPad right now your favourites are procreate (an art/drawing app), and goat simulator. It would be hard to summarize that last one except to say that (a) it is utterly chaotic, (b) it has equipped you with a strangely broad array of millennial cultural references, and (c) you love it.
What’s interesting to me when I think about it is that all of your favourites are infinite gardens. None of them have a single “best” way to play, none of them are competitive, none of them involve winning or losing. And that’s not intrinsic to the game — minecraft can be played to win, and there are plenty of Animal Crossing perfectionists out there. But for you winning isn’t interesting, and the closer a game gets to having that competitive vibe, the less interesting you find it. Partly because you don’t like the feeling of losing, but also because you don’t really like the feeling of beating someone else, either. You have the tenderest of tender hearts, kiddo.
You’ve grown a lot since my last letter. Physically, yes (you’re free of your booster seat!) but also in a dozen other ways. Your feelings are still huge, world-shaking, gigantic and they sometimes run away from you — especially when life interferes with your ability to finish whatever art you’re working on in the moment. But the way you talk about them and reflect on them after the fact is something I wish more adults were capable of. It’s heart-achy to watch you work through it, though maybe for reasons that won’t make sense unless/until you’re a parent yourself. I think every parent feels a kind of pain at seeing their kid upset, and I do have this strong desire to protect you from hurt, but also a pride in how you’re working it through, and a wonder that you’re able to do the things you’re doing at all at eight years old — all superimposed and washing into one another. It’s complicated but it’s amazing and your mom and I are right here with you for all of it.
It’s funny because there are still people in your life who think that you’re quiet. You can be, at times, especially in unfamiliar situations. But honestly kiddo, from the time you wake up until the time you fall asleep, I feel like you never stop. More than once we’ve had to ask you to pause long enough to chew, to let someone else in before your food gets cold, because otherwise it’s not clear you ever would. You’re voracious.
Which planet is that near the moon and can we get the skyview app that lily mentioned and why does golden hour light happen and how does goo gone work and why do you use manila folders inside a hanging file for a filing cabinet and are you sure a peregrine falcon is faster than a cheetah and why is acrylic paint harder to wash off and why would anyone use tempera paint and why do some erasers work better than others and why would you move the bishop there if his pawn can capture it and why does tissue paper stick up out of a gift bag and are there banana-nutella crepes in Paris and is burlap made of sisal and why do filing cabinets have locks and should this dragon be a rainwing or a seawing and desert has one ‘s’ right and is that a downy woodpecker with the red patch on the back of his head — I think those were all in the last 24 hours and that definitely wasn’t all of them. It’s exhausting but it’s also so over the top it’s hilarious, and I love it about you. And when we, your parents, momentarily overspent, answer with “I don’t know, B,” you reply without missing a beat, “Well then let’s search it up!” Indefatigable. Spelled the way it sounds, B.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m writing these letters wrong. They are very you-focused, which seems appropriate on the surface. But I don’t know, whenever you read them, if that’s what you’ll want to hear about. Maybe you’ll want to know more about what was going on in the world. Or how your mom and were thinking about things in 2024, what we understood and what we were still trying to figure out, and what we hoped for you. I don’t know. We talk about what’s going on in the world a fair bit at home. Even when it’s hard, we feel like it’s our job to prepare you for the world, not curate the world to your liking. And as for me and your mom, we’re the best team I’ve ever known. We’re working pretty hard, we’re proud of the ways we get to help people, and you and your sis keep us on our toes. But, you know, in your precocious eight year old way, I feel like you understand a lot of that, too. So anyway I hope these letters aren’t frustrating for you when you read them. There’s no grand system to it, kiddo. I write about you so much because, when I sit down to write, that’s the thing I feel like I want you to know.
You go through the world with so much wonder and all you want is to understand it and to share it with other people. You slept in this morning, and when you woke up, you shouted for us to come up right away. When we got up there, it’s because you wanted us to see the sunrise out your window. You sat there with us and declared, “It’s really pretty.” And then you asked if you could have some screen time to play goat simulator before breakfast.
I love you kiddo. I love your big feelings and I love your questions and I love how you see the world. Thanks for sharing it all with us, B.
Daddy