By now you must know you're my favorite son.  You've always been my favorite, from the moment you were born, and you always will be my favorite. You must know that, I can't imagine that you don't.  

To be fair, each of your brothers is my favorite son, too, whichever of your brothers I happen to be thinking of at the time. But right now I am thinking of you, and so you are my favorite. I hope this doesn't diminish the position for you, although I suspect it has to. If my father had told me when I was eleven that I was his favorite ¼ of the time, but the other ¾ of the time my brother and sisters were his favorite, I guess I would have thought that was meaningless. At 43, though, I can tell you with all sincerity that you are my favorite ¼ of the time, whenever I think of you, and I can tell you (also with all sincerity) that that is not meaningless to me. It means everything to me, just as you and your brothers mean everything
to me.

But I'm not writing to tell you you're my favorite, as much as I need for you to know that.  I'm writing to apologize to you for not being as good a father as I should be. This is the part where, I hope against hope, you'll want to stop me and say, "No, no, you are a good father!" But don't. I know I'm a good father, in comparison to all the fathers who aren't as good as me, but I'm not as good a father as I should be.  I'm certainly not the father I wanted to be, which is far better than the father that I should be, but now, after seventeen years of being a father, I'd gratefully settle for the father that I should be.

The father I should be would be more patient, I know. Worse for me, you know. You, of all my sons, always said I should be more patient.  Your brothers seem to accept that flaw in me.  I'm thankful for that, but not-so-deep inside I've always thought they were wrong to accept it.  I expect you to be patient with each other, while I fail miserably at being patient with you.  Then when I lose my patience, I blame you, which, of course, is my true weakness. I yell at you for not cleaning up the way I would like, for bickering with each other, for being kids.  If I could go back to the beginning, I swear I would be more patient. Only I can't go back, and even if I could, I wouldn't be more patient. I know that I wouldn't because I tell myself every day, you have to be more patient, and then I'm not. I'm sorry for that.

The father that I wanted to be would have understood you more.  When you were just out of kindergarten, we went on a family vacation to colonial Williamsburgh for five days, then to Ocean City for five days on the way back. It's a long time for a small boy to be away from home. I should have understood that. On the boardwalk in Ocean City, you were being obstinate about I forget what, but I remember that you refused to enjoy what everyone
else was enjoying. I carried you back to our apartment, angrily. The father I wanted to be would have carried you back, but not angrily.  He would have known that you just needed a break, as five year olds do, as you in particular often did.  I'm sorry for that.

When you were two years old, and cried for forty-five minutes because we walked off the baseball field the "wrong" direction, the better father I wish I could be would have known what to say or do to make it all right, but I
didn't have a clue.  Even now, part of me insists that it would have been wrong to take you back and let you walk off again, you have to be firm with children, and part of me wonders what the harm would have been.   I still don't have a clue.  I'm sorry for that, too.

When it was just your older brothers, I thought raising children was easy, that I was doing everything right.  Then you came along and proved me wrong.  But it wasn't you, it was me.  I was the one who was making it up as
I went along.  People often comment on what wonderful boys I have, and it's true that you are, all four of you.  But if they were to ask me what I did right, I couldn't begin to tell them.  You're wonderful in spite of me, I think, or because of your mother, or because you just are.  I don't have all the answers.  (There are times when I'm not sure I have any of the answers.) If I did, I would continue doing all of the good things and none of the bad. 
I'm sorry that I have to practice on all of you.  I'm sorry that, if I ever do perfect it, you'll be grown and it will be too late to apply my expertise.

So I'm sorry for everything, I guess, except this:  I love you madly, my favorite son, and wouldn't trade being your father for anything in the world.  As often is the case with parents, I get far more than you ever will out of
this relationship, far more than I deserve.  If life were fair, parents wouldn't go into parenting blind, with only the example of our own parents to guide us.  We decide what it was our parents did wrong, and then vow to do
the opposite.  We decide what it was our parents did right, and vow to do the same.  But the opposite and the same aren't necessarily what is right for our kids, and so we still get things wrong. We want to be better parents than our own parents were, and in the end we never are.  We never are. 

If life were fair, I would have known from the start just exactly what I needed to do to be the father I wanted to be, or better yet, the father you wanted me to be.  Then you wouldn't be angry at me now.

One day, in the far future for you but really only a short time from now, you may come to me and say, "Dad, you've been a good father."  I won't believe you, but I'll be grateful all the same, and I'll tell you with all sincerity that you've been a good son.  Because, after all is said and done, you'll still be my favorite.

Author's Biography

William Joseph lives in Saint James, NY with his wife and sons, where he does "something with numbers" from nine to five. 

He's an average, middle-aged man doing average, middle-aged things, and remains unknown to all but his family and friends. In his fantasy life, though, William is a well-known writer and changer-of-the-world.

E-mail William at WilliamJoseph117@aol.com

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