Dear J,

Okay, I made fun of you last time. You can laugh at me this time, failing as a dad.

We cleared our calendar to visit Puerto Rico for two weeks. It was a vacation, but more an excuse for a vacation to visit your only great grandmas. They wanted to see you, and because of recent events, we weren’t sure if you’d get to see them next time.

As you can see in the video, we were at the beach. We went to the beach as often as we could. Your mom and I grew up in tropical weather where the beaches are sunny and the water is warm, unlike here in California where you need a wetsuit year round and your face still freezes. You can say we missed our beaches. Besides, when you visit an island surrounded by beautiful warm beaches 1 hour’s drive in any direction at the most — you have to go.

This beach is in Isabela. They’ve had world surfing championships here, but not at this one we were at. This one was calm — perfect for floating you around on baby waves in your yellow tube.

If you look in the background, you’ll notice large waves exploding on the rocks, then spilling onto the rock shelf that makes the beach we were on. It was a perfect shallow pool nature carved especially for us.

And in the foreground, your mom had just picked up the video camera thinking she’d capture a heartwarming father-son moment, with you doing the downward-dog and giggling at me through your legs. But with me, she should’ve known better…

The waves at this beach are usually small. But a storm was brewing and it brought larger waves. One snuck up on us, and I thought no problem — I’d lift you by your waist 2 inches and that would clear it. What I didn’t expect was your arms collapsed, your body folded at the waist, and by lifting you up, I ended up dragging sand and saltwater up your nose and face.

Your mom still accuses me of trying to pretend nothing happened afterward (which was true) but I was really trying to help you stay calm and get to deeper water to clean you off. See, I’m not that bad a dad.

You had an absolute blast this time in Puerto Rico. Here are a few highlights:

It was hard to put you to sleep, because your days were exciting. We would be at an island one day, the beach the next, on a boat, on a plane. Each time you woke up, you were somewhere else. Plus, you normally only see us a few hours each day. There, you spent every waking moment doing fun things with both of us.

You were curious about rain one day — you wanted to go outside. I said okay, mom said no, and grandma said bring an umbrella. I sat you on may lap on the sidewalk, under the red umbrella. I explained that it comes from the sky and it falls everywhere: on the umbrella, the rocks, the grass and the car. You learned to say “Rendrahpsss”. I showed you how to catch them by sticking your hand out. I said you’ll get wet if you go out. You tried, got wet, and came back under the umbrella. When we went back inside, Abu Vicky asked, “Do you like the rain?” You said yes with big eyes.

You refused to accept that each day had to end. You’d jump into bed with us, rolling and laughing. Each time we put you down to sleep, you’d pop back up and go “HI MOMMY HI DADDY” with a huge grin. One night you were jumping in your crib singing (yelling), “No more monkeys jumping on the bed.” Another night you led us around the room and practiced “1, 2, 3… BIG JUMP.”

Your mind must’ve been bursting with new thoughts. You learned so much and you kept absorbing everything. Every word, every scene. You remembered everything. So each night I would put you to bed by helping you remember and sort out your day. We’d talk about your favorite things, ending by saying good night to all of them.

You can also now understand just about any concept, if we explain it in simple words you understand. You became fascinated with the beach. You repeated, “waves push your body” and “waves go up and down.”

We had fun at an island one weekend. It was nature’s amusement park and you learned just about everything you could from it, for your age. There was a nook by the mangroves where the fish played for you, you floated in your yellow tube, you swam, you played with sand. And you loved the boat ride. As we left the island, you surprised us by breaking your silence and saying, “Bye bye island. Bye bye green boat. Nite nite. See you soon. Thank you island. Thank you green boat. See you soon green boat.”

The next morning, you ran to the water to look for the boat. I said it was asleep. You waited for the captain to wake it up. We drew in the sand while waiting.

On one of our drives back, you passed out in the back and as your mom and I were talking, our conversation got sucked toward a retired man we made friends with — Roberto.

He had many animals on his land. Two horses (he had 7 at one point), goats, ducks, chickens, pigs, dogs, etc… but what surprised me was hearing him speak English and him asking me about California. Turns out he spent 30 years teaching in Connecticut. Then one day he decided he had enough, and committed to return to Puerto Rico with or without his wife. (They divorced.)

He later remarried a sweet Puerto Rican lady he spends his days with at the farm, where he enjoys working in the sun and caring for his animals. He remembers the last straw in Connecticut was when he tried to have chickens on his property, and his neighbors kept badgering him about the noise. What he called music, they called noise.

But he mainly returned for family. He looked me in the eye and warned me about getting old:

Things change, people die, people move, you can never find them again. The past you remember is gone.

He could no longer find the people he loved. And of those he could, he visited; but they had a carnival of excuses not to visit him.

His best friend is your grandpa Jose. They share a fence. Jose is a passionate man who can talk til owls sleep, but Roberto is a man Jose fears talking with. Roberto joked about finding Jose sneakily cutting grass in the shadows one day, because he had work to do and he was afraid they’d end up talking til midnight.

And the feeling is mutual. Grandpa Jose used to drive his mother to his house often (your great grandma). But now that she’s not well, he drives to the countryside alone to cut the grass, think, listen to music, play the guitar, and talk to Roberto. They’re friends.

Why do we build fantasy houses?

Your grandma finally got to live in a big house she always wanted when she was raising your mom. Your great grandma fights to keep her home in a bad neighborhood. Grandpa Jose built his house of wood in the middle of nowhere. My parents built a house they once imagined my brother and I would live in, by some chance we’d end up back there. (We didn’t – he’s now in Australia and I’m in America).

The houses were dreams come true, but yet, these houses groaned for something. It became clear what it was when I watched you magically bring it to each one of them.

For two weeks, a fearless little boy brought chaos into their tidy lives, along with laughter, joy and love. And family. Things you can’t buy, and things that aren’t things. And then after two weeks, you left.

I imagine the stoves won’t be crowded with pots. The sink won’t be overflowing with dishes. The fridge won’t be bursting. There won’t be toys to put away. No mountains of dirty laundry to do. No dirty tracks from outside. No excuse to visit the bakery. No reason to buy cases of beer. No need for more chairs at the table.

The houses would be quiet, tidy, and empty again.

We often sacrifice our present to chase our dreams, only to get them decades after– when it’s too late –and you’ve lost what you built it for?

We want to be busy, do this or that, run here or there, fill our days and nights convinced we’re working for a fantasy future where we can finally enjoy life with all the people we love.

Then comes the reality slap: Things change, people die, people move on. The past you remember is gone.

Time is something you can never get back. It’s a non-renewable resource. You can lose all your money and your house and your possessions, but you can always get them back. It might take a while, but you can make money again. You can buy things again.

But not time.

Time doesn’t care if you’re rich or powerful — you never get your youth back, your 1st year with your baby, your 1st anythings, your health, or all the chances and experiences you burned or trampled as you rushed toward your fantasy future.

That’s why it’s crazy to trash the present to chase the future. And you should wonder, what the hell are we doing as a human race? There was once a time we lived in abundance as hunter-gatherers, farmers. The land provided for all our needs. Sure we had no AC, cars or ice cubes, but we had everything that people today long for in retirement.

I hear your squeaky voice yelling for me downstairs. I’m away from you right now, scratching these notes down. You’re not going to stop yelling until I’m there. I’m finishing up as fast as I can with terrible writing so I can hurry back. By the way, you might want to re-read and think about the previous paragraph. There’s an important lesson there about human desire, and wanting even after we have everything.

Your mom says that’s why she’s unapologetic for taking 1 year off from work to spend time with you (and plans to do the same for #2). Good for her. Because she knows that time only comes once. She often meets retired women who are just beginning to explore their passions… envious, wondering how she does it. They complain about how it’s difficult to start at their age, and how they wish they started sooner. And now your mom gets anxious about how she’ll manage our #2, when we already struggle with you.

And I said that’s pretty much how it goes with time. You never have enough of it when you want it. So you put things off and you wait for a good time. But the perfect time never comes. So you keep waiting. When you finally get it, you’d have lost the reason you wanted time for in the first place. And then it’s too late. The end.

That’s why you just have to keep putting drops in the bucket. Any moment you have, don’t waste it – toss something in the bucket. Know that each drop sparks change and new opportunities; even if it’s slow.

Just as we finished that thought, her phone rang. We were still driving through the island, flanked by lush, leafy green.

The caller explained she found your mom’s business and since your mom was in touch with the “new mom” community, she offered 10 free passes to her and “her company” to promote an event for new moms. Mom politely explained she was on vacation and promised to reply by email.

Just then, you woke up from your nap and with soap-opera timing, said, “Mama?” in your sweetest warble. Your mama felt super.

There’s no right time. Do it now. There’s nothing at the end. Enjoy the journey.

Love,

Dad

P.S. – The first morning back home, mom asked “What do you want to do today?” You said, “Stay at home with mommy.” You didn’t want to go to school. After she dropped you off, she texted me saying you screamed so loud she heard you outside. You screamed til your throat scratched dry. They called 1 hour later, saying you hadn’t stopped screaming – at top of your lungs, crying so hard you coughed like you were going to throw up.

Before your mom left you, she told your teachers your favorite memories of our trip so they could talk to you about it, but when they did you would only pause for a few seconds at familiar words before wailing again. Your favorite teacher Ms Lupe tried to comfort you. We called your grandma for advice, since she specialized in developmental psychology. She advised to give you a chance and monitor you for improvement. I was to pick you up if you didn’t. As you’d have it, after your snack, you were smiling and playing with your “boys” again.

It reminded us this is the life we chose. We love you so much. And you just wanted to stay with us. But yet this is what we do to you. It feels unnatural.

Time is not free. You pay for it with your life.