If you’re new to Raising Myles, Welcome!
I write letters every week to my son, Myles, sharing my journey as a first-time dad and spreading the love I didn't experience myself. I am using my writing to save money for his college fund. Myles is now 9 months old.
If you’ve been here before — thank you for coming back. If you’re new here, below are some good places to start:
41 Weeks Old Dear Myles,
Last week, I wrote to you about grieving the loss of children around the world who are not my own and how it made me feel so lucky to have you. But this week, our fridge went out, and I had to watch your mother thaw and pour all of the milk she's pumped, hand-expressed, and labored to feed you down the drain – the home warranty people can't come for another week. We threw everything away so the bacteria doesn’t move in and think our fridge is an all-inclusive resort, so it doesn’t stink. But you know what does stink? This thing I sure wasn’t born with but sure have a whole lot of now.
So, we bought another (mini) fridge and have to eat out a lot more because our mini fridge, which we fully intend to return, can barely hold a dozen eggs. People are suffering in the world, and it should make my problems feel like nothing. It feels incredibly privileged to complain about an appliance that keeps my food cold breaking, so I bought another one, and how we have the means to eat out until it gets fixed, even though we live close to mostly unhealthy food options – I’m talking, we are surrounded by McDonald's, Taco Bell, White Castle, Captain D's, Burger King, because frankly, who wants to drive downtown every day for dinner?
I should be grateful because there are people who have nothing to eat, and because instead of dew on my lawn in the morning, someone is waking up and has to hopscotch through shrapnel. What does it mean to feel the privilege you've never realized you had because you grew up without? What am I supposed to feel when your mother almost cried over spilled milk that her body labored to produce three times a day, but as a backup, we have a whole milk fat, no palm oil, plant-based, vegetarian, no syrup or Maltodextrin, no soy formula?
But in real-time, when we look at the same moon, a child somewhere on this planet cannot eat because his mother is gone, and there is no natural, nutritious, and hypoallergenic formula, with words and acronyms I do not know the meaning for as backup – there is no backup.
How do I even use the word grieve when there are buttons in my house that turn our home warm or cool at my pleasure? How do I use the word grieve when we have walls and rooms to bathe in, sleep in, rest in, and more walls and rooms to bathe in, sleep in, rest in for guests who slept over only once in the past year ? How do I really complain about a fridge and spoiled milk, when frankly, everything we have is not because we are deserving but simply because of pure grace and luck? What do I do with the feelings I cannot rationalize because even though the world is burning, frankly, in the grand scheme of things our world looks like Eden?
I wrote to you about the grief I feel for children who died of starvation while I’m up four pants sizes and feel thicker than a Snickers, and you’re drinking British-produced formula with natural, nutritious, and hypoallergenic ingredients. I’m grieving from the comfort of my couch, writing about it with my smooth hands that never had to labor, with Netflix on while the mini-fridge hums away. I probably should stop using the line “I used to cry for the things I have now” because at this point, the poverty line I used to stand on is so far away that I need to squint to see it. This week, I purchased some new sneakers to play basketball in - they were on sale, and on top of that, I got an extra 20% off because the code “SPRING” knocked off even more money – I haven’t played basketball in years.
The fridge is out, and we haven’t missed a meal. And while you can’t tell this from my thighs that are spreading, I can still hide the grief I have for the world and stow it away like a book that I don’t feel like reading. I can hide behind last week's letter and move on to talk about our broken fridge and spoiled milk, the mini-fridge we had to buy, and the sandwich or two I ate with questionable meat with a soft serve because it’s a miracle the soft serve machine is working today (IYKYK).
I can use the privilege I never thought I would have and avoid putting my own trauma and insecurities on display. Instead, I can write about the grief I feel seeing Yezen’s protruding bones, which you could connect like dots while his father sits next to his son’s lifeless body showing a picture on his phone of what he used to look like before starvation consumed him, or when Ryan’s body collapsed from the bullet holes that bore into his skin, while his body lay there in front of his home where he should still be alive, smiling, and dreaming of being an engineer, while his mother begged the officer as to why he shot her 15-year-old boy.
Did I mention that we fixed our deck this week?
Love,
Daddy
These letters between me and Myles are free to read.
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Let me know your thoughts:
How do you channel feelings of grief and privilege into positive action or meaningful reflection?
Can you share a time when you felt compelled to confront your own privilege?
Have you ever cried over spilled milk?
How do you process and acknowledge your feelings?
If you’re new here, introduce yourself. It’s safe here.
Want more of Myles’ Letters?
Here’s something light - How I Met Your Mother
Something medium - Last week you met your Grandfather
Something Heavy - Balm for Wounds: Apologizing in Advance
Read about Our first Father’s Day.
Such simple honest truth!
I have been thinking the same thing, about how all people look at the same moon and how even something like loneliness can feel like a luxury right now.