Dear Dad: A Note From The Future. Love, Your Kid Whom You Blog About

Photo: voronaman / Shutterstock
woman looking at laptop

Dear Dad,

You think you're pretty clever, don't you?

I know this because I found the blog you've been writing about me for, what, 16 years now? It's adorable that you're still inputting data via "keyboard" onto a "website," bee-tee-dubs.

I would be mortified but since all of my friends input their blogs via neural networks or scented aerosol SpaceEggs™, I'm not worried about them finding all the DEEPLY embarrassing personal information you have shared without my consent.

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I understand, logically, that you could not have asked me for my permission when I was an (adorable) baby or (heartbreakingly beautiful) toddler but those words and pictures last forever.

As you know, nothing disappears on the ZuckerNet, so I'm legitimately worried that a future employer might find out about my potty training challenges and wonder whether that signals a lack of initiative on my part. And if I'm still living with you and mom past the culturally acceptable age of 26, you'll know why. (P.S.: Did you really leave home at 18? Didn't your parents love you?)

By the time kindergarten rolled around, you could have stopped. Get out of the game early and leave 'em wanting more, just like my favorite blogger of all time, North West. (I know you're not into the Kardashians, but her SpaceEgg™ drops on income inequality were really breathtaking  and not just because they were derived from highly poisonous Calla Lillies.)

But, no. You had to keep writing, documenting an ill-advised attempt at making me a child actor when I was lukewarm on the whole thing in the first place. You were supportive but I found comments like, "M has booked the odd commercial spot, just not enough to fill up her college fund" somewhat unkind.

College costs millions of dollars! Maybe if I landed a feature, we'd be having a different conversation but here's a little secret: I didn't really want that role in The Fast And Furious 24. I knew it would've meant sacrificing the carefree anonymity of my childhood, plus the script was a disaster. (We all dodged a bullet there.)

Some of the other activities you faithfully reported on but I barely remember are soccer (snooze), ballet (if I can't be the Black Swan, I'm not interested), snowboarding (remember snow?), close-up magic (really?), Princess Academy (that was all me, sorry) and of course, "Twerk Camp," which I imagine may have been legitimate at the time but is now nothing more than a term that defames and demeans Miley Cyrus and all the amazing work she has done as our current poet laureate.

The takeaway here is that I believe everyone deserves a chance to pursue a passion in their formative years without being judged on any awkward first steps. (And I speak from experience as someone who was actually judged on their awkward first steps. See your blog posts from April 2015.)

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Speaking of judge-y, I have to point out that you've really gotten soft in your middle age (you're 50, right?) Where are all the incisive wit and borderline scandalous references to casual marijuana usage? (And were people really shocked by that? What would they think of my Fruity Weed Pebbles?)

When you started this blog, you were all like, "I'm going to be the edgy dad blogger who tells it like it is!" and now you're all, "M's Mom and I are so proud of her accomplishments at the spelling bee this afternoon!" Good job, Dad. You've turned into a live-action version of a Holiday Family Newsletter.

In conclusion, I'm not sure what you thought all this blogging about your firstborn was going to get you. Notoriety? Money? A book deal? Once you got all three, did it change anything?

I seem to remember you bought a large watch and a slightly larger electric car. It's a good thing that the watch was a wind-up because the car didn't get much use after the power grid went down under President Trump. (Thank goodness for Madame President Beyoncé and her alternative fuel platform.) It just goes to show that we'll all eventually have to answer for our past transgressions.

Speaking of which, there's a dent near the intake valve of the Tesla HoverMax. I may have nicked a streetlight during an ascent to the Elevated 405. Sorry. But that means we're even now, right?

Your loving daughter,


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Jesse Costello is a creative writer, coach, and ultramarathoner. Follow him on Twitter.