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Dear Locke,
First things first. Your name was not my fault. I don’t know how Susie got talked into it, but then again, I raised a boy who named his pet tiger after a philosopher, so I don’t know what I expected. I had nothing to do with it, and if by the time you’ve read these letters, you’ve picked something quasi-normal like Kelly or George or Marina, I fully encourage you to get out the white-out and correct as necessary.
That said, it’s growing on me. And that’s beside the point. I hope Calvin remembers to give these to you when you’re still young enough to appreciate them, but old enough to understand them. When I was pregnant, my mother got very, very sick. I never had a grandmother, either. So if it happens that I and/or Susie are gone when or if you have a kid of your own, and worse, you’re stuck with Calvin 2.0, I’d rather you had something to rely on.
Rule One of Parenting. Don’t put out grease fires with water. Flour and baking soda are your best friends. But for the love of god don’t put water on it. Not even as an experiment. Experiments are only funny when they don’t cost you thousands of dollars in repairs.
Rule Two: Make sure your son/daughter/child’s favourite toy is hypoallergenic. Poor David was sneezing for two years straight before I managed to kidnap Hobbes and replace all of his feathers with a different kind of stuffing.
Rule Three: Corrugated cardboard is the best substance for spaceships, but make sure you have spare scissors. Also, under no circumstances let your child have an exacto-knife, so be willing to help them.
Rule Three Addendum: If you can’t indulge your little grub with a few moments of real spaceship flight, what’s the point of being a mother?
Rule Four: Tell them about which chemicals make poisonous gases ahead of time. Calvin is an absolute terror, but as much joy as he got hearing about what chloramine vapor does to people, I trust him not to make it on purpose. That doesn’t stop him from pouring everything he can together.
Rule Five: Backup toboggans.
Rule Six: When you buy your child’s favourite toy for them, buy a second one. Just in case. Otherwise, you might be spending a long time out in the woods in the middle of the night finding their severed limb. I’m just glad we found it, and that David didn’t kill me for insisting on it. Hopefully Hobbes is okay with my stitching.
Rule Seven: Don’t take anything your kid says personally, at least until they’re twelve. It makes great blackmail to make them do their chores later.
Rule Eight: Read every word they write. Not only does it make him feel appreciated, you never know – you might get invested in the adventures of Spaceman Spiff. Don’t you dare tell him.
Rule Nine: Broccoli are alien brains. Trust me, it works.
Rule Ten: No matter how frustrating, how annoying, how loud, how childish, your kid gets – every night, before they go to bed, check under the bed for monsters, and check in the closet for aliens, and make sure they have their tiger, and kiss them goodnight and let them know you love them. You only get so many chances before they’re grown up. If you’re lucky, you get to meet their children, too. But that’s if you’re lucky.
I love you, Locke. You’ll be a great parent one day.
-Mary