“Dammit, Pinsker! Who the [censored] loves you this much?!”
Daddy does, Mr. Drill Sergeant. Daddy does.
Last year, a drill sergeant actually yelled that at my kid during mail call. The backstory is, we gave Daniel (our kid) permission to join the Army Cavalry via the Florida National Guard at age 17, so he was one of the youngest recruits during basic training. Before he left, Danny asked me if I’d write to him every day.
So I did. (Guess it was a lot of letters.)
Obviously, I’m super proud of him: He accomplished at 17 what lots of folks couldn’t do at any age. (And since he graduated from basic training when he was still a minor, when he got back home, I had full legal right to spank a U.S. Army soldier for not cleaning his room. I know that sounds kinda weird, but hey, the law’s the law.)
Still, it broke my heart, because he struggled during basic training: We’d speak on the phone on Sunday (unless someone in his group screwed up and they lost phone privileges — which happened multiple times), and I could hear it in his voice.
But this time around, there’s none of that. After graduating from high school in June and returning to Fort Benning in July ‘25, he was a wise, battle-hardened old man of 18 — and tomorrow morning is his graduation ceremony: He’ll officially be a member of the United States Army Cavalry.
My little boy.
Same little guy I used to read to at night. Same one I tickled, played with, and gave piggyback rides.
None of this makes any sense.
Last year, he did his basic training in Fort Moore, Georgia, which used to be Fort Benning, Georgia. This year, he’s at the exact same base, but it’s back to being called Fort Benning.
Only it’s a different Benning. But it’s still “Fort Benning.” (I’m not making any of this up. Three cheers for the federal government!)
Either way, I’m glad I didn’t invest in preprinted envelopes.
Being a daddy is a wild experience: You begin with this leaky, potato-like object, and then it grows and grows, absorbing all the knowledge, love, and guidance you give him. And then, in the blink of an eye, it’s an honest-to-God, full-grown human being — bigger and smarter than you are.
Sometimes, it doesn’t work out so well. I’ve known wonderful, loving people who poured their hearts and souls into their kids — who loved ‘em selflessly and unconditionally — but for whatever reason, their children chose to be horrible people. And I’ve also seen mediocre, half-arsed parents who were blessed with kind, loving, incredible sons and daughters.
How much is nature? How much is nurture?
And how much of it was a roll of the dice?
It’s funny: When I study world history, so many of the decisions of kings, generals, warlords, and emperors are self-explanatory, because human nature hasn’t changed that much over last thousand or so years. From Alexander to Caesar to Genghis Khan to Napoleon, their motivations were understandable. Our technology might be different, but fundamentally, we’re still the same flesh-and-blood humans as our forefathers, cursed with the same shortcomings, insecurities, and frailties.
But the one part of world history that makes zero sense to me are all the stories about fathers killing their kids, and kids killing their fathers.
Historically, it’s a VERY common occurrence: In familial dynasties and most monarchies, a father kills his kids to keep ‘em away from his crown; kids kill their fathers (and brothers and sisters) for the same reason.
I dunno. I think if one of my kids ever tried to kill me, I’d just let him. I mean, what am I supposed to do: Fight back?
And try to hurt my kid?!
I don’t think I could.
But my kid hasn’t been training for 12 weeks to fight me. Instead, he’s been relentlessly training to keep me — and you — safe from harm. Because my son is about to be a soldier in the United States Army Cavalry! Can you imagine that?
I won the frickin’ lottery, because my children are so much better than I could ever hope to be.
See you tomorrow, Danny. Daddy loves you.
Tell your drill sergeant.
