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Dear Ezra,

Riding down the road the other day, I turned the radio to WIVK-FM to listen to the Vols take their weekly beating (for future reference, 2008 was a rough football season). When I glanced at you in the rearview mirror, you were frozen -- perplexed, puzzled, annoyed that the music had stopped and strange voices were pouring forth from the speakers.

It's understandable, son -- your old man doesn't listen to the radio, for a lot of reasons. If I can't pick up WDVX or WUTK, there's no point in trying to find music I'll enjoy on the dial, because it's just not there. Plus, it appears I've done a decent job in imparting you some musical taste -- you even have your own playlist on my iPod, and there's nothing more heart-melting in the whole world than to look back at you in your carseat, bouncing your head back and forth, mouthing along to the words of Switchfoot or Band of Horses or Cutthroat Shamrock.

There's another reason I avoid the radio, of course -- the news gets more grim by the day, and as a father, it frightens me to think about what your future holds.

Yeah, I know -- your dad likes to get philosophical and metaphysical and maudlin, especially this time of year. I can't help it -- you turn 3 in a few days, and I've been writing these letters since before you were born. They're not as frequent as they used to be, and it's always touching and a little surprising when someone tells me how much they enjoy reading about you through these letters.

I always smile and say thanks, although inside, I suppose I'm a lot like most other parents -- filled with fear and worry sometimes over the job I'm doing. It's ironic -- my philosophy used to be that the only thing parents are guaranteed to do is screw their kids up. Not on purpose, although that's sometimes the case; but on some level, parents, I believe, can't help but pass along their own quirks or opinions or worldviews or genetic anomalies to their kids.

I see myself, as a kid, in you sometimes -- little moments of sadness and worry that cross your face for no apparent reason. I'm probably just reading too much into it, I realize -- you're just about to turn 3, after all -- but as your dad, it feels like my heart rips just a little more every time those dark clouds pass across your tear-filled eyes.

But hey -- I don't want to give everybody the impression that you're a moody little goth kid-in-waiting. Your life is one of light and love, and for the most part, your moments of frustration come when your scratched-up "Little Brown Bear" DVD skips or freezes. Your tears flow when you fall or stumble and hurt yourself, as all kids do. (Although I've gotta tell ya, boy, your pain threshold is pretty low. When you cut your finger a few weeks ago, you didn't use your entire hand for a week and held it close to your chest like it'd been caught in a woodchipper. You come by it honestly, though -- when I was a kid and got a booster shot in my thigh, I dragged my leg around for a week like I'd suddenly developed polio.)

Most of the time, you're a laughing, shouting, mischievous little boy who brings laughter and light to all around you -- like when Judy over at Midland or your grandparents ask you, "Who's the king of rock 'n' roll?" You grin and shout, "Elvis!" Unless Tessa, The Fiancee, happens to be there, in which case you'll cut your eyes over to her, lean forward and whisper, "Ryan Adams!" -- who happens to be her favorite musician.

You run and play and give high-fives. You chase Axl, my disagreeable old dog, around with your toy vacuum cleaner. You shoot basketball on your little toddler-sized goal for hours. You run up to familiar faces and offer hugs ... you watch your Mickey Mouse DVD over and over like you've never seen it before ... you sit studiously as we read you "Green Eggs and Ham," pointing out the mouse and the fox and Sam I Am on every page.

Those are the things, boy, that I marvel over and treasure, each and every day. When the headlines are troubling and the world seems like a dark and foreboding place, I know that all I have to do is pull into the driveway at your mom's house and wait for the door to open.

You stand there for a moment, your face lighting up with the beauty of a thousand burning suns, and you shout, "Da-da!" My heart pounds so feverishly it feels like it's going to burst through my chest, and when your little arms wrap around my neck, nothing else matters.

So happy birthday, son. I can't wait to see what the next year brings.

Love,

Dad

Steve Wildsmith is the Weekend editor for The Daily Times. Contact him at steve.wildsmith@thedailytimes.com or at 981-1144.