Last fall, I went back to Stanford. Not to attend a class or wedding or reunion, but to move my 18-year-old son into Crothers Hall, his freshman dorm.
Since his high school graduation three months prior, I’d felt an overwhelming urge to punch him in the face with advice. Like an aging boxer in his final bout, flailing against a faster, younger opponent.
As a modern-day parent, I remember nearly everything about my child’s life. Every birthday candle and every Christmas morn. Every goal and every miss. Every scrape, every bruise. Every. School. Lockdown. I remember every uneasy day of 2020, together. And I remember every last hug. How could I sit back and silently let this child go?
This was my final duty. My last chance to sum up 18 years and perhaps a lifetime of fatherly wisdom in one hot summer. Here are some highlights:
• Do work hard, but don’t work too hard.
• Do get enough sleep, but don’t oversleep.
• Do choose a major you love, but don’t pick one with zero job prospects.
• Do take fun classes, but don’t take archery. It never ends well.
• Do graduate in four years, but don’t rush. You’ve got plenty of time.
• Do succeed, but it’s OK if you fail.
• Do call your mother, but don’t call after 10:15 p.m.
Over those three chaotic months, my son patiently listened to my unsolicited dadvice, with all its paradoxes, because what’s parenting if not a series of contradictions strung together like secondhand patio lights, a mangled cassette tape of tangled good intentions, reminiscent of a filibustering senator serving a bottomless bowl of word salad, ripe with dos and don’ts and kale Pop-Tarts?
How could I sit back and silently let this child go?
Suddenly, summer was done. He packed his belongings into our minivan, and we started the two-hour drive to Stanford. Along the way, I got in my final punches.
• Don’t do anything stupid.
• Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey.
• Floss.
At some point, he had the audacity to doze off on me. Wake up I’m not done yet we’re almost there! I wanted to scream directly into his left ear. The gears in my head spun faster than our Honda’s grumbling front-wheel drive. As I exited 101 and slowed for a stoplight on Embarcadero Road, I recalled all that parenting self-help stuff about agency, listening to teens, engaging in “discussions” or whatever.
So, when his eyes finally cracked open from the induced nap, I asked him: “Well, do you have any advice for me?”
For a moment, he seemed stunned, his lower jaw dropping three-quarters of an inch as I navigated another treacherous Campus Drive roundabout. Sandstone buildings came into view, steadfast and majestic. I pulled into a parking spot close to his dorm and shut off the engine.
Finally, my son turned to me, looked me in the eyes, and said, ever so slowly: “Don’t worry, Dad.”
And that about sums it up, I guess.
Tony Tong, ’94, is a children’s book author, a product designer, and the lucky dad of three amazingly kind humans. Email him at stanford.magazine@stanford.edu.
