We tried so hard to make things better for our kids that we made them worse. We gave them comfort, but we took away struggle. We gave them protection, but we took away courage. And for my grandchildren — for you — I wish something better. Something real.

I wish you a life that isn’t always easy, but one that’s honest. I hope you know the feeling of wearing hand-me-down clothes that once belonged to your big brother or sister, and the simple joy of homemade ice cream on a hot day. I hope you taste leftover meatloaf sandwiches and realize that love often comes wrapped in simplicity.

I hope you learn humility not from books, but by being humiliated once or twice — because that’s how real character grows. I hope you learn honesty not just from being told to tell the truth, but by being cheated, and feeling how wrong it feels.

I hope you learn to make your own bed every morning, to mow the lawn when the sun is high, and to wash your car until your arms ache. I hope nobody hands you a brand-new car on your sixteenth birthday, because I want you to understand the pride that comes from earning what you have.

It will be good if, at least once, you see puppies being born — to witness life beginning. And I hope you also stay beside your old dog when it’s time to say goodbye — because love and loss are part of the same lesson.

I hope you get a black eye fighting for something you truly believe in, because some principles are worth pain. I hope you share a room with your little brother or sister, and when they crawl under your blanket because they’re scared of the dark, I hope you lift the covers and let them in.

When you want to go see a movie with friends and your little sibling wants to tag along, I hope you sigh — and take them anyway. One day, you’ll realize how quickly those moments pass.

I hope you live in a town where you can still walk to school safely with your friends, kicking stones and telling stories along the way. And on rainy days, when your mom drives you, I hope you never ask her to drop you two blocks away so your friends won’t see. You’ll understand someday that there’s nothing uncool about being loved.

If you want a slingshot, I hope your dad doesn’t buy it for you. I hope he shows you how to make one with your own hands — because creativity and patience are worth more than money.

I hope you learn to dig in the dirt and plant something that grows. I hope you learn to read real books, the kind with worn pages and coffee stains, and that you sometimes lose track of time while reading them. When you learn to use computers, I hope you also learn to add and subtract in your head — because wisdom should never depend on screens.

I hope your friends tease you about your first crush. And when you talk back to your mother, I hope she washes your mouth out with soap, so you’ll remember both the taste and the lesson.

May you skin your knee climbing a mountain, burn your hand on a stove, and even stick your tongue to a frozen flagpole once — just so you understand consequences.

I don’t care if you try a beer once, but I hope you don’t like it. And if a so-called friend offers you drugs, I hope something inside you says “no,” and you walk away knowing that real friends don’t hand you poison.

I hope you sit on a porch with your grandparents and listen — really listen — to the stories they tell. I hope you go fishing with your uncle, even if you don’t catch anything, because sometimes it’s not about the fish but the silence between two hearts.

I hope you feel sorrow at a funeral, so you understand the value of life. And I hope you feel pure joy during the holidays, surrounded by family and laughter.

When you throw a baseball through your neighbor’s window, I hope your mother makes you apologize — and pay for it. But I also hope she hugs you later, when you hand her a lumpy plaster mold of your little hand at Christmas. Because both discipline and love are gifts that shape who we become.

These are the things I wish for you — not wealth, not ease, not perfection. I wish you tough times that build strength, disappointments that teach resilience, and hard work that leads to pride. I wish you laughter that makes you cry and tears that make you appreciate laughter.

Because in the end, life isn’t meant to be smooth — it’s meant to be lived. And the only way to truly appreciate the beauty of it all is to know what it takes to rise after you’ve fallen.

That, my dear grandchildren, is how you will learn gratitude — and that is how you will learn life.