Christilaw:

I happily became a grandparent a few years ago and I became instantly aware of a number of changes to my life.

For one thing, it forced me to reread Dr. Seuss. Who doesn’t need the occasional reminder that “Sometimes the questions are complicated but the answers are simple,” and that “It is better to know how to learn than to know”?

In fact, I now find that I liberally throw out Seussisms.

And it made some significant changes to my reading habits. My oldest granddaughter is a voracious reader (“Be awesome! Be a book nut!”) who not only read her way through her school library but advised them on what new authors to put on their shelves. Books are something we have in common (along with a passion for a certain British sci-fi character who rides around in a police call box), and we frequently pass the time by discussing plot lines and authors.

Movies? Let’s just say our family has an affinity for Minions.

But since becoming a grandparent I’ve also spent a good deal of time contemplating just exactly what it is that I most want to pass on to this next generation.

I’m not talking about worldly goods, but I do hope my grandson will appreciate all the old baseball cards I have stashed in a closet (Heaven forbid he ever utters the words “Who’s Ernie Banks?” after the age of 6).

No, I’m thinking in terms of a more philosophical legacy. I’m working on a list and it keeps growing longer.

You know – “Think and wonder. Wonder and think.”

There is a sense of urgency that is suddenly driving all this. Both of my grandfathers passed away long before I came along, and I don’t want to be that kind of unfilled memory for my grandkids. I plan to stick around until they are old and gray, but plans like that are never mine to make.

So this is my plan: I write things down for them.

I have always had a passion for great quotes, so I have a growing collection for them – and it starts with this gem from the doc: “Why fit in when you were born to stand out?”

I make notes and I have begun to craft letters for each of them that I plan to put away and save until their 18th birthday. If I’m still around, so much the better.

First of all, I want them to know how much I love them. You can never tell them that too often.

Secondly, I want to apologize for a few things. Like global warning, Justin Bieber and the Kardashians. You know, the really tragic stuff.

And I want to pass along my hope that they will have passion in their lives.

Whether it’s Seahawks football or the Harvard badminton team, I want them to know the thrill of victory, even if that means knowing the agony of defeat. There is no reward without the accompanying risk.

And I want them to know success in their lives, but not too much and not too soon.

Satisfying as it is to win all the time, I believe you learn more from your losses, your failures, than you do from your victories.

I love a particular quote from Samuel Beckett.

In a piece titled “Worstward Ho,” he wrote: “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

Picking yourself up, dusting yourself off and trying again is the kind of experience we all learn from best. It’s something I never want them to forget how to do.

That’s why I love baseball with such fervor.

Do you know what they call a baseball hitter who fails seven out of every 10 times he steps to the plate? A Hall of Famer.

I want them to know that their lives are boundless and I hope their dreams are matched only by their drive to make them come true.

I want them to have a life filled with people who do for them what their lives have done for me.

Whatever they do, whoever they become, I hope they will have that internal tuning fork that keeps them in tune with their surroundings.

“Today you are you, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is youer than you.”