Tonight, after reading books and turning off the light:
"Mom, will you sing me a song?"
"My voice is a little scratchy, but I'll do my best."
I sing all three verses of "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing," squeaking here and there.
* * *silence* * *
"I love you, Mom....
* * *
and that wasn't scratchy.
* * *
It was beautiful."
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Dear Jack,
So, I took a break.
You turned five right at the beginning of what turned out to be a pretty fantastic summer. We were unscheduled but busy, living out life in this great place we live. I tapered down the self-stealing medication and got some of myself back. Enough, at least, to enjoy some momentous developments and many, many peacefully slow days.
At five, you are as excited about life as ever. I keep waiting for you to dampen your spirits or withdraw a bit. I know this change will come, but I am ever so grateful that for now you still live life BIG. Joie de vivre, indeed. You are so much fun to be around, and your lack of self-consciousness is truly refreshing. Maybe I am learning a bit from you while there is time. Time is the tricky part, right? It seems so incremental when you're five. Time passes so slowly that you feel like never is true. It isn't. All the things I thought I'd never do (when I was five) are done. Can you believe that? You can't understand this truth. Not until you live it.
Let me briefly recap what five has brought:
You ride your bike (Quite easily, with infrequent wobbles it turned out). You just...did it. I credit your days on the balance bike and a newfound confidence. I would be remiss if I didn't credit some natural ability.
You swim underwater, no swimmies. You jump off the diving board.
You go to kindergarten. We walk with friends and neighbors and I love that time.
You eat sushi.
You earned your orange belt in Tae Kwon Do. I don't think I can adequately describe how much fun it is to watch you learn these techniques. You have such a strong "KIYAH!" and good form.
You DRAW! All day, every day. You told me in the bath the other night that you can't stop thinking about things you want to draw. My heart! You are on a submarine kick lately.
You're still super-sensitive and sometimes hard to understand. You had a couple of rough weeks transitioning to your kindergarten schedule, but your teacher, Ms. Martina, is sweet and understood that it takes a while. Now you are riding high with your "good checks." You seem to really enjoy your related arts (music, art, P.E. and media center). I volunteer in your classroom each week. Even though I have my misgivings about public school in general, I like most of what I see so far.
I worry at times about how quick you are to deny responsibility. It's so crystal clear to me that something or things have made you scared to be wrong. I hate that. I will continue to try to teach you grace when it comes to mistakes, even the biggest ones. Where I fail in this is where you fail. I almost never let myself off the hook
. This is no way to live. I promise to work on it and try my hardest to help you learn it.
How can I tell you how to really love yourself? I can't. I can tell you how I love you, though.
You light up my days. You show me how I love. Sometimes, I feel nothing but pride and I know that I'm doing it right. Sometimes I want to crawl under a rock for the shamefulness that comes when you mirror the worst of me. When we are both low, I feel all of that baggage and all of that weight hanging over us and I feel powerless to shove it out of the way. Sometimes you bring me up. Sometimes I bring you up. Then there are the times when we are on the same page. We are speaking the same language. We are drawing pictures together or making biscuits or following a treasure map and it's just. right. I know in my heart that we will probably always move in and out of light and dark. Maybe the dark will get darker. Maybe the light will blind me. This is life. Why should it be any different?
All the time, though, I love you. You are a crazy, wonderful kid with a big heart and a huge imagination. I love to bear witness to it all.
Mama
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Dear Jack,
I start this letter with some hesitation. There is no more bad news right now. Things are swinging up, a sunrise is happening, just as I knew it would. Going to those dark places has stolen some of my confidence, though. I have to get my momentum back to keep this record of you timely and accurate, and less about me. So, let's begin with the facts.
Many people have commented lately on your height. I see you getting leggier. For so long you seemed to grow from the belly button up, and now your legs are sprouting. Your shirts skim the waistband of your shorts and all of a sudden your pajamas are all too small. Your hair is long, too. I'm itching to cut it, but you seem pretty adamant about having long hair, so we'll let it go. I wonder if you'll decide you want a hair cut when the summer heat arrives.
You got a black eye from the swing in our backyard a couple of days ago. I looked at you today and thought you embodied a happy childhood. Dirt on your chin, scrapes and bruises at varying stages of healing, sticky sno-cone juice on your cheeks. You're living it, kid. No doubt.
That said, you've had some rocky, emotional days lately. You seem to obsess a little about perceived outcomes, convincing yourself that a desired thing won't happen and upsetting yourself in the process. There is a lot of "never" and "always" thrown around. I can often hear it coming as you get more and more animated, but I haven't figured out how to redirect yet. Many times I know you just need a hug. I have considered pulling the car over a few times recently to give you a snuggle. Why shouldn't I? I've written before about expectations and reality, and how tricky it is to find a balance between the two. Lowering expectations isn't usually a good thing; however, having astronomical expectations isn't any better. You threw a penny in a fountain today and I heard you whisper "I wish for an elephant." Dream big, kid, but remember we don't have room for a six-ton pet.
You've started saying "In fact," very often. You might say, "I love strawberries; in fact, they are my favorite fruit!" It's ridiculously cute. I've also heard you ask, "How so?" Your curiosity has always been one of my favorites things about you. You will know so much, son, if you only ask. And ask you do - a thousand questions a day. If you hear a word you don't know, you ask what it means. Every time. All day. You'll say, "Mom, you're being sarcastic," when indeed I am. You're sharp one when it comes to words. I'm excited that we can share this love of mine.
We went for a long weekend to the beach recently. We saw deer, rabbits, dolphins. snakes, and lizards. We flew a beautiful kite and built a huge sand castle. You ate shrimp, mussels, and scallops. I beat you quite handedly at Guess Who, though I had the distinct advantage of prior experience. We went to Charleston for the day and saw where Daddy went to college. We spent the afternoon at the aquarium and you got to pet a baby alligator and see a barn owl up close. It was a slow paced, peaceful weekend, and just what we all needed.
The first time we walked down to the beach, you ran to the shore, hopping over tiny waves and waving your arms high. You faced the ocean and shouted, "LIFE IS LIFE!" Your joy overflowed. I needed to witness that, just at that moment, in this season. I'm not one to forget my myriad blessings; it's not in my constitution. Sometimes it takes standing at the shore, feeling at once both very small and very powerful, to remember that simple truth.
Earlier this year I started to feel something weird. It turned in to something truly painful. The kind of pain that ages you. The kind of pain you run from. I had never experienced this kind of pain, or, if I’m honest, any kind of pain at all until that week.
How could you, at four, understand commands like don’t touch mommy’s face? Don’t jump too close to her. Don’t go in her room until she comes out. Please, please, please slow down. You eventually did most of those things, just as we asked. For that I thank you. We finally got rid of the pain, at the expense of most of my energy,zapped by some pretty scary meds. To move forward without pain was the goal, and we have achieved it. The cost has been high, at least to me.
We’re in a state of flux now. The pain is gone. A lot of the time, I feel like I’m gone too. My head is cloudy. I’m easily confused. I can’t spell or speak my thoughts very fluidly. I have a little bit of energy. A bit. I choose to spend it on you. We’ve watched more movies and played more computer games over the last month and a half than ever before. I’ve read books endlessly, not really even paying attention to the words as my mind drifts toward sleep.
With another invisible disease, I find myself torn between wanting everyone to know and no one to know. I don’t want to be different. I don’t want anyone to give me a pass. I don’t want people to expect less of me. I don’t want to spend my time in bed. At the same time, I need a pass. I need to do less and be less. I need to figure that out. I’m pretty terrible at that, as you’ll know by the time you read this. Maybe I never figured it out. I sort of hope I didn’t, even though I know I must. I don’t know who that woman is – the one who was me and changed something fundamental. My denial is the sort that keeps me treading water next to a perfectly good raft.
When I try to gather my thoughts to write about you, I have trouble. One thing about the last three months that seems apparent is a similar dichotomy with you. You’ve always been a boy of extremes. That’s no different now that you are closing in on five. The dark for you is the hour after I pick you up from school. I can feel that your emotions are wound up, the frayed edges extending just far enough to trip on an errant phrase of mine (most often the answer “no”) and send you into a fit. You tell me through tears that you don’t want to be upset after school, but you can’t help it. I want to help you. I don’t know how, exactly, but I’ve started to ask no questions about your day. You offer what you want to offer.
You’ve taken to saying “You do what you do, and I do what I do.” I’m not sure where those words came from, but the sentiment is evident everywhere else in your life. You want to choose. Even giving you controlled choices doesn’t work. I ask if you want to do A or B and you inevitably choose Z. I talk a pretty game about wanting you to be independent. I don’t want to do too much for you. But you have to do SOME of the things I ask and in the way I ask them. There is a pretty constant friction these days between us. This is actually consistent with the periods of equilibrium and disequilibrium I’ve observed throughout your life. You struggle around the half point of your year, and have a great period around your birthday. Fingers crossed for five.
You ask endlessly about siblings. You ask about a dog that will cuddle with you. You need to play all the time. You need so much right now. Just at the time when it’s hardest for me to come through. To say I’m struggling with isolated, modern parenting is accurate. I want you to be able to go outside and play with kids for hours. Come, spring! Mommy needs you. Come, summer! We need the school kids to show up before 3:00.
Your 4T clothes are almost too small. Very punctual of you, son. Your hair is darker blonde and you want to grow it long for now, so no visits to Ms. Gwyn. You’re still always covered in some kind of bruise, scrape, or scratch. It’s part adventure, part clumsiness. I see natural athletic ability in you, but you’re accident prone. At 18, you’ll have a nice constellation of scars to help you remember your childhood. You’ve been asking about sports and we’ll start that soon. Gymnastics next month and soccer to follow. You want to be a comedian, astronaut, or “person in a band” when you grow up. You’ve got what it takes for two of those, maybe all three. I think you were born with stage presence and a rocker face. You are sensitive. You are loving. You are adorable. You are creative. You can be selfish. You can be generous. You are hilarious.
The other day I showed you with a flashlight and a globe how it is both night and day in the world at the same time. I showed you how we move with this great planet of ours into the sun’s healing light. It’s dark for me right now, but I don’t forget that the world is turning and I am turning with it. Into the light for another stretch.
