Dear Jack,

I know I have to write the dark chapter.

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.

It always comes.

I always love you.

Mama

p.s. for your adoring fans: