Dear Jack,

Today you are 42 months old. I want to write to you today about resolutions. Your mom is a serial resolver. It's equal parts restless dissatisfaction and reckless optimism, and at the beginning of each year I'm prone to self-inventory and to-do lists of varying magnitudes. I generally take the "kitchen sink" approach to self-improvement.

Not this year.

At 32, I can fairly well see that most of my successful transformations occur without fanfare, particularly without a title. When I was maybe nine, I decided I would try to stretch a little bit everyday with the assurances that I'd be able to do a split (and be a competitive gymnast, of course). I made it about three days. The first day I forgot, I just stopped. That's just the first time I remember setting an unrealistic goal and failing at it. For all the beautifully pencilled lists I've made, there is a corresponding, ugly disappointment and discouragement when the deadline goes whooshing by.

So this year, I'm giving myself just one resolution: break the cycle. I'm going to stop feeling inadequate, or when that feeling comes, I'll nod my head at it and keep moving.

For you, I think this means you get more of me. I am more present for you. In the few days I've been more mindful of this un-resolution, I've taken fewer pictures, spent less time online or on the phone, and had a lot of fun with you.

We've been playing games lately. You're starting to "get" turn taking, scorekeeping, and losing and winning gracefully. We're still working on that last one, though.

Your fourth Christmas was the most fun! All I could have asked for was your excited face when you saw your gifts, and how you've begun to understand the Christmas story.

Here are some awesome things you've said recently:

After I asked you to wait a minute, you said "But I've already been waiting SO hard!"

You ask constantly Can a ___________ defeat a ____________? It's usually a rhino and a hippo, or a peregrine falcon and a mountain lion, but once it was a hot air balloon and an airbag. You keep me on my toes.

Everything is 65 or 85. You interchange units of measurement randomly. Things are "65 meters round" or "30 pounds tall" or "A quarter mile for hour."

You're also always asking "What's more than ____?" or "What's less than ____?" I have to tell you, for instance, every number that is less than 65. Or more than one. For the latter we've discovered the concept of infinity, or "infimity," which you seem to understand is a very large number, the highest there could possibly be, but certainly not as big as say, 65.

Finally, when you're playing with dinosaurs, or action figures, or anything else for that matter, I hear you narrating under your breath. It's a lot like comic book third-person, "Meanwhile, back at headquarters," or "He leapt in the air and crashed to the ground!" Hilarious.

There are not enough words, or enough combinations of words that can get me close to describing you. You burn hot, my son. You feel things very deeply. You can punish cruelly. You love profoundly. You are so very excitable. It's not easy to parent you, but it is easy to love you. I hope you get the chance to feel this one day.

Love,

Mama

p.s. here's a picture you took:

Three and a half

Dear Jack,

You're a little grouchy:

A little messy:

Cool as a cucumber:

Protector of Baby Jesus:

Always reasonable and cooperative:

A chip off the ol' block:

Faster than a speeding bullet:

Cute as a bleepin' button:

I love you,

Mama

Dear Jack,

You are 40 months old. The 40 month letter almost became the one you'd go looking for years from now when I'm long gone. I've never been this late in writing to you, but we'll get to that later. I like to imagine you theorizing the disappearance of this month's letter when you're older. Just what happened that fortieth month, you'll ask yourself.

Okay, maybe not. Here's your letter, kid.

You're still having trouble with the transition at school. You go in without any problems and aren't upset when you leave. It causes you some anxiety on the way there in the mornings, though. You were so nervous last Tuesday that you threw up! You told me your belly got too excited. I hope that passes soon. I observed you in class last week (there is a two-way mirror) and I was much assured that you're in a good place and it's a good fit. I watched you sort geometric shapes, work with the "brown stairs" and sit quietly listening to a class mate read aloud. You pushed in your chair when leaving a station. I was really proud to see you integrating in to the classroom. Plus, I just think you're really cool and I liked peeking in. I've noticed your ability to wait is growing (perhaps slowly) and you sneeze and cough into your elbow. Montessori for the win!

We've been going to "art school" each Monday. You still aren't a kid who is interested in focusing on a painting or detailed craft, but you've found a niche there and you are producing some beautiful stuff. You had dueling paint brushes last week (monsters fighting), and spent an inordinate amount of time at your favorite station, spin art.

You're still acting out elaborate imagined scenes with your toys and singing fantastic impromptu songs. You've decided you'd like to be a bat (NOT Batman!) for Halloween, so we're working on it.

We went camping and you loved it! You sat up around midnight in the darkness and said "I'm just looking for my foot. Okay, here it is." We discovered that it's literally impossible for you to walk down a trail. It's awesome to see you trail running - hopping from one rock to another, balancing and leaping. Our constant admonishments didn't seem to deter your joy. I'm glad. Just don't bash your head on a rock, okay? We hiked the wrong way for a little while, got rained on, I got bit by a dog, we had noisy neighbors, the ground is hard - but guess what? We were all so happy. I can't wait to do it again.

I haven't been feeling great these days. On the whole, I've been feeling low. A little more tired than usual. A little achier. Less able to recover from disruptions in sleep or my regular workouts. Factor in the absence of naps and our days are so, so very long for me. I don't have much left at the end of the day. Not even enough to sit down and write to you. I'm trying to get on top of it, but I just don't know. Sometimes I think I'm finally feeling what MS is really like for most people. I have been at this emotional point before and felt a lot of sadness at the thought of losing the ability to be an active mom. That feeling is less acute now. I'm growing up and I'm learning that love itself is an action word. Work and play are love made evident, but love is an act, too. A still and quiet one. Not imperceptible.

As I navigate the reality of my disease, I also navigate motherhood. I don't have a before and after. I learn them simultaneously. I falter, fail, get up, and celebrate in equal turns these two central realities in my life. I won't do it right all the time. I won't do it wrong all the time. But I will keep doing it.

And I'll be tired.

But I'll be happy.

Love,

Mom

p.s. you rode a horse!

p.p.s. you went fishing!

Dear Jack,

Today you are, hmmm, let's see, 39 months old. That's a lot of months, little man. You started school two weeks ago and it's been interesting and a little bittersweet to watch some changes happening. You were so excited the first day. You didn't cling to me at all, but you did ask where I was going. All this time you've seemed really concerned with what I'm doing while you are at school. The second day I took you, you told me "My belly is excited but my self is not." I can't think of a better way to describe the feeling of being nervous or anxious. What a beautiful way to articulate a complicated feeling. You've been reticent since then to go to school. Before we get in the car, you plead with me to stay home. You've told me that all of your favorite things are at home (myself included) and that you NEVER want to leave. You've told me that your teacher is mean to you and that you don't have ANY fun. Well, I'm calling your bluff, son.

Each day when we walk in, you happily let go of my hand and enter the classroom. You smile when the older students say "Hi, Jack!" You give nary a glance in my direction. When I pick you up, your head is sweaty from the playground and you're all smiles. You ask where I've been and aren't exactly forthcoming about your day. If I ask pointed questions, though, you elaborate. Your favorite "work" is to hammer golf tees into a block of modeling clay. I find the evidence under your fingernails each time I pick you up. You love to talk about Gillie, the class pet (a guinea pig). You brought some salad to her last week and were proud that you got to feed her yourself. Last Tuesday you got in the car and beamed, "MOMMY! I poured the milk all by myself and drank it all the way up!" This is the proud moment I anticipated - the one that has made some of the difficulty of the transition worthwhile. I knew you'd thrive on this new independence and these new abilities, and I'm so proud of you. I also noticed that you mostly quietly sat through the first part of church last Sunday and joined the other children for the children's sermon, raising your hand and waiting to be called on by Pop. That's a huge change for us, and one I welcome. Being quiet is not necessarily what I value, but knowing how to do it is a great thing. When we're quiet, we learn.

The toughest part of the transition, I think, is separation from our little nuclear world. You're not the center of attention at school. Your voice (albeit a very LOUD one) can't drown out the voices of the other students the way it can mine. You're in charge of yourself, and it's tricky to learn how to navigate the world this way. Believe me, I'm still learning. The part of me that wants you to always be happy and thrilled and excited and charmed has to give way to the part of me that wants you to live in a community and learn how to guide yourself through challenges. What Montessori may lack in creative songs and focused comfort is balanced here at home. We still sing our silly songs. We snuggle all the time. The world doesn't owe you that stuff, but I do - and there's the balance.

You're a little taller than last month, but seem to be growing from the belly button up. Luckily, your pants from last year will fit for a while. Your shirts and getting a bit short. You've taken to talking to yourself more again. You play in your room making conversations between toys. It's almost always someone's birthday in your imagination. You like to make up words and strings of nonsensical blathering. It seems random, but sometimes I'll ask you to repeat something and you can. You gave a little action figure the name PeePee JoLo and told me (several times) that he was a "fascinating factor dashing thing." I love you, my little weirdo. You've been sweet and apologetic lately, too, more cognizant of how you might hurt us by playing too rough. You sweetly offer to share almost anything you have, and thank me for sharing. You've always done this a bit, but now it seems like part of your normal interactions and I love it.

You're okay in my book, kid.

Love always,

Mama

Dear Jack,

Today you are 38 months old. Year three is progressing. You love to tell people you're "free" when they ask. You're working on holding up three fingers, too.

An overriding theme this month has been word play. You've created lots of characters, new games, and story plots with funny names and places. You told me a story about "Clutch Newpowers" the other day - a motorcycle rider who "rooms" faster than anyone else. "Goliaf Boot" is a giant villain who terrorizes Batman. You told me about a hero called "PUNCH UP!" (complete with an uppercut motion) who "wrestles all the time when he sees somefing." These blogs are incomplete without sound and video, since to hear you tell of these characters is a full body, auditory encounter I can't possibly relay with a few words. Unfortunately, you are only interested in the inner workings of the video camera when it comes out. I need to find a way to hide it.

You've told me many encouraging things, too, like "If you're in the water and you need my help, I will dive down to help you after I blow my whistle." Thank you, my little lifeguard.

I was impressed today when you told me, after rubbing your palm back and forth on the carpet, "My hand feels hot! Why does it?" I told you about friction and you kept asking more and more. I think I lost you at molecules and atoms, but I love the fact that you are so inquisitive and so observant of changes.

You're going to school this month. In 18 days actually, but who's counting? Thus begins the inevitable, necessary, and wonderful diminishing of my influence on you. At once I both fear and welcome this change. I won't be there when you hurt yourself on the playground, ready to supply healing kisses and encouragement to keep playing. That stings a little, for every parent, when the moment comes. But I know that there will also be a time very soon when you accomplish something and you're the only one there to appreciate it. You'll begin to build self-esteem and value these accomplishments outside of the praise and encouragement I can't escape supplying when we're together. You'll understand that independence and success are rewards for which no real fanfare is necessary. You'll start to grow up.

Do I hyperbolize this entrance into preschool? Probably. So what? It's my prerogative to do so. For three years I've created a world for you that centers around your home and your family. I've crafted a small sphere of influence that I have felt confident improves your life. I've just been there, ever present for every step.

You get to do a little bit of it on your own now. I'm really excited for you. I pray that you'll know, in your core, that the safe world of your home waits for you when things stretch you outside of the comfort of what you know. That mistakes aren't the final word. That you are loved, most deeply and without a doubt. If you know this, I've done my job.

I love you always,

Mama

Dear Jack,

Today you are 37 months old. This month you've been as active and entertaining as ever, but you've started this frustrating thing where you have intense meltdowns most afternoons. You picked up napping again, but only if you fall asleep in the car. We were in the car so much when we were displaced from our house that I started expecting you to sleep. I KNOW you still need it, but it's just not going to happen most days. The meltdowns come without any real pattern, except that they start in the afternoon, the time you might be sleeping if you were an easier kid. From what I've observed, you get progressively more upset as things don't happen exactly the way you've imagined them. To the extent that you will scream mercilessly if I wasn't standing in the right place when I asked you a question. Through tears you insist that I go back to whatever place it was and ask the question again. Conceding to these dictatorial demands doesn't really please you. My job is to make sure that you realize in life you usually can't have things the way you imagine them. Even great things often look a little different than the way we first dreamed them up.

I hope this, like your other frustrating phases, is short-lived. I hope that I can keep my cool navigating this time. It's not easy to remain calm when you're screaming about nonsensical, irrational things. It's my task, and I'm trying my hardest. Luckily for everyone else, you seem to save these freak outs for Mama. I know that means you trust me to love you despite, and of course I always will. But please, ease up kid.

Toward the end of one of these episodes in the car, you were saying "Stop! Stop! Stop!" I asked you what you meant, and you told me that you were telling your tears to stop coming. It seems that even you realize your emotions are out of control.

You've been saying these cute things: "Sure can!" and "Sure do!" in response to questions from us. This morning on our way to an inflatable playhouse to escape the rain, you told me, "Mama, I have three fun places: Pump it Up, Monkey Joes, and SquigglyBugs. That's it." You shrugged your shoulders as if you were disappointing me. I mentioned some other fun places, like the library or the playground and you said, "I guess." Lately you've been "thinking" with your finger pointed to your chin, saying things like, "Hmmmm..." and "Let's see..." It's pretty darn cute.

When we went for your 3 year-old well check, you charmed the doctor. I never know which kid will show up, but you brought it all that day. You told her the colors of her shirt and yours, counted, said your ABCs. When you got to the letter "P," you hesitated. She was going to help you and you said "O" again. She said "Q" and you stated matter of factly that you were "just going backwards for a minute."

You love to play with the leftovers from your birthday party, so daily we play "capes and mask-ses." You're still obsessed with superheroes and I'm starting to regret that you know what they are. Still, you seem concerned with the difference between good and evil and I hope we can keep you on the right side forever.

We've applied to a Montessori school in town. I assume and hope you'll be accepted for their three-day program. I'm excited about your going to school. I need a break to get some of myself back, and I know you'll thrive. I appreciate so much about the way Montessori schools treat the individual. I'm excited about the learning opportunities you'll have away from home. You'll learn how to be in a community. I'll learn how to get organized so we can get there on time and in clean clothes.

I love you through your manic bouts and all the way to the other side, when you're snuggling up to me and telling me that you like me AND love me. I wouldn't trade you.

Love,

Mama

Dear Jack,

Today you are three years old. Well, you will be in about 40 minutes. This time three years ago, I was being prepped for surgery after two very long days of battling against nature to bring you into the world. Mothering you all these three years and dulled some of the pain of that moment three years ago, but it changed me. Just like so many other things have changed me since I met you.

I watched you sleep earlier this evening, and I was struck by how long you are, from head to toe. Year three didn't bring much actual growth. You're a little taller and heavier, but you slowed down. Still, you're this kid now, no longer a baby in any way that I can see until you sleep. Your drowsy eyes and little fists remind me of all those nights seeing you sleep as a little one. You're still my baby, then. I know you always will be, in some way. I hope that I'll still catch of glimpse of the baby you were as you grow.

Over the last couple of weeks, we've been displaced to a hotel while some unexpected repairs happen at our house. You were beyond excited at first, literally bouncing off the beds and walls. You have an entourage of hotel staff and fellow guests who brighten when you come down the hall. You love to press the buttons on the elevator and get very upset if we forget that is your job. You took all the changes in stride for a few days, but soon you started asking for your own bed, for your house. When we left home a couple of days ago, you cried and cried saying, "I just want to hug my house! I just want to hug my house!" As trying as these days have been for me, I think they must be even more so for you. I'm proud of you for soldiering on. We'll make it through and our homecoming will be so sweet.

This morning you marched into the room where Daddy was sleeping and announced, "Yesterday I was two! Today, I'm FREE!" You have been so excited about your birthday, but tonight as we snuggled at bedtime, you asked where your "two" went. I tried to tell you that is was part of you, inside. You didn't like that so much, so we decided that you let your two float up to the sky like a balloon.

I've loved to see your face as people have given you birthday presents over the last two days. You awoke this morning as Superman, and went to bed as Batman, with a Captain America shield and a Darth Vader mask. This obsession is all encompassing. We've come short of letting you watch cartoons, though you've seen a few clips of the cheesy 1968 Batman cartoon and you beg to watch it every day. It's not going to hurt you. I keep repeating that to myself. I read a book recently that helped me realize that well-meaning, loving parents have to try a lot harder to screw up their kids than media and advertising lead us to believe. So, if you're reading this from prison, it's not because you watched Batman cartoons, or drank a lot of free-from-the-lobby sugary lemonade. Parenting you well doesn't have to take place at home with our normal routines. Still, I look forward to playing in our backyard, working in our garden, and reading books on our couch.

You won't remember this time of your life, so I'll just let you know that a lot of people who love you have come together to help us during this time, and it made the difference in pulling off your birthday party and getting our house back to normal. There are times in life when for various reasons, you will need to be reminded of how much you are loved. I hope you can read these letters and feel that someday. However much you think you were loved the day you turned three, multiply it by a thousand. It's not just me and your dad. You're loved by so many people. How blessed you are.

Two days ago, you sat on my lap in a chair at the hotel and said, "You know what makes me happy?"

"What?" I said.

"You."

Thanks for healing all the wounds my heart ever felt. Hyperbole? I'm not sure. It felt that way. When you're stubborn, mean, embarrassing, dramatic (and you are all of these), I know that you feel safe and loved with your family and that is what matters. You love in a big, quiet way.

I'm so proud of you, Jack. I'm excited to find out what this year will hold.

Mama

p.s.
You know what makes me happy?

You.