About a Boy

Jack, at four:

-grouses about the pink plate, but only if he remembers to
-reads voraciously, even though he doesn't quite read yet
-competes endlessly
-favors the color "golden"
-tells me things in steps (usually four)
-struggles mightily with disappoint
-is always, always listening
-asks questions that are often hard to answer ("What does probably mean?")
-invents engaging dialogue
-obsesses over video games
-measures 40 inches
-weighs 38 pounds
-stares at girls with black hair
-super-sensitive schnozz
-needs reassurance that book or movie characters will be okay in the end ("Will Peter Rabbit find the gate, Mommy?")
-talks endlessly about star wars, a movie he's seen just once
-would drink chocolate almond milk all day long if allowed
-forgives quickly and fully, an example to us all
-comes up with real throat-catchers ("I love you from moon to moon and earth to earth.")
-understands a lot
-doesn't understand as much as we sometimes expect him to
-is a good eater
-doesn't take care of his toys very well, loses things
-gets dirty, really dirty, all the days
-has taken to calling his parents Mim and Did
-speaks invented languages fluently
-calls hammocks "panics"
-loves to run
-can be mean, but only a little
-immensely excitable and terrifically enthusiastic
-wants to be a racer "a person who explores in the jungle" when he grows up
-will probably be both
-is impatient
-enunciates and contextualizes grown up speech brilliantly and hilariously
-wets the bed sometimes
-loves ear lobes, or "earies"
-heart breaker
-arm breaker
-deep thinker
-goofball

For a variety of annoying and stressful and unnecessary reasons, I missed this post for your birthday. I'll tell you about it one day, kid, and I hope I'll be able to laugh about it then. I wouldn't be surprised if you remember it. Suffice it to say that our world is a little bit chaotic right now. As always, you're a champ. I'm taking my cues from you this time.

I love you,

Mama

Dear Jack,

You're 47 months old now. Four is on the horizon! It's Mother's Day, 2013. This time four years ago, I was preparing to meet you. My due date was approaching and I foolishly thought that you were making your entrance at any moment. I had miles and miles to go (uphill, all around our neighborhood) before you came into the world, smacking your lips and impressing the hospital staff with your enormous feet.

I entered motherhood in a chaotic way. My peaceful pregnancy ended with a battle, one I now know I may not have had to fight, but fight I did to bring you forth - to finally meet you. Sometimes I think your birth has me rattled still, in the way that any unmet expectations can leave a person floating through reality missing (and perhaps always searching for) hard ground for her feet.

The hard things I remember are few - a few desperate (literally) sleepless nights waiting for you to wake and nurse, feeling like a wound was open when I'd leave you, screaming, with Gram so I could take a shower, rocky times with your dad when his job was at its most demanding when I needed him more than ever before. These are brushstrokes now, or threads in a tapestry that becomes more beautiful everyday.

Parenting is just this way, or it has been for me, light and dark always weaving together. Your being-three-ness can be immensely frustrating at times. I suffer alongside you. I hurt for your little heart that I know breaks over the smallest things. At the same time I want to escape during your lowest moments. Motherhood at these times feels very much like a set of trials. Surviving them is success, simply. Staying present is the highest aspiration.

And yet...

Your being-almost-four-ness is a complete joy. Your unending questions now have more focus. You affect an amazing LOW voice and angle your chin down, as if peering over reading glasses to say things like, "You know," and telling jokes about a Transformer turning into a banana peel (hilarious). You're thriving at school, despite still being a little miffed when you have to leave your toys and books at home to go there. You're on a team with three other boys who run and run and run during playground time. I love to hear about team dynamics. There is a boss who fires you on a whim but apparently rehires you. You have to do math to be on the team. You're convinced that certain shoes are faster than others. The goal is to chase the girls, whom I'm not convinced are actually playing with you. Fascinating!

You're growing, having leg pains now and again, looking leggy in the shorts that were past your knees at the beginning of the school year. You look older and older, run faster and faster. I've said it before, and I think I have about one more year to say it, but each day you look less like my baby and more like a real, live boy. Your knees and shins are covering in scrapes and bruises at various stages of healing - your "summer legs." You climb to the very top of your climbing tree and I imagine you up there scouting for the next challenge. You lip-sync every song on the radio, whether or not you know the words. Your air-guitar a sight to behold.

Mommy and Daddy are not leaving well enough alone in about a month: we're moving. We have loved living in and raising you in this house, but we want something different for you as you move into the next phase of your childhood. We've found a great house in an older, established neighborhood. You'll be able to play much more freely as you grow. We'll all be able to bike and walk more easily. We're closer to the heart of the city. Big changes are coming, and I expect you to weather them with immense grace. You will probably be a great help to me, actually. If all goes as planned, we'll have a small birthday party for you in the new house. I'm excited at times and ambivalent at others, but when I allow myself to picture an older you playing in that neighborhood, I feel peace.


Here you're standing in the green space across from the new house.

Hooked on you, kid.

Mama

Dear Jack,

You're 46 months now. I think today was a perfect example of most days lately. You woke up grouchy, but not so hard to please. We went to the Y, and you had a lot of fun playing in the gym. Then, as we were leaving, you remembered that last summer when you were at the Y with me several times a week, you always had a snack. Not today.

Cue the Chernobylesque meltdown.

We had a good run with no major meltdowns, and I got too comfortable. You've been breaking down most days lately, at some point or another just FREAKING out about some little thing. Normally the meltdown is preceded by my telling you "no." That's the common thread here. I can tell it's hard being you right now. You have even personified your anger, telling me that "It won't let me take a deep breath!" I can literally see (and hear, my GOD) your struggle to accept that you aren't in control of everything, and yet, I expect you to be in control of yourself. I know it's a lot to ask of a kid riding these crazy emotional waves, and yet, this is life. I've written it here before, and I repeat to remind myself, too. It's my job to help you understand how to live in the world and how your actions affect other people. To remain calm at all times during this process might even be a disservice to you. People don't generally respond well when you scream at them. Life lesson!

Later this morning you continued your meltdown at art school. I'd had enough and I drew a line in the sand. We left as you screamed and you kept screaming as we drove home. I didn't think we could redeem the day. I didn't know if I had it in me. Then, the other Jack finally woke up. What a relief. You played well with Henry while the mommies talked and worked inside. You shared. You took turns. You did everything I was certain you wouldn't do today. You got control of yourself. Amazing. The rest of the day was great. We snuggled after books and you told me I was the "goodest girl." Ah!

To experience your successes in growing into yourself is a unique gift to me. It's not always pretty, and it can be downright ugly at times, but on the other side of each of these mountains is a beautiful valley. Before we start climbing again, we get to have a lot of fun. I love your kind spirit and your silliness. I wish for shorter, less frequent freakouts. I know that time is coming. I was mowing the lawn this evening and you and daddy embarked on a bike ride. I looked up and you had stopped to look back at me. You wouldn't go on until I had waved at you.

You told me recently that you loved me even when I was mad at you.

Back at ya, kid.

Mama

p.s.
Hey! We went to Washington D.C. and New York! I assume you won't remember all these awesome firsts, but I am glad Daddy and I got to experience this stuff with you. You are a fantastic car traveler!

Dear Jack,

You're 45 months old now. 3 3/4, as it were. You're heavier, taller, and smarter than you were last I wrote. These things are always true, but maybe moreso now. You weigh around 40 lbs and you're around 40 inches tall. You were just shy of the the mark for a carnival ride at Michelin's Easter egg hunt this year, but only just - next year you'll easily exceed the height requirement. You're just a big kid now - there is still some baby chub on your face and you have a poky belly, but I've caught glimpses of you in the rearview mirror, or surreptitiously from your doorway while you play. The boy I see is growing up. I see the teenager you. I'm starting to see the man. Gulp. Blink.



For a couple of months now, you've become this ball of affection. You tell me all the time that you love me. You say I'm your best friend. You said "you're the best girl, Mama."

Swoon.

I was sick last month and told you that I couldn't give you kisses for a little while. You complied and stayed well. One morning, however, you asked, "Mom, is your pants sick?" When I replied no, you kissed my leg. All of this stuff about moms and sons is true, apparently, and I already feel a little mother-in-lawy when I think about a girl being good enough for you. She isn't. Ha!



Warmer days are here, and we've been enjoying time outside as a family. Your mom may have a touch of seasonal affective disorder. I can't adequately describe the little stream of joy that breaks open in me at the first sign of spring. It's easier to mother you when winter's over. Truth. I'm ready to say goodbye to ice on the the windshield (even though you call it "frosting" and love to draw in it), bulky coats, and too much time indoors. I'm glad you got a chance to play in the snow, but I'm even happier that there are buds on your climbing tree.

We're taking a real family vacation for your first official spring break soon. I'm a little anxious about all the time we'll spend in the car, but moreso excited about all the things you'll see (fossils! rocketships! modern art! monuments!). I can't wait to share the wonder with you.

Last weekend, your dad shaved his head for St. Baldricks. He's a copycat. Just kidding! I was so proud of him for raising nearly $1300 and shaving his head to support research to fight children's cancer. He gave blood afterward, too. I loved explaining to you about what Daddy was doing that day. Will you grow up thinking that stuff is normal? Will you be on that stage in a few years going bald? The thought of that makes me smile. You took the changes in stride, even though you asked your dad to "put the fur back" on his face when he shaved the beard.



There is always so much I feel I'm missing when I write these letters - like these broad strokes won't give you the clear picture of yourself at almost four that I hope to convey. On the other hand, I know that this is as much a gift to me as it is to grown-up you. What has happened in your short time here is already blurry for me. How does it happen? The joy and sorrow are so acute - in the moment it's nearly impossible to imagine ever forgetting. But we do. I do.

I love the baby I remember - the blurry one who brought me so much joy and kept me from sleeping. I love the boy I know now, the crystal clear, stalwart, sweet son of mine - growing in empathy, learning to forgive, developing a sense of self, taking part in the beautiful struggle of living alongside other people.

I am the grateful witness,

Mama

44 months

"Mommy, do you know how much I love you? As big as infimity."

💜

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