dearest daughters & son

To Babybel On The Occasion of Being Fourteen Years Old

To Babybel On The Occasion of Being Fourteen Years Old,

Okay. I’m going to say this not because I need reassurance or to make it about me (but I mean, like, Babybel is still a part of me as far as I’m concerned): I forgot to wish Babybel a happy birthday first thing in the morning on Tuesday.

There are many factors including pink eye paranoia, tunnel vision and running on a creativity deficit that could explain away why when my teenager emerged from her room “what do you want for breakfast?” was the first thing I said to her.

Maybe you’ll remember my mistake forever, maybe one day we can laugh (at me) about it… "there’s mom doing her anxious, unmindful, tunnel-vision mom thing again"… and I know your body remembers all the mistakes and unhealthy patterns I’ve established for you the past fourteen years. Unlike many parents or my wired "instinct" to avoid pain and discomfort, I intentionally want to say that I DON'T want to erase any of that. I'm not trying to erase your pain, your memories and the role I played in them.

What I do want is to acknowledge and take responsibility for all the times I have and continue to make you feel unseen, unheard, unsafe, disconnected from my love. It’s a cliche especially as a defensive, avoidant, gaslighting tactic for parents to say to their (teen, adult, etc) children: “But I’m not perfect!”

So, what I want to say to you, Babybel, is: I’m not perfect and I won’t always be the parent you deserve or need me to be AND when I miss the mark (daily!), when I injure you or make you feel anything less than held, beloved, celebrated beyond measure, how I repair with you, how I regain your trust, how I make sure you and your heart, mind or soul are safe with me, THAT is the parent I strive to be—whether you remember or notice it or not, whether it counteracts, outweighs the traumas and memories or not. And it’s a practice and a challenge because most of us grown-ups were not raised with parents who were accountable for their mistakes. I’m learning and unlearning, still and maybe most importantly fourteen years into parenting.

From the day you were born, for most of your life I have tried to figure out how to be a “better” parent and while I’m very thankful for the ways in which you, your siblings and new information have expanded my parenting practice, I’m realizing that good parenting isn’t about getting it perfect for each and every child, in each and every moment; it’s about what you do when you fuck it up.

Besides Tuesday when I derailed your birthday morning (and I hope I have and continue to make amends for that), there are fourteen years worth of patterns and traumatic memories that I must answer to. And many of them have already affected our relationship, have already borne themselves out when I can feel you pulling away or hesitant to share with me or shrinking when I hit a chord--a chord, triggering a familiar tune of pain, rejection, disconnection--one that I composed.

(To make matters worse, I'm sick and we had to cancel your birthday party. And I'm not sure about you (because I'm sick and isolating and haven't checked in with you yet) but I for sure have core memories of my mom and dad somehow always being sick on days that were important for me. And before Lola and Lolo get defensive, I understand as both their child and your parent that whether that is a true or accurate history doesn't matter, because what is true are the feelings--of abandonment, betrayal, disconnection.)

All we ever want is to know, to feel we are loved.

I'm sorry (and will continue to be) for all the times that my own issues and trauma stop my love from flowing to you, stop you from receiving my love. I know it takes a lot of words, a lot of actions and (scientifically!) five or more positive interactions to "undo" a negative one. And I know being a teenager isn't easy. I'm not going to say "as a parent of a teenager, I'm going to give you lots of chances" as if it's my job to be gracious to you. (I mean I will give you all the chances, I am an enabling Filipina mother at my core, after all.) I'm asking that as a teenager of a parent, don't give up on me? Don't write me off? I will for sure mess up in dramatic ways like forgetting to wish you a happy birthday, but also in ways that are more subtle and insidious.

I'm not saying it's your job to re-parent me, to "manage up" or to perpetually forgive me. It's not your job to tell me when I've messed up. And I know it's difficult to tell someone when they've hurt you. This is something I'm asking both of us to do and stay with even though it's uncomfortable, it's not how we (as a society, as a culture, as a family or specifically you and I) "do things." You may even hate me for it in the moment, but what I ask is that you give me a chance to make things right again?

Damage is inevitable in relationships, especially where the armor that I put on to protect Little Lauren bumps up against the armor you put on to protect Little Maribel. The goal isn’t to avoid the damage. It’s there, it’s done. We’ve been taught to move on from it, ignore it, avoid the feelings that surround the damage. But, I’m trying to think about something I’ve learned recently about attachment styles and parenting from @drbeckyatgoodinside:
“We can’t beat our feelings, so they’re there. So if we can’t erase them, then guess what? They never got attachment. I often think with a feeling that never got attachment, it never got cushioned in a loving way…”

I’ve hurt you, left you with feelings that in your memories never got cushioned by the love you needed from me in a moment when you were vulnerable, you needed me, you looked to me and I wasn’t there for you. And it s like, Dr. Becky continues about the importance of repair, “I know it happened. Their body knows it happened. I have the words. They don’t have the words because they can’t understand it coherently if I’m not the one giving coherence to that moment.” And so yes, this is this amazing power, responsibility, opportunity we have.”

Making things right doesn't happen all at once. Atonement or repentance is a process and more like the overlapping but progressive circles of a ribbon dancer as they move across a room than it is like a straight line. While my aim, as a human, is to immediately know when I've caused a disconnect and be able to note and repair it before any damage occurs, that may never happen. In the meantime, I move forward with humility and I hope to live and love you through difficult moments--whether they are things that you remember and bring up, that I remember and bring up or that "OMG, MOM, this has nothing to do with you and I just want to talk about this other person who has as much capacity to hurt me as you because they are also important in my life!" (but I mean, who would ever?)

Oh, right. Listening, being a safe space. Got it. I'm here for you. I'm here for you and I will still mess up. Please, just keep coming back? (But not like in an abusive, no boundary way, OK? More like you trust me and our relationship enough to know you can throw any fact, feeling or feces at it and it will survive.) My love for you is unshakable.

I love you no matter what,

Mommy

To Stevie Bee on the Occasion of Being Fourteen Months Old

Dearest Stevie Bee,

I could’ve told you that you wouldn’t have a one year letter. In fact, I think I said as much in your first (month) and only letter thus far. And also in your sister’s last birthday letter which I wrote on your birthday.

Such is life, as Lola says.

It’s not that there’s nothing to write about. Or that you’re boring. It’s that there aren’t enough hours in the day. And when your sisters were your age I was more concerned about pumping out weekly (if not mania-fueled daily) blog posts than I was about sitting around watching them play, enjoying their joy, observing their curiosity and making sure they didn’t find THE MOST dangerous object in the room to do THE MOST dangerous thing with--not that they did that last one. That’s all you.

[Inset segue into developmental milestones here.]

[Not enough time for poetic segues.]

[Stepping away to pull you out of a pit of vipers--no idea how or when that materialized. BRB.]

[List of baby milestones that are only exciting the first child go-around. And whose dates I couldn’t remember if my life depended on it, but I assure you were behaviors exhibited all well within the appropriate developmental age range. I mean, I think. I couldn’t find a single pen or piece of paper in our house to write anything down. And if I had, I would’ve recycled it on accident anyway. Side note: I recently unintentionally sent a sharpie inside of a package of Christmas presents. The recipient was worried I might have been looking for it. But I told her I could hardly keep track of my children, let alone my sharpies.]

You started standing up in the middle of the room around nine-ish months. Most babies pull to stand then “cruise” around the room holding onto furniture or an adult’s hand while working on balancing. You were all squats, all the time. For some amount of time. Then after that amount of time you started taking steps. For another amount of time. Then after that amount of time you were walking. Then running and spinning. I just know I’ve been chasing after you for a few months now.

We’ve already been to urgent care when you fell face first on the corner of a wood step stool. You split the skin right near your eye and facial wounds being what they are, it looked like your eye exploded as it pooled with blood. Thankfully, it just looked dramatic and was actually just a tiny old thing, millimeters from your eye. And now we have a round stool. Which honestly--aside from the kitchen cabinets--is the extent of my baby proofing. Because I’m a parenting blasé, lazy, rebel like that. Can you be all those things at once?

Well, since you learned to defy gravity all on your own, you have no concept of holding hands. You didn’t need one to stand up. You didn’t need one to steady yourself. So why would you need one for walking? Or climbing stairs? Or crossing streets? Or parking lot sideshows? Or public transit commutes?

Luckily you are also a teeny tiny pumpkin doodle (on the scale, on the percentile charts and in my heart) so you are easily into-my-arms-swoopable. And you are only on the cusp of not liking this. It depends on what you were doing pre-swoop--playing in the dirt, playing with sticks, playing in the dirt with sticks, looking at garbage cans, touching garbage cans, picking up litter to put in garbage cans.

Okay, aside from physical development, your brain has been doing it’s thing awhile too. I’m pretty sure your first word was dog and you were maybe seven or eight months old. I don’t know! I didn’t write these things down. You were definitely crawly. Or climby, grabby. Because I was still nursing you and I would bring you into bed in the mornings, trying to cling to any minutes of sleep you’d give me. After you’d nurse for about five to ten seconds, you would muscle yourself over me and practically fling yourself on “du!” who sleeps right next to my bed.

Everything was “du!” then “dug dug!” for awhile. Then came “Dada” and shortly thereafter “Da-yell”--sister #2. You started to call most adults “Dada” and kids “Da-yell.” You didn’t say “mama” until about two weeks ago. Maybe I wanted it too badly even though I tried to play it cool. We finally noticed you were saying your oldest sister’s name, but who knows? You may have been saying it for weeks now but we were too dense to notice. Also, you call her “ba-bal” which--even though that’s what her cousin called her when she was little (more like: “ball-ball”)--is a pretty loose interpretation of her name. So, can you blame us for being a little slow on the uptake?

You are just entering the stage of being able to parrot words though you don’t do it on command. More like when I drop my phone at the grocery store and say “oh, shit!” and you say “osha” and I just tell the people around me that you’re very concerned about worker safety. JUST KIDDING, PEOPLE! I don’t say that! I say “oh, fuck!” JUST KIDDING AGAIN! It’s really more like when we’re reading “Brown Bear, Brown Bear” and you say “ba br” or “yell duk” and our minds are blown and you smile your huge, dimpled, proud of yourself smile.

I feel like in our modernizing world, kids don’t act their age anymore. There are parts of the world (and even in our country) where tiny people are responsible for caring for OTHER tiny people in their family. Or have to actually work to help support their family. But many American children try to act older than they are. We have this whole new category of kids called “tweens” which are basically kids who spend four years wanting to be teenagers. Though it’s sort of a paradox because they also seem increasingly immature to me. They’re in such a hurry to grow up yet they balk at any responsibility.

Like, Stevie, you want to be just like your sisters; you want to read books and stay up late; you arch your back in protest every time we put you in your car seat; just yesterday you started hitting; you basically want to hurry up and enter your Terrible Twos already. But you don’t want any of the responsibility of being a two year old like holding your own bottle or getting up at six in the morning to do your farm chores and milk the cows to fill aforementioned bottle. I mean why else do we (us specifically, but also as a society) keep having children other than to do the farm chores? Or bring us our phones from across the room? This world is already overpopulated and our resources are overtaxed, so you better be worth it. You better learn how to bring me my phone ASAP.

To be fair, our pediatrician friend has said that this is technically your second year of life so it makes sense that the Terrible Twos, the back arching and hitting would start--which really amounts to your frustration at not being able to communicate in English what your wishes are. It’s one of my pet peeves when adults belittle their children, laugh at them for crying or melting down over things we deem illogical. You have your own logic and desires. And I respect that. But also, I mean, c’mon, just use your words!? Okay, I’ll give you a couple more years of crying because you want your noodles over here and your glass of rosé over there or because your shadow keeps following you around. I know that it’s pretty easy in theory to use your words, but sometimes adults don’t get it right either. [Raises hand.] So, I’ll give you a break.

We’ve been trying to teach you a little bit of sign language. Your sisters especially love this--Bel even checked out a book from the school library about sign language. We are by no means a baby-can-sign-and-read-and-poop-in-the-potty-at-fourteen-months type of family. More power to you and your babe, but also--to borrow a super judgy term from the kids these days--so #extra. So we teach the very, utmost essentials: milk, more and all done (which you’ve got down pat), water, orange (which really is a stand-in for clementines which are your fave), cookie, cheese and meat (obviously the most important foods). Of course, you don’t care at all about using any of those other signs. You look at us, then the food item, then sign “more”--clearly your adults are idiots if they don’t pick up what you’re putting down. Food words that you do have:

• “m-n-ms” or any form of chocolate
• “tapatas” or blueberries
• banana--I think that one is obvious
• “snacks”--which is more lip-smacking than it is a word.

Non-food words, some already noted above:

• dog
• Dada
• “Da-yell”
• “Ba-bel”
• Mama
• “Doe-doe” or Lolo
• “Doe-da” or Lola
• Ta-ta (I think, cousin Ava’s name)
• TT (cousin Travis’ name)
• Uh-oh
• Wow (which you used to say all the time--because I do--even in your sleep! Side note: you talk in your sleep)
• No (obviously)
• “Mo-na-na”--your favorite movie
• “Da-yell” (facing TV) or Daniel Tiger not to be confused with the sister version of the word said facing said sister not a TV
• “tees” or trees
• “bubbas” or bubbles
• And I’m sure a bunch of words that you fully understand the meaning of, but I frustratingly (for you) have yet to pick up on--some of your favorite things: garbage, chickens, stick, dirt, etc.

You are gaining words, feelings, hypotheses and ideas by the minute. Hypotheses about gravity and inertia a.k.a throwing things. Ideas for getting into dog food or prying open and emptying cabinets. I can’t wait to see what you come up with next. But also, I can wait.

This third edition of infancy and too-quick toddlerhood has been everything your sisters’ early childhood wasn’t. While they could hold still and I could reasonably expect to find them in the same spot I left them in when I ran to the bathroom or the casinos--you, on the other hand, cannot be left unattended. I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be admitting to leaving a fourteen month old unattended--even in your gated, outlet-covered, “safety” and “yes zone” of a room. So, do me a favor, forget the last few sentences.

The past fourteen months have been different in amazing ways too. I am a slightly different person that I was nine years ago. I’m more present. More in the moment with you. Gentler with myself. So, when I start to think about all the Shoulds and Coulds of my day or my Life’s Purpose, I snap out of it and think to myself, “would I really rather be folding laundry or dismantling the school to prison pipeline?” Or would I rather be reading you the same book a hundred times and sniffing your head and handing you objects to throw away? And I think for right now, we know what the answer is.

[Though you know me, we’re dismantling the patriarchy and institutional racism every day! Click through the links below if you’re a parent and fed up with the daily news about sexual predators that don’t look like our idea of creepy people but actually look exactly like our bosses, coworkers, pastors, parents and, hm, presidents. Or if you’re tired of another form of bullshit--racism in all its forms, possibly including our own parenting! I want to note that if you have any repulsion or even uneasiness with clicking on the below links, you might want to sit and think about that for a minute. Then, be brave and open and click away!]

[How to Raise a Feminist Son, New York Times

25 Rules for Raising Feminist Boys, Scary Mommy

Here's How to Raise Race-Conscious Children, Buzz Feed

It's My Job to Raise Children Who Are Not Only Not Racist But Also Anti-Racist, Huffington Post]

I diverge. People often say that being a parent is “the hardest job” or “the most important job” and I used to roll my eyes because to a stay at home parent it sounds a little condescending. But, I realized I didn’t value what I do enough--because I’m an overachiever perfectionist with a valuable education that people have suggested I’m wasting (so I feel insecure about that), because society and paychecks tell us work by women isn’t valued. But, then I look around at all these jerks coming out of the woodwork (but c’mon, who are we kidding, most women and POC knew they were there all along). And then when people vote for them!? I know what I’m doing with one tiny boy (and the girls too) is SO SO SO important. My kids will (and do) roll their eyes at my daily diatribes, but as my best friend assures me, they are sponges, soaking it in. And one day it will pour out of them.

So, to finally conclude this magnum opus of a letter, making up for a year of no letters, here’s to you and I, testing hypotheses and thinking up ideas, learning to use our words and our feelings, soaking up the good stuff and literally and figuratively throwing away the garbage!

I love you no matter what!

Until the next letter (whenever that may be),

Mommy

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Eight Years Old

Dearest Babybel,

I have to write this letter to you today. Because you turned eight three weeks ago. And your baby brother turns four months old tomorrow. And I was going to write one letter, but that’s not fair. You deserve your own.

I started seeing a therapist slash “parenting consultant” to help me figure out how to be a better parent to your sister. (Don’t worry, this letter will be about you soon.) He had me assess the temperaments of all five of us. I’ll save what he noted about Yelly’s temperament for her letter. The therapist took one look see down your column (See? This letter IS about you!) and said something to the effect of “she’s set for life.” Well, that’s how I’m going to interpret it.

Dress like a book character day! Fancy Nancy, of course!

You are easy going and adaptable. You are persistent and a good problem solver. You have determination and grit. You come by all this naturally, but I’d like to think I can take some credit for helping you be able to learn to express and communicate your emotions as well as steering you wide and clear of perfectionist tendencies. That was a lot of my projecting (#therapyvocabulary) on you the struggles I had as a kid (which worked out great for you, but I’m finding isn’t really a relevant approach to raising my other children.)

My super sledder

You are the best kid I could’ve ever asked for--at least the best kid for my parenting. In many ways, you were made to be my daughter and I was made to be your mommy. That’s not to say that we don’t drive each other crazy once in awhile, but you make it pretty fun and easy to be your mommy.

Now that you’re eight (OMG. Five years from being a teen. Halfway to a driver’s license!), you don’t have to use a booster seat. You are four foot, one inch tall. You recently chopped off about eight inches of your curly locks and are sporting a tres chic and sophisticated shoulder-length bob. And you look like you’re twenty-one years old. Except for the fact that you don’t really attempt to wrangle your curls so they give you the air of a mad scientist, but in a totally cute way.

I can't believe she was every that teeny tiny!

You continue to be a kind, loving, considerate, compromising, bend-over-backwards older sister, despite being bullied, conned and pretzeled by your younger sister. With the birth of your baby brother, your heart doubled and you make sure to kiss him a million and a half times per day.

Debriefing after Yelly's first day of kindergarten

You love to draw and still love to build things or wonder about the how and why of it all. You are a fantastic reader and generally doing well in school. I did have a recent tiger mother talk with you about a sub-standard rubric for a project you didn’t put a lot of effort into (because I have three kids and ain't nobody got time to tell you to put more effort into your toilet paper tube-rubber band instrument; we’re lucky it even got turned in on time). Amazingly, no tears were shed, so I think I was better at not sounding SO critical and you are developmentally able to take and process a little feedback. The next rubric will tell…

You’re into musicals; anything by Lin-Manuel Miranda. We started reading Harry Potter together and I’m apparently not reading fast enough because you checked out your own copy of the book from the school library to read on your own. So, I’ll just sit over here getting accustomed to being left in the dust.

You had a great soccer season this past year and scored goals and assists despite (or maybe because of) your perpetually united cleats. You still can’t always keep your feet under you and fell at school a few weeks ago, busting open the skin on your brow. First ER visit checked off the list! You were very brave and I’m sorry; I should have never uttered the word “stitches” outside the context of Shawn Mendes. You also recently experienced the trauma of being forgotten at school for the first time. Except, I didn’t forget you. You had an afterschool program that you forgot to go to. So, on the flip side, I didn’t experience any guilt over this fiasco and you’re now braver and wiser for it.

I wanted to write to you about an amazing experience you had recently at a roller rink. Well, it was amazing for me. For you, it was maybe just you being you. But, I want you to know how amazing and wonderfully made you really are. And how proud I am of you. But, you’re daddy beat me to sharing this story with the world. Daddy’s here, I’ll let him tell it… (#namethatmusical)

Birthday dinner: bacon wrapped meatloaf every year!

“My beautiful, smart, fun, caring, loving, determined and amazing daughter, Mari, turns 8 years old today. And while there are plenty of great photos of her smiling, laughing and being her generally fun-loving self I could have posted on this momentous occasion. Instead, I'm posting this photo of her in her tie-dyed T-shirt skating around the roller rink a few weeks ago on her first day ever on roller skates. 

“Because what you see is success, which was remarkable and filled Lauren and I with pride. But what you don't see here is when she decided to ditch the "skate mate" in order to skate around on her own. The numerous times she fell down but immediately got back up. The tears. The breaks she would take to re-group. And she kept going out there. Skating through the tears, through the bumps and bruises.

“I pray that Mari continues to grow, learn, trust and go through life knowing she'll probably have some bumps, bruises and falls along the way but also knowing she has the strength and confidence within herself to get back up (take a rest to regroup if needed) and skate on!

“Happy Birthday Mari, I love you!”

Mommy loves you too. No matter what!

xoxo,

Mommy

To Stevie on the Occasion of Being One Month (and One Day) Old

To Stevie on the Occasion of Being Born Two Weeks Early

To Stevie on the Occasion of Your Due Date

To Stevie on the Occasion of Being a Third Child and Being Neglected Every Day of Your Life

To Stevie on the Occasion of Being One Month (and One Day) Old

Dearest Stevie Bee,

Today you are one month old. And I’m sorry, honey, but there’s not a lot to say about you that you can’t look up in a google search for “one month old baby.” You are a calm baby. Not too fussy. You are an excruciatingly slow nurser (but where else do I need to be right now?!) and you nurse every two hours, so that’s my life.

Technically, you’re one month and one day old. But, now that I have three kids, I have a feeling there will be many lost or misplaced technicalities.

In fact, here is a list of things that I have already lost, misplaced, abandoned or forgotten in the few weeks since your arrival:

• Luke’s allergy shots
• Danjo’s thanksgiving project (but she said her teacher said it was okay; we can just bring it tomorrow)
• Portions of Babybel’s homework that I was supposed to help with and sign
• Money for your sisters’ classroom visits to the Scholastic Book Fair at school which is, trust me, a very big deal
• A package stolen off the porch that was actually just me forgetting that I already brought it inside and put it on top of your dresser while I was lecturing your sisters about putting their shoes away

So, now that I think about it, it’s your sisters who are really getting the short end of the stick these days. Luckily, your dad has approached this Third Child Period of our life with an enthusiasm and determination to hold our family together that has not heretofore been seen. Of course, you haven’t seen it. You just got here and just met your dad. But, let’s not let that take away from the awesome praise Daddy is due.

Daddy was good before you got here, but he’s Daddy 2.0 now. And I’m so excited for you to get to know him and see him be a model of modern masculinity that won’t land you in jail for date rape or general male rage. Daddy lets us sleep in and single handedly gets your sisters ready for and off to school. He picks up the dog-feeding, Book Fair-purchasing, laundry-doing, dishwasher-running slack.

And that’s good for me too. There were all these things that I have a history of doing. Or that I have a history of believing anyone else incapable of doing: brushing hair, packing lunches, going through homework folders, folding the laundry ala KonMari so everything fits in the drawers standing on edge all pretty and perfect-like, plus other anal retentive, controlling, tiger-mothery, helicopter mom-y things. And, no, things are not exactly as I would have done them. Hair is a little crazy some days. Lunches (even the ones I pack) sometimes consist entirely of food in packages. And I can’t remember the last time I bathed, let alone the last time any of you three kids did.

And I’m (mostly) okay with all of that. It’s something I’ve been working on in preparation for your arrival--to let go, to delegate, to celebrate Okayness, Good Enoughness, You’re Still Breathing Right? Good. Okayness. But, it’s also something that having a third child forces. I only have two arms and about two hours a day that I’m not nursing you or trying to sleep. I have to let things go. I have to be okay with store-bought pesto* and whatever brand of toilet paper your dad picks out. I have to be okay with too many hours of screen time and at least one child crying or whining at any given moment.

And when I look into your clear, bright eyes, I am okay. And that’s enough.

Perhaps, that’s a little less enthusiastic than you’d imagine a letter to you at this point in your life should be? Where’s all the confetti and air horns? Bom bom bommmmm!

Shortly after having your sisters, I had a breakdown (all recounted on this blog). I wanted to die. And when I stopped wanting to die, I still didn’t think life would ever be the same again. And I certainly didn’t think I’d ever be able to have more children without putting my mental health at risk.

I was right that things would never be the same. I put in a lot of work and I am not the same Lauren that I was when I first had Babybel. I have been deprogramming my perfectionism and combatting the delusional voices in my head that tell me I’m not good enough. I have learned to be gentler with myself. Also, your Daddy and my relationship is not the same as it was ten years ago. It is all much improved.

We decided to have another child, to have you, because we felt confident that despite my rocky mental health history, I am in a better place, with better tools, mechanisms and self-awareness than ever in the History of Lauren.

And that’s where you come in. I’m excited to do this whole baby thing again with you. It’s not that I’ve given up on raising the first two kids, it’s that I don’t think I was able to fully enjoy or be present for your sisters’ first years. Not in the way I am now. I wasn’t a bad mom, but I’m a better one now. I’m more aware, more connected, more alive--no, more alive-ing.

Oh, I’m certain I’ll mess it up in all sorts of other ways. You’re a different child. Did I mention that you take an excruciatingly long time to nurse?! You’re a boy, whatever that will come to mean. For now it means you have a penis and because we circumcised you, I have to sort out your chubby little penis folds every day, high-maintenance stuff, man (“MOMMMMMM, TMI!”) In addition, it’s a crazy time where He Who Must Not Be Named is our president-elect. And I can’t even get started on that other than to say that I am more determined than ever to raise children who aspire not to greatness, but to goodness.

Raising you will have it’s challenges, but I’m ready. I’m willing. I’m eager. I’m excited to watch your life unfold and to see you grow into the person God intends you to be. I am honored to meet you, Mr. Stevie Bee. My name is Mommy. I’m the one with the milk and the snuggles. And the one who looks at you with googly, teary, lovey eyes. But, don’t worry, trust me, I’m okay. You will be too.

Love,

Mommy

*inside joke dedicated to one of our number one fans who is not a fan of store-bought pesto; stand-in for all the foods I used to make and bake from scratch B.T.C. (Before Third Child)

To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Six Years (and Thirteen Days) Old

Dearest Danjo,

Dare I say anything positive about you or your behavior/”life choices” lately? For surely I will wake from this dream.

Lately, you have been so… what’s the word? Pleasant... enjoyable... sane? Obedient, cooperative, even-tempered are other words that come to mind.

 
On your birthday, you made a great proclamation, listing the ways in which you will now approach life as a six-year-old:

• You will no longer hit.
• You will not throw things.
• You are going to be “good” now.

I was glad to hear these things. Though, I’m mentally tallying the number of times you’ve thrown things at your sister in the past twenty-four hours. But, hey, we’ve all gotta start somewhere! #goals

In less than six weeks, we’re going to add another muffin to our basket. And I’m planning for the worst, but hoping for the best. I worry that you will regress from your newfound maturity. You’ll be back to monster fears and wanting to sleep in our bed. Back to hitting and throwing things at my head while I’m driving. Back to your feigned helplessness when it’s time to put shoes on or get out the door with any urgency.  And it will all be compounded by the fact that it won’t be possible for you to sleep in our bed or for me to help you get dressed before school.

On the other hand, I can envision how having a younger brother will bring out the best in you. You’ve been excited since the day we told you: “I’m going to be a big sister. No. Wait. I AM a big sister.” You talk to the baby through my tummy. And kiss and hug him goodbye.

You have a lot of opinions and theories about this new person: “Stevie is going to be bad. He’s going to hit. And I have to show him not to.”

I’ve asked you if you think you might have trouble sharing me with Stevie and have tried to prepare you for the fact that I won’t always be able to help you immediately if I’m busy with the baby. You say you can handle it. But, I wonder when I still end up helping you get dressed every morning. And I crawled into bed with you just the other night when you couldn’t fall asleep.

I guess this letter to you is less about you right now and more about my ability (or guilt about not being able) to care for you like I have. You were my [spoiled] baby for six years.

Our relationship is undoubtedly going to change. And I can’t say what that will look like. I just repeat my sibling mantra, the one I always tell parents with similar worries, and the one I know to be true because of my own siblings: there will be tough days and growing pains, but you will all be better for knowing and having each other. Most importantly, you will have yet another person to share the responsibility of taking care of me when I’m old, to make fun of me with at family dinners and to help you decide what to do with my crap when I die.

Enough about me, more about you at six-years-old:

• You are obsessed with Hamilton: an American Musical and can sing/rap every word, including the curse ones.

• In following, you are a huge fan of Lin-Manuel Miranda (LMM as we call him) and you are also learning the words to his first musical In the Heights.
• You are considering writing your own musical and you direct and choreograph your dolls and toys as Hamilton plays in the background.
• You love soccer and own it as mid-field defender. You are proud of your “big foot!”

• You are a monkey bar fanatic and show me your blisters everyday after school to prove it.
• You weren’t immediately happy about Kindergarten (or waking up so early), but you are generally happy to go now. And you leave school skipping and bubbly and talkative. Homework is easy and you’re leaps and bounds above many of the students because of your year in Transitional Kindergarten (TK). So, I basically pay no attention to all those papers your teacher sends home about “continuing learning at home”--you mean letting my child listen to musicals with four letter words doesn’t count as enrichment?

• You are still loving and cuddly as ever. And I have to remind myself to soak up every bit of it before I blink and you’re a tween and you turn on me.
• You are still as particular as ever about what you wear--check out Instagram #daniellejoleestyle

• You would still prefer to subsist on meat and meat alone and the battle to feed you nutritious food is long over. Fruit snacks, Cheez-itz, cotton candy flavored yogurt, fistfulls of balogna… as long as you eat something (and avoid turning into a hangry monster), I consider it a successful day.
• Despite what I said above, you are still my baby and you will always be my baby.

• I love you no matter what.

Mommy

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Seven Years Old

[If you're here for cute and not crying, scroll down for a video of Baby Babybel!]

Dearest Babybel,

In this past year of life you’ve learned to swim, become a legit reader and were commended as being the most improved soccer player on your team.

You lost several teeth, all in strange places or circumstances: while eating a banana, on the Santa Monica pier, on a camping trip, in your sleep. You were so terrified to lose your second tooth (the first was so traumatizing) that it was dangling by a thread by the time it just casually dropped out of your mouth, like: hey guys, whatever, I'm outie. Now, losing teeth is old hat.

I’ve seen your confidence grow as you try new things, take risks and find success. You still trend towards perfectionism, but I like to think that my own struggles with perfectionism (and the millions of parenting articles I’ve read about it) help me to help you. I praise your effort and not results. As difficult as it is (because you really are super smart!), I don’t outright tell you that you’re smart (a fixed trait). Instead, I tell you that you’re a good problem solver, that you are clever or think creatively and that you really flex your brain muscles! Growth mindset! Woot!

And I don’t tell you to just go ahead and stop being a perfectionist already--easier said than done. I know all too well that does no good and kind of makes you feel worse for your perfectionist ways. Instead, I try to say things like: that’s frustrating, that didn’t turn out the way you wanted it to, did it?

On the other hand, sometimes I can get kind of tiger-mothery. Even so, I try try try try to say more constructive things like: it’s okay if it’s not perfect, but just ask yourself if that is the best job you can do?

You’re hard enough on yourself for the lot of us. If it’s been a rough day, you sit in front of your homework and stare blankly at it. When I encourage (then tell, then command) that you start working, you devolve into a puddle of tears, because, “I know how to do it. I just don’t know how to do it.” You’re paralyzed by making a mistake.

It doesn’t help that first grade homework is hard. Not content-wise. Not that you’re incapable of it. But, it’s just such an odd developmental age where we’re demanding so much focus from six year olds, when I wish you could still be doing things like pretend play and music and art. Or at least, more of it.

A couple weeks after you started first grade, I was delivering my typical teary-eyed, bedtime lament about how much you are growing and learning and how proud I am of you. But, that you’ll always be my baby. As you rubbed the tears from your eyes, you said, “I want to stay a baby. I want to go back to kindergarten.” When I asked why, you replied, “First grade is hard and it’s boring. I have to sit at a desk all day. And I don’t have anyone to play with on the playground. I just wander around.”

And my introverted heart just broke--mostly from my own traumatic playground-wandering flashbacks. Telling you to buck up was the absolute last thing I would do. Duh! Instead I made you cry more by acknowledging how sad that must make you feel. I told you how I felt the same way when I was your age and, frankly, I still feel that way a lot of the time.

While I want with all my being for you to have friends and not feel isolated, I also know that holding you to our society’s extroverted standard can also be damaging on your self worth. So, I tried to equip you with some actually helpful tools, first and foremost a book to read at recess. LOL. Nothing says “I’m an introvert!” like having your nose in a book. And I told you that one of the wonderful things about you is how observant you are. Perhaps you could spend a couple of recesses watching to see who looks kind or alone or quiet and ask him or her to play. When I checked in a couple days later, you were like NBD. I’m pretty sure you found the least introverted kids to play with, so there goes my advice.

You had a similar breakdown over buying lunch at school, because you were concerned that you didn’t know how to do it and that you would have to sit at a different (lunch-buyers) table than the (lunch-bringers) table you were used to sitting at. (Don’t get me started on the socio-economic implications of this policy). I coached you through the logistics of adjusting to this change and asked you if there were any friendly faces at the lunch-buyers table. And, once you thought about it, you realized that one of your best friends buys lunch.

And not packing you a lunch made my Monday mornings at least 50% easier.

Your daddy was sifting through some files on his old hard drive last week and randomly came across this video of you when you were two-ish. We could’ve sat there all day delving through photos and videos--like you and your sister do with YouTube unboxing videos--but it seemed perfect for this moment in time.

In it, you observe, “I can’t see my eyes!” and ask, “Where is me?” as a hat falls over your face. Just watch it, you’ll love how it ends:

 

“I find me!”

And isn’t that what all this is about? Each day, each moment? Feeling a little bit lost, unseen, in the dark? Questioning who and what and where you are? And, ultimately, finding yourself.

And then, later, next time, you’re ready. When that lost feeling comes again, when you might lose a tooth, when you lose focus, when the math problem or Life Problem seems too difficult, too big, too overwhelming, when you’re alone, afraid of being alone, when you don’t know where to sit, when you don’t know where you belong--you just sit in that dark a minute. And you wait for questions or answers or silence.

Then, you catch a glimpse of the light sneaking through the cracks, you remember how brave you are, how you did it before, how to trust yourself. And you pull off the [Giants batting] helmet, the armor, the cloak of fear, the comfort of your blankie, the guises and the facade. You step into the light. You are you. You are enough. You are right where you ought to be. You are found.

I know it’s melodramatic, but from the mouths of babes, amiright?

Love you no matter what,

Mommy

To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Five Years Old, Version #2

Dearest Danielle/Yelly/DJ/Danjo/Miss Danielle Jolee,

This letter is belated. It wasn’t at first. I sat down before your birthday to write to you. And after 750 words, I stopped.

First Day of Transitional Kindergarten (a.k.a. One Reason Our Lives Recently Exploded)

The words rang hollow. I was trying to be cheerful and positive about your recent developmental milestones, all the ways you make me laugh, fill me with joy and light up my world.

But, I just couldn’t do it.

This past month has been difficult. And as it often seems with you, as soon as we get through your “most difficult stage,” we’re on to the next one. That is to say, less delicately, it gets worse and worse. It feels that way, at least.

Sure, you can walk now (some days of your choosing). Sure, you can talk now (some days of your choosing). Sure, you can get yourself dressed and your teeth brushed (some days of your choosing).

With each passing year, you can do new things. You’re a potty-trained, less clumsy and more talkative version of your former two, three and four-year-old selves. But, each day feels like two steps forward and three steps back, as you truly master the Art of Regression.

Starting school is For Reals a factor in your recent frustrating behavior--or, I should say, in our recent frustrating interactions.

And, it’s partly my fault really--not in the I’m The Worst Parent Ever and I Need The World to Affirm That I’m Not way, but in the I’m The Grown Up and I’m Doing My Best But I Needed to Learn a Few Things About Parenting The Creature That Is Danielle way. Like: I need to feed you more often. Or: Not ask you so many questions about your day.

I don’t say this to give you a complex, but it will: your sister was so easy to parent. In fact, I’m pretty sure she has raised herself thus far.

“Look, I’m such an amazing parent,” I thought. “It’s all paying off: my crunchy, emotional coaching, use your words, listen to your body, no, Bel Bel, we don’t do that, it’s not safe, it hurts our friend’s body and feelings, let’s have some ‘quiet time’ until you can be a good friend again, I like how you are doing good listening and taking your turn and waiting patiently and BEING THE BEST BABY IN THE WORLD.”

And those methods did help Bel Bel. But, now we’re here and you’re five.

And you’re still not using your words when you’re angry. You throw things at me. You hit. You kick. You spit. I have to physically drag you to your room when you need “quiet time” to “calm down until we can talk about it” from which you promptly remove yourself to throw something else at my back as I’m walking away, usually in tears of frustration (mine, not yours). You won’t eat when you need to. You won’t sleep when you need to. You don’t listen, you don’t answer my questions, you outright ignore me.

I once waxed poetic about being Your Ugly Place, but, man, it got real ugleeee.

This past weekend we experienced your worst, threat level orange, nuclear tantrum. And I’m not being dramatic. It will go down in history as The Target Tantrum. All because you wouldn’t go potty in the Target bathroom before we started shopping, but then you did want to, but then you didn’t want to wash your hands, but then you did, but then it was way too late, because you were too far gone and there was really nothing on Earth, nothing I could say that could have helped you calm down as you screamed, “NO, MAMA! NO, MAMA! NO! NO! NO! MAMA!”

Still, part of me wanted to do anything I could to get you to stop screaming at me in the bathroom stall. Gummy bears? Playing on my phone? A sunken treasure? The other part of me was sick and tired and completely ready to make Mommy’s Last Stand.

This is it, I thought. If I do it this one time, when an Icee and the opportunity to spend your birthday money in the toy section is on the line, maybe we won’t have to do this ever again? No more empty threats.

“We’re leaving.”

And the physical struggle from the bathroom to the sidewalk outside where I plopped you down was the longest two minutes of my life.

You kicked, you flailed, you “went boneless” (as the great author Mo Willems puts it), you hit, you screamed. This is all manageable and even laughable when you’re two or four, say, when you exchange glances with other parents, roll your eyes and chuckle, “heh, we’ve all been there, amiright?”

But, you are five. You are basically 40 pounds of muscle. You knocked off my glasses and my purse fell from my shoulders as I barely (if at all) managed to control your body. I had to drag you for portions of our Longest Ten Yards. I’m really not exaggerating.

People stared. And I’d like to believe they didn’t judge, but even pity still casts us as sad, helpless characters. And I’d like to say I didn’t care, but wouldn’t you? You, Danielle? Maybe not. You don’t care. But an adult who isn’t a sociopath? You care.

I was mortified--which is a word I’ve never genuinely used and have only seen in stories I read in Seventeen magazines in the 1990s about your tampon falling out of your backpack at school. I felt powerless and abused and inept and frustrated and the truest meaning of “at my wit’s end.”

As I sobbed outside of Target, trying to not let you see me cry, you flailed on the ground and made yourself throw up (a.k.a. gathered every ounces of saliva in your mouth to dramatically spit on the ground). And I wondered how I would ever make the fifty more yards to the car with you acting like this.

You are your own person, they say, with hearty guffaws. Oh, it will serve her well as an adult, they say. But they are not there, waiting to pick us up in the Target loading zone, or when you throw something at me while I’m driving, or when you snipe at me at school pickup when all I did was ask you how your day went, or when you scream at me for doing or not doing or slightly less than you’d prefer I’d do something, or when you try to tell me that things completely out of my control are “all your fault, Mama”--all I want do is cry and scream and curse the heavens like you do.

And, I do. Clearly.

But, I also try to explain to you. I try to guilt you. I try to bribe you. I try to negotiate with you. I try to plead with you.

I’ve babied you. Because, duh, you’re my baby. And you’re cute. And you make me laugh when you’re not making me cry.

I’ve taken your behavior personally--as an attack on my parenting methods, as an attack on my ability to be a parent, as an attack on me.

I’ve read you wrong. They’re right, you are your own person. And you call for a very different type of parenting than I know how to provide. I don’t know you.

So, we’re sending you away.

Okay, not really. But, I’m trying, grasping, learning.

Mostly, I’m trying to not take things personally--to not feel sorry for you, to not get too emotional or to not tap into your feelings as an approach to solve our conflicts.

No more explaining. No more warnings or second warnings or third warnings. No more “quiet reflection time”--let’s call it what it is: Time Out. Clear consequences and zero tolerance for disrespectful, unacceptable behavior.

And, more snacks. Lots more snacks. I don’t care if they’re marshmallows, but keeping you fed is half the battle.

It sounds so straightforward. And all the parents of decades past are shaking their heads. And I feel like a moron for thinking my instinctual parenting style (which worked with Bel), would work for All The Children.

Okay, now we’re 1300 words in. Maybe I should have just stuck with the fluff piece?

Seriously, truly, I do love you no matter what. I’ll try to remember that as I peel away from the curb, glancing in the rearview mirror to see you staging your inevitable Costco food court sit in over the Injustice of the Cheese Pizza You Ordered But Instead You Wanted Pepperoni But I Can’t Read Your Change of Mind So You Blame All Your Problems on Me and Throw Up All The Samples You Screamed About Wanting But Then Only Took One Bite Of Before You Threw Them at Your Sister.

And then, I’ll turn the car around and come back for you.

Love,

Mama

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Six Years Old

Dearest Babybel,

 

You have half a year of kindergarten under your belt. You can confidently read at least fifty words. You have our address memorized. You are big enough to ride in the built-in booster seat in our car. You can make both a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a turkey and cheese sandwich on your own. You know how to sweep, mop and vacuum too.

 

You are certainly growing and learning by leaps and bounds. Like all parents, I wish, but I know that there is nothing I can do to stop you.

 

But, I have a secret power: if I’m careful and quiet, I can actually slow down time. All I have to do is hold my breath and watch.

 

Newborn.

I pause for a moment before I turn your light on to wake you up in the morning. You are buried under a half dozen baby blankets, surrounded by dolls you’ve meticulously tucked in beside you. Your curly hair splays from your head, spreading across your pillow, floating like a mermaid’s hair on water.

 

I peek around the corner to check on your progress in the great task of Getting Ready for School. I find you, as on all mornings, paying particular attention to the colors of your clothing, ensuring that you make a true and undeniable match. This process takes twenty minutes and therefore feels like I am truly frozen in time.

 

One.

 

I slow my steps as we walk hand in hand to school, feeling those sweet, small fingers that still automatically reach for mine when we approach an intersection. I pray everyday that even when we’re safely across the street you’ll keep holding on, just a little bit longer. Sometimes you do. More and more, you let go.

 

I watch you as you stand quietly, the first in line by your classroom door. I wonder what’s going on inside that brain of yours, as your classmates run and squeal. Probably something similar to what’s going on in mine as I stand quietly observing, while other moms jibber jabber.

 

Two.

 

And then, when the bell rings, I watch you walk away from me. I. WATCH. YOU. WALK. AWAY. FROM. ME. Can we stop to just let it soak in how this moment is preparing me for the rest of your life?!?

 

But! A few hours later, you come running back into my arms. I’m not sure how much of you is running away from school so much as it is running towards me. But, I’ll take it. And your hint of a smile and rushed and sorry excuse for a hug. I close my eyes and I’ll take it, as I bend down to smell the sun in your hair and kiss your rosy cheeks.

 

Three.

 

Time slows when I listen to you and your sister play, overhearing things you think I can’t. Silly things and serious things. Potty words and pointed words. Sister secrets. Songs and jokes and rhymes. Made up games and made up rules. Made up voices, small and big, beautiful and strange. Fights and bribes and negotiations. And when the giggles and the grumpies overtake you, when they overflow your room, I’m still here, listening, waiting for my cue. A moment has yet to pass.

 

But, I’m not always so great at using my super powers. Dinner has to be made. Bills paid. Laundry folded (or at least I have to think about laundry being folded, then feel guilty for not folding it). And the Internet can’t very well read itself, now can it? There is a sister and a dog and a dad. There is homework and sight words and piano practice.

 

Four.

 

And I forget about freezing time. And I yell. And I plead. I’m too rushed, too harsh, too worried about the future. And more than once, I’ve made you cry. And more than once I’ve said, as I’ll say again now, I’m sorry.

 

I hold you in my lap, calming our tears, and everything else melts away.

 

Five.

 

I remember to take pause as I wash your hair and comb out an obscene amount of tangles. I help you get dressed for bed even though you don’t need my help anymore. I look for your lovey (who is as old as you are) in all the usual places and in all the unusual places you like to forget you’ve hid her--inside cardboard boxes, play purses, shoes and inside other toys! We read books and you read the occasional word for me, but eventually urge me to “just read it, Mommy.” You pray the same prayer you’ve prayed since you could, “Thank you God for a good day and I pray for a fun day tomorrow.” And we sing “Baby Beluga” just as we’ve done since the day you were born, “Goodnight, little whale, goodnight. Goodnight, Maribel, goodnight,”--except now, you sing along.

 

And if I let it, this day will turn into tomorrow and the next and the next. And the days will run together as they are wont to do. They’ll run into weeks and years.

 

Six.

 

But, not today. I won’t let it run away with you. I’m staying here in this moment. For, you are every moment this day held, every moment leading to this day and every moment to follow--awesome and inspiring and profound.

 

So, I savor your sweet voice. I squeeze you and kiss you and tell you I’ll see you when the sun comes up. And I turn off your light. I watch you settle in, your toys and blankets surrounding you just so. Your hair, a curly halo. Ending this day just as it began.

And I will myself. I use all my strength and concentration. But even my super powers have their limits, so I blink, a moment passes, time moves and in the morning: six you shall be!

Happy Birthday, my Dearest Babybel!

Love you no matter what,

Mommy

----------

If you want to feel a little more nostalgic...

Babybel: The First Five Years

 

To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Four Years Old

Dearest Danjo,

 

Today you turn four years old.

 

This means that I have survived four years under the tyranny of Danjo. It’s been an honor to be your subject, I mean servant, I mean mother.

 

From the moment you were born you’ve commanded attention, affection, an audience. You have us wrapped around your little fingers with your wit and charm. You are a master in the art of flattery and seduction.

 

 

You still come to my bed in the middle of the night from time to time. You still stay up as late as humanly possible. You still won’t eat any form of fruit or most forms of vegetables. You still ride in a stroller. You want to be held at the most inopportune times. Some days it feels like you’re constantly touching me.

 

 

You can be fickle and mercurial. Your highs are high and your lows are low. Your temper runs hot. But, an instant later you can be the sweetest and most gentle child there ever was. You can be empathetic and endearing. You are funny and a flirt.

 

Life with you is not easy. It is a (thoroughly euphemistic) adventure.

 

It’s been frustrating and I’ve yelled and cried and begged and pleaded. And that’s just this morning when you were (not) putting your shoes on.

 

 

And if you’ve read any parenting blogs before, you know that I have to continue the narrative by saying that for every bad moment there have been a million and a half good moments. That number would not be entirely accurate, but we’ll go with it.

 

There are the jokes you tell where we’re not quite sure what you’re saying but we all laugh hysterically because you are laughing hysterically.

 

There are all the times you tell me that “your body” feels like eating chocolate or some other thing your body is currently telling you to do/not do/eat/play/etc. Which reminds me to listen to my body.

 

 

There are the morning cuddles you insist upon that stop me in my rush to take the dog out, get breakfast on the table, get coffee in my body.

 

There are the still lifes of Little People, plastic dinosaurs and crumpled paper that you leave around the house, inviting me to stop by and take a look. Then yell at you to clean up.

 

 

There are the booty-shaking dance breaks you take in the middle of the house and for no reason at all, reminding us that life is too short to, well, not take dance breaks.

 

There are the impromptu concerts in the car, in the bath, at the kitchen table--your sweet, soulful voice filling our ears.

 

 

There are the unsolicited hugs and kisses and “I love you’s” that make me wonder what I did right, what I did to deserve your outpouring of affection.

 

And there are those twinkling eyes that make me wonder what you’re up to and where you hid the body.

 

 

You keep me on my toes and at my wit’s end. You boggle my mind and defy all reason. You bring out the worst in me and the best in me. You have my name and my number. You make me pull out my hair and you tug at my heartstrings. You spin me round and keep me grounded. You suck the life out of me and you are the great love of my life. You bring me tears of frustration and joy. You beahvior makes me blush with embarrassment and burst with pride. You are like nothing I could have ever imagined--you’re worse and you’re better.

 

 

Four years ago, you changed my life. And I don’t know who I’d be without you.

 

Love you no matter what,

 

Mommy

To Babybel on the Occasion of Starting Kindergarten (and The Rest of Your Educational Career)

Dearest Babybel,

Tomorrow you start kindergarten.

 

I get it. Like in a rational sense. I mean, you were in childcare and then you were in preschool and this is the next logical step. But, my heart doesn’t get it.

I can’t comprehend how you’ve grown so quickly, developed emotionally and intellectually over the past five years. It’s truly a sign of God’s wonders.

What happened to my baby who needed me at night? What happened to my toddler who threw up hysterical vomit? What happened to my preschooler who pronounced her r’s like w’s? Really? Weally!

I know this is the same old story of disbelief, shock and awe told by parents for years and that’s not why I’m writing to you, but it had to be said.

What I want to tell you today may be a little intense for your first day of kindergarten, but nevertheless important from Room 2 to the hallowed halls of [Wellesley] College.

I’m writing to tell you that you should be ever grateful for you education.

You are about to embark on (by my count) seventeen years of formal education. This is a privilege so profound you can not yet imagine it. You are benefiting from a long fight for women and people of color to be educated in this country. And there are still others who know no such right. There are those who travel miles on foot to go to school. There are those who go to school, but in a system so unjust and with a fate so bleak. Do not take your education for granted. Work hard and be grateful every day for your ability to wake up, take a safe walk to school, learn from educators who care, do your homework at a well lit table and benefit from all that your education will provide you.

I’m writing to tell you that I will be here every step of the way.

I’m no helicopter, but I will be here when you need me--in kindergarten, in college. I will be here to celebrate with you on your good days--when you make a friend, when you ace a test, when you accomplish something you never thought you could. I will be here when you need a push--when you think you can’t do something, when you won’t do it, when you get really stuck on writing the letter G or carrying the 1. I will be here to simply be here--to sit with you in your fear, in your frustration, in your pain. I will be here to listen--to the rundown of your day, to your thoughts on One Direction and Middle Eastern conflict, to your ever-changing plans and to your heart’s desires.

I’m writing to tell you that I am proud of you.

Know that I am proud of you because you dare to be in this world. I am proud of all you can and will do, for sure. But, I’m also proud of what you can’t do yet, of what challenges you will tackle. You are a work in progress. And the ability to grow and change is a wonderful part of being human. You can make choices. You can change your mind. You can soften your heart. I know you will not always do things that please me. You will not always do things my way. You may even wander into places that I cannot prevent you from going. But, you will live your own truth and follow your own path. You will grown into the person God has created you to be. And I am honored to watch you do it.

Love you no matter what,

 

Mommy