And Then He Was 16

Dear Son, 

Hey bruh. It’s your birthday again. You’re officially old enough to operate a motor vehicle, only two years shy of being able to vote and before we know it, you’ll be old enough to buy me a nice bottle of rosé. (Make sure it’s French and dry.) Honestly, I’m a bit at a loss of what to tell you. As teenagers go, you’re a pretty good one. You make good grades, you only smell after football practice, you are always exactly where you say you are and sometimes you even text me ‘Kk’ instead of ‘k’ which I think is a sign of your love and devotion to me. You still say you love me and although you will deny it, Mama still slips from your lips instead of Mom from time to time.  I can still make you laugh even when you’re trying to be too cool and I’m not sure there’s a better face than the one you make when you’re smiling that trying not to laugh smile. What you lack in embracing these days, you make up for by nonstop tackling, body slamming and back jumping which I know are just camouflaged hugs. At least that’s what I tell myself. I wish you were a little nicer to your sister and that you always remembered to close the refrigerator but…with time I believe that both of these will come to fruition. 

As I write this, our fridge full of photos stares back at me. Plastered on its doors are years of our lives; colorful faces of all ages, of many generations, peeking back at us. There you are as a toddler; fresh with delight at being able to walk. There you are with your face stretched to boyhood, trespassing on our lifeguard tower with your sister, your faces glinting with mischief. There you are with your cousins, drunk with lake love and teenage idolization. There you are with your barely there boy face, squeezing the love out of your first dog. There you are in your first high school baseball uniform, looking very much like a young man. And now there you are, football uniform on, helmet at your hip, dreams behind your eyes and the man you will become jumping out at me, forcing me to see him. 

It’s a great privilege to witness your growth. It does not escape me that I have been so lucky to raise you and to be present for so many hours, days, weeks, months, years of your life. I can feel the clock winding down on our every day life together and while I know you must and will eventually leave me, I just want you to know that I would do it all over again. From the beginning, always. All the good parts, all the hard parts. 

I want to feel the weight of you on my hip, I want to bend down and catch your hug in both arms, I want to watch your eyes sparkle and shine at the wonder of seeing Santa for the first time. l want to sing to you in the car and take you to Yogurtland for lunch and read you Knuffle Bunny one too many times at bedtime. I want to slip in your room at night and and watch your chest move up and down as your eyelashes twitch with dreams. I want to play two touch in the alley and knock out at the park. I want to go to the beach and lie in the warm sand with your head on my belly, our faces sleepy with salt water and sun. I want to go to all the games, even the early ones, and take you trick or treating and lie down next to you for “just a few minutes, Mama” so you can fall asleep. I’ll take the tantrums, your legendary stubbornness and all those years of picky eating. I’ll take the endless, monotonous days of isolating young motherhood. I’ll take the heartache, the pain. I’d take it all over again, each day of it, if only I could.

Time is whiplash, my dear boy. It shows no mercy, spares not one of us. I never feel ready for the next chapter, the next part, but it keeps happening so I’ll just keep hanging on tight, even though my grip is slipping, my fingers seemingly slick with butter as they slide off your hands. Together we will maneuver this teenage landscape filled with potholes and hilltops; with silence so deafening it pierces the heart, with joy so full it pieces it together again. Every day with you is a better day. Even when you're chasing me down the hall trying to jump on my back.

Baby mine, I love you endlessly.
Happy 16th Birthday.
Love,
Mama 

To Rise

He has risen you say

It’s what you advertise

He has risen you say 

but I think He has slipped away

To bed He went once more 

after He woke to realize only 

the world He left is ash and blaze

The world He left

deserves no saint 

no all forgiving haze

He rose to realize only

He needs to rest again

because His name

You take in vain

and maim

His children

He has risen you say 

yet He needs to rest 

because down our throats you keep shoving

His name

while the flesh of your gun

is held to the temples 

of our children

so brave they were 

to die for your soul 

for your sin 

He has risen you say

yet He needs to rest 

for my body is your temple 

it is declared 

it is yours for play

it is yours to rule

and regulate

until our children 

Die 

His name

uttered upon your lips

as you cling to your cold metal

While screaming of your right 

To bear your arms

as our arms

are emptied 

of our children

He has risen you say

yet He needs to rest 

to beg you please 

take your bible

take His name 

take your bullshit

and pray

You better pray

On your knees

That He will rise 

 

You better pray 

that He will forgive your sins

your fucking murdering sins

as your glad-handing hands

congratulate your tax evading voters 

on their contribution 

to the murder

of our children 

He has risen you say

I hate to tell you

Jesus is tired

Jesus went back to bed

It is our turn 

To rise

You better pray 

And Then She Was Thirteen

 

Dear Daughter, 

Well, it’s official. I officially have two teenagers officially living under my roof. Because…have you heard? You are thirteen years old now. Which makes you….a teenager. Officially. 

I have been trying and failing to sit and write this letter to you. It’s not that I don’t have the words for you, it’s that I have too many words for you. A big, jumbled up love bomb just rolling around in my brain, bumping into stuff. Because when I think of you, I think of a thousand things that make you perfect to me. I think of a million moments I would give anything to have for just one more second all while trying to live in this moment because one day I’m going to write you a letter and you’ll be 20, 25, 30 and I’ll be crying, wishing I could be sitting here again, trying to find the words for my 13 year old daughter. 

So for future me, I’ll try and find some words and hope they do you justice. 

I admire you so much, Daughter. I really do. I know you’re a mere thirteen years old but you’ve already taught me so much about who I would like to be when I grow up. I hope I’m as curious as you, each thought that pops in my head a reason to explore. I hope I’m as kind as you, never forgetting a birthday and always buying the most thoughtful gifts. I hope I’m as confident as you, as self assured even when I feel different. I pray that one day I can work a room as well as you; that your gift of gab will grace my lips when I’d rather hide in the corner. I would like to be as brave as you, not afraid to ask questions. I wish to be as pure as you, your goodness spilling out, your heart so big it makes mine burst. And I hope I never bump into a tree I don’t try to climb. 

I told you it was a love bomb. 

But there are hard things, too, Daughter, because we are human. Challenges we face, tantrums we conquer. You can be a bit bossy. A tad stubborn. And you’ve made it very clear that a morning person you are not. Never has the push and pull of motherhood been greater as we circle one another, deciding to duel or duet. One of the relentless, perplexing problems of parenting is this lesson we must always keep learning: I am not you and you are not me. Just as I am not my mother and my mother is not my grandmother. We are bits and pieces of one another but we have whole parts that belong only to us. Mysterious parts even that we spend a lifetime trying to know and understand. I want to tell you so many things about us, Daughter, but I can’t because you must find them for yourself. Find them and then tell me all about it. Please don’t ever stop telling me all about it. 

When I pick you up from places, I like to arrive a few minutes early and watch you with your friends or just with yourself. I like to see you in a moment when you’re not aware of my eyes on you. I like to see who you are, all the bits and pieces, the whole parts and the mysterious ones. I watch you and I am filled with the most precious gratitude. Gratitude that I get to be your mom, that I get to be a part of you. Gratitude that I get to witness the totality of you, a big jumbled up love bomb just walking around, bumping into stuff. Gratitude that I happen to know that you are the best person I’ve ever met. But I do NOT have favorites, okay? We all know I worship your brother equally. 

But your light is different, Daughter. Even your brother cannot deny your shine. 

Keep lighting the way for the rest of us. 

You are my sunshine.

Forever.

Happy Birthday.

Love,

Mama