Dear Son,
I always hated the piñata part of the party. Alongside the squeals of delight from the terror toddlers was my reoccurring fear that you wouldn’t get a chance to take a whack if I didn’t push you a little into the line. And I knew you wanted to so badly. I mean every kid wants their chance to at least have a shot. There you would stand, twisting your hands nervously, eyes big, patiently waiting. And then some asshole kid would shove his way in front of you. And some absent parent wouldn’t even notice. And then another kid would do the same. And then another. And I would forcibly hold myself back, willing you a silent message….don’t let them do that, Son. Please. Stand up for yourself. Your eyes would fill just a little as you let them have their chance and I would walk over and gently nudge you forward while resisting the urge to trip those kids but it was almost always too late as the sudden explosion of candy would fall from the sky. I would try to distract you from this great disappointment of not getting your chance by encouraging you to get some candy GET SOME CANDY and you would run and always be just a half a second late and I would then find myself snatching pieces away from greedy little hands just so you could savor a few pieces to help heal your broken toddler heart.
But it wasn’t the candy you wanted.
It was the chance.
What’s going to become of this sensitive soul, I would wonder to myself. I ached to protect you from life’s piñata disappointments, but I also knew I couldn’t shelter you from them. I wanted you to be more assertive but I also appreciated that you were that kid who didn’t cut the line just because he could. I wanted you to be independent of me, but you had such a hard time saying goodbye…sweaty, small, desperate hands clinging to my neck, declaring my betrayal. I loved your sensitivity because it made you more thoughtful about many things, but it also led to intense fears of wind and water and darkness because it was as if you already knew inherently that wind could knock a house over and water could swallow you up and in darkness you couldn’t see light so…instead of running into the waves, we would tiptoe.
What’s going to become of this sensitive soul?
At 12 years of age now, I see that boy slipping away and the teenager slipping in. I see that you still want a hug, but you don’t always take one. I see that you don’t care about what I say, but you still want my approval. I see that you like to be left alone, but you always ask me when I’ll be back. I see that it’s easy for you to say goodbye to me but you love seeing me again. I see that you don’t need me, but you still want me. I see that I am clinging to you with sweaty, desperate hands begging the boy in you to always stay forever with me. And I see that I must let you go and discover who you are going to become. Because behind that ever-developing teenage dismissiveness, I still see you, Son.
What’s going to become of this sensitive soul?
He’s grown from baby to toddler to big kid to adolescent. And now, God willing, he’ll grow from adolescent to teenager to twenty-something to man. He loves baseball and music. Football and books. Hanging out with his friends and staying home on the weekends. He could tear apart a piñata with one swing, but he’ll still wait his turn. And if someone cuts in front of him, I know he doesn’t need his Mama to help him out.
But I’ll still fuck someone up if they mess with you, Son. Don’t get it twisted.
Because I still see you, Son, and I know you see me.
I love you more than I did the day you were born. Each day I love you more. Even when you’re being a dick because then I just ignore you until you ask me to scratch your back, which is your absolute genius way of apologizing to me. I’m just a sucker in a grown up suit.
See?
You see me.
Happy 12th Birthday, baby mine.
Love,
Mama
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