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 

And Then He Was Fifteen

 Dear Son,

Well this is just getting ridiculous. 

You’re thisclose to being the tallest in the family.

You’re in high school.

I had to buy you special man soap because football pads bring out a…special smell.

And the other day you shaved off your mustache. A very faint, baby mustache but still. You used a razor. On your face. 

Oh, Son. Another year has passed and you are now 15 years old and my 41 year old heart is heavy. 

Heavy with gratitude for your continued health. 

Heavy with tenderness for the secrets I know you hold from me.

Heavy with sadness as your little boy fingers slip from mine.

Heavy with the pressing of time, the ticking reverberating louder and louder; each goodnight more precious than the last for it has never felt more true, that tired old tale we can never fully accept:

It goes too fast. 

Something about you becoming a high schooler has had the seemingly impossible effect of making me an even weepier person than I am already tasked with. Case in point: out on a walk with the dog the other day, I witnessed a toddler having a tantrum, a complete meltdown, and I teared up. I watched this very gracious mother kneel down and wipe his snot tears and try to gratify somehow his surely insane requests and I cried. Because HIS LITTLE VOICE BROKE ME. 

Let me reiterate: A toddler. Having a TANTRUM. Made me miss toddlers. 

I may need professional help at some point. 

Days with toddlers are long and loud, a parent’s ears pleading for silence.

Days with teenagers are short and quiet, a parent’s ears pleading for chatty connection. You’re at the age now where this comes and goes for no apparent reason. At one moment, a cacophony of words spilling from your tongue, the next a closed door with just a grunt of acknowledgement. I never take for granted the momentary overflowing conversation with you as I sometimes do with Daughter. (My only defense is that she speaks approximately 37,000 words a day so I might zone out for a few hundred here and there.) 

I just don’t want to miss anything, Son. I have only four more years of being able to not miss anything and I really really really don’t want to miss anything. I know before I blink my eye you will be off on your next chapter, your next adventure, leaving behind my crumpled, conflicted heart. But my mother always let me fly, even when she was scared, even when she wanted nothing more than to hold me tighter. And I promise you, dear son, that I will do the same, even when I am scared, even when I just want to hold you tighter. 

Motherhood is not for the faint of heart. We are strong and soft. We are brave and terrified. We raise you each day to only then watch you go. So please just be gentle with me as I crowd your sidelines. I know you don’t want or need me to bear witness to each and endeavor you encounter. But try to remember that when I look at you, I can’t help but see my baby boy hiding in the shadow of my young man. Try to remember that even when you are taller than me, smell really nice, grow adequate facial hair and become a grown man, you can always come to me and I will kneel down and wipe your snot tears then lift you up so you can fly. 

Happy 15th Birthday, Baby Mine.

I love you forever.

Mama 

And Then He Will Be Off To High School

Dear Son,

It feels appropriate as we celebrate your 8th grade promotion to remind you of the 24 hours of labor, followed by a cesarean section, that I endured to bring you into this world. I mention this because I know that as we navigate your high school years together, we both might have some…moments…that maybe we don’t like one another and I just want to let you know preemptively that, yes, I will continue to refresh your memory of how it was, exactly, your birth was born and you should always remember to just give me a hug and say thank you. 

I also mention this because the day you were born was the most special day of my life. I can recall almost every detail. I can still feel the rush of emotion released when I heard your first cry. I can still see your face for the first time. I can still remember what it felt like the first moment your flesh touched mine. I remember the darkened nights in the hospital room, awaiting the nurse to bring you to me to feed because you had to be under the blue lights in the nursery. I missed you so much when they had to take you back. Even though I knew it was only a matter of a few hours before I would see you again, all I wanted was to be with you every minute. It already felt like it was going too fast. 

And it was in one of those quiet, darkened moments that you were handed to me silently, all swaddled up, face squirming with signs of hunger, that I looked down at you and wondered how it was that I could ever love you more than I did at that moment. That I wondered if I would ever have another moment of such pure love again. If I could have frozen time in that moment and stayed with you forever all swaddled up and tiny and perfect, I would have. I will never forget that moment, Son. It lives in me and I try to always parent you from the spot it shines from. 

Of course, I’ve failed many times as a parent. I’m sure I’ll fail many more. But what I didn’t realize in that moment, that perfect moment of absolute love that I wanted to be frozen in for eternity, was that I had already failed. Failed to understand that my love for you could only grow. Failed to realize that in surrendering to that one perfect moment, I would have sacrificed the million more to come. 

So as you stubbornly insist on getting older and bigger and manlier and we ride the bumpy years of high school together, I want you to know that that perfect moment of love was just the beginning of what I know now has no end to it’s capacity. Please just give me a proper hug now and then, please don’t get mad at me when I cry because we both know I can’t help it, and please please please….don’t ever stop calling me Mama. 

Remember: 24 hours. Plus surgery.

Worth every second and then some. 

I love you endlessly, Babymine.

Love,

Mama 

And Then She Was 12

 Dear Daughter,

Your 11th birthday marked the beginning of our pandemic journey through this vast landscape named COVID. Our plans to celebrate at a bakery with your friends decorating cakes evaporated so instead we stood in our driveway waving to your friends parading by as your birthday became one of the first casualties of life gone awry. I promised you that even if it took a few months, we would properly celebrate your birthday, at the bakery with your friends.

Twelve months later, I have not been able to fulfill that promise.

Twelve months later we still feel the weight of the year of COVID. Twelve months later, you’ve barely stepped foot into a classroom and when you do, it’s with chrome books and headphones. Twelve months later we stand at the edge of your 12th birthday, reflecting on what we’ve lost, still somewhat shell shocked.

It hasn’t been easy for you; I can see that. One of your great superpowers is friendship; the ease of your curiosity translates so effortlessly to making new friends. People are naturally drawn to you; your openness and silliness beckoning them, impossible to resist. A chorus of hello’s and goodbyes seemed to follow us as I would pick you up from school, your name echoed by so many. Yet you would privately struggle, confiding to me that you often felt left out; that you weren’t included, that she was mean to you today, that he called you a name, that you weren’t invited. I felt the pain it caused you; I shed quiet tears for you. But you always recovered so quickly, much of your anguish being the typical ups and downs of adolescence; whatever happened yesterday would be healed with today. But this pandemic has been relentless in it’s quest for loneliness leaving so many of us stuck in the yesterday, stuck in the pain of seclusion. A novelty for the first few weeks, even months, we isolated with Netflix and board games and bike rides, yet a year later, this loneliness sticks to us like an unwanted dinner guest, patronizing us with his persistent presence. 

I see that that loneliness is still stubbornly clinging to you as our days are still long, even with the trickling flow of normality. I fear what’s been stolen from you is too great a burden to bear some days. But then I remind myself of life’s oft repeated lesson that this too shall pass and I wish I could let you peek into the future, just for a moment or two. Just so you could catch a glimpse of yourself, however brief, back at the life we shed a year ago, letting it’s skin grow on us again. Just one moment so you could know that it’s all going to be okay. 

You, my beautiful daughter, are such a great feeler of emotion. All of the emotions. No discrimination. Sometimes you experiment with feeling them all at the same time and that’s when I go to my room and hide. It’s such a strange realization as I watch my kids grow when I recognize that they have always been exactly who they are. That from day one, you, Daughter, were intent on always showing me how you felt. With gusto.  You cried. A lot. You smirked. A lot. You laughed. A lot. You have racked up multiple academy awards with performances big and small, door slamming and body crumpling always ensuring that you take home the gold. But we can’t forget the impromptu fart jokes, the demand to cut your hair off, your penchant for using your body as a canvas and that phase where you insisted on being topless. As much as possible. Usually in public. I have  always envisioned your spirit as a wild, beautiful horse, not meant to be tamed; a magnificent, feeling spirit. I love all your big feelings. I have big feelings, too.  And while sometimes these giant emotions can be overwhelming, it is always better to have them than to hide from them. Now I’m not suggesting that we don’t continue to work on our….expression…of these feelings, but always remember that how you feel is valid. That what you have to say is important. That you bring meaning and joy to so many lives. Big feelings can carry a heavy toll; we experience the world differently. It’s brighter and darker so always remember to hold on to the light. 

While I wish for you to glimpse the future, I wish for one moment to live in a glimpse of your dwindling childhood. To once again hear that tiny voice with it’s big demands; to feel all four of your limbs clinging to me, wrapping me in a cocoon of love in it’s purest form. I will never, not for one second, ever, take for granted the gift it is to be a mother. To be your mama. 

Happy 12th Birthday, my sunshine.

I love you more.

Mama 

Enough is Enough

 To Whom It May Concern,

And let me start by saying it does concern you. 

I write to you today as a parent who yes, is frustrated. Who yes, is angry. Who yes, constantly questions the decisions coming down from the top with regards to getting our kids back in school. I write to you today with the full intention of admitting that I am not educated in all the ins and the outs; I cannot spew scientific stats; I am not going to yell and call you names. 

I write to you today as a parent who feels as though the only choice she has is take pen to paper and hope at the very least your eyes have not glazed over these words. I write to you with sole intention of being heard. It’s the very least I deserve.

I have two middle schoolers; one who began her journey to middle school in distance learning and one who will finish his. One who finds it harder and harder to get out of her bed each morning and one who simply goes through the motions of his “school” day. One who roams the house with her school issued device because to be still for four hours is too much to bear; the other concentrated solely at his desk, his body stiffening each hour that passes as he stares at the blue light radiating always. When this school year began, we all lived with hope that soon….very soon…our kids would be granted the right to go back to the classroom, even if just for a few hours a week. We breathed that hope letting it suffocate us. Parents furiously texted and chatted back and forth, some of us optimistic, others proven rightly to be not as much. We rearranged our lives believing that surely if one could Soul Cycle, kids could go back to school. Believing that surely if one could dine out, kids could back to school. Believing that surely if they can open Disneyland, kids could go back to school. That if schools across the nation can open their campuses back up safely, surely our school would stand up to those who deny us this right. Surely our school would think outside the box; take advantage of large outdoor spaces and year round warm temperatures. Surely there is something…anything…that can be done. 

Instead here we are almost a year later feeling as hopeless as ever. I watch as the spirit slips from my daughter, as the motivation falls from my son, and I grieve for them each day. What can heal them is forbidden to them. What can help them is being rejected by those whom it seems self interest forever trumps the greater good.  

I watch each day as kids gather together, roaming the streets, unmasked, unprotected. I do not blame them. We have stolen everything from them. Everything. Yet doesn’t it seem so silly that the idea you’re selling us is that they’re safer away from school? Away from regulations and safety precautions? That they’re safer away from the very thing that can save them? There is only so much we can ask these kids to sacrifice yet they keep being asked over and over and over and over and over. We’re losing kids to suicide, to depression. To the confines of isolation. Kids have forgotten the very things they used to love; the activities and hobbies that kept them engaged and boosted their mentality. Not all of our kids have an escape with expensive club sports or second homes in the mountains. Not all of our families can even entertain the option of private school. And they shouldn’t have to. THEY SHOULD NOT HAVE TO. 

I know nothing will be done because of the words I write to you today. As I stated, my sole intention is simply to be heard. But as you read this, I want you to understand that the kids are wilting. They are regressing. They’ve lost hope in you. The domino effect this will have on them in years to come is too terrifying to ponder. There are no easy answers. I am assured that you care about these kids and that you are working harder than ever to maintain this unmaintainable learning model. But the fact remains that there are questions as to whether or not our kids will even be back on campus come September 2021 and that is absolutely unacceptable. Yes we must protect our teachers and staff at our schools but why are we all being asked to continue day by day with these unreasonable circumstances for almost a year now while union demands that seem unattainable, unreachable and unrealistic dictate the future of our children? Why are our kids the forced sacrificial lambs? They’re not blind to the world marching on as we trample over their discarded potential. They’re not blind to the gross mismanagement of their education. You owe them, at the very least, an explanation as to why their well being falls below so many others. 

So I write to you today because it’s all I have. Just pen to paper. One of a million tired, worn out, deflated voices.

I hope you heard me.