Birthday letter to a boy who is 8

Dear Naveen,

You are eight today.

I looked for a picture to show the world who you are right now. But I couldn’t find one that captures your kind heart.  Not a single one that hints at your gentle, deep nature. So then I looked for one that would show how big and little you are to me. 

Big because you asked me on Sunday if I feel about you, the way you feel about Myrtle, our dog. “Is that how you love me?” you asked cradling her little body in your arms.

And also because in the Mother’s Day card you called me Rohima. “That’s the name you were born with” you said. This gesture, this simple little detail. Spelled right. So generous. 

I knew right then you saw me.

But little too. Pouting when you can’t sit beside me as if you possess me still - the way you did as an infant.  Or sticking your tongue out at me behind Dad’s back because your mischief landed you in hot water. 

Little because we can't say the word "balls" around you,  without you falling to the floor in hysterics. And little because your lanky, long body still fits in my arms.

When I couldn’t find the picture, I searched for the right words.  

Words that could explain how much you love your brown skin and how proud you are to be "the brownest one in our family". I searched for the words that could do justice to the compassion you model every day. How every single time I apologize for being a flawed, impatient yelly Mom, you are pure charity and forgiveness.

When I couldn't find the words, I searched for a way to linger here just a little longer. 

This place where you still hold my face to see if my freckles are intact. Where you hold my heart because I still have the answers you seek. This place where you still belong to us and not the world.

I searched for a way to hold onto this boy you are right now. But like the picture and the words, it eluded me. 

So I'll just say this: 

Happy birthday my big little boy. You are a blessing to us every single day.

Dear Naveen

A few nights ago as I was changing out of my work clothes, you sat on the bed and told me about your day. “Mommy, did you know that girls can marry girls and boys can marry boys if they want?” You actually said “Mommy, did you know that goals can may-wee goals” and I don’t mind telling you, the way you stumble on those R’s? FAVE.

I said, “Yes, I did know that. Are you going to marry a girl or a boy?”

“I’m going to marry a girl.” When asked why, you said “because boys smell like donkeys.”

And because it was just the two of us having a serious conversation and given your experience of boys (exhibit DEAGLAN and DAD), I  shrugged and agreed that it was likely a good thing to marry a girl because in general they do smell pretty good. You went on to tell me (for the third time this week) that you would have three sons named Leo (you ADORE this name!), Nathan and Mantartica (Yes Mantartica!) and all of them would also be named Matthew like you.

Your fourth year has been full of me and you moments like these. Me folding laundry, or perusing Pinterest. You hovering close by telling me your stories.

Things you learned at school.

Fun times you had with friends.

Injustices you have suffered at my hands (You gave him a bigger piece! You always cuddle with him longer! )

Hopes and dreams for the weekend.

And also the big plans for when you are a grown man (You, all three of your sons and the “goal you may-wee” will live with Dad and me. Forever!).

A funny thing happens to parents when they realize their last baby is no longer a baby. They start stalling, holding on for dear life. Their perceptions become impaired. Where others see a growing boy, fully self sufficient, these desperados are still dreaming of his once chubby thighs. 
They ask for things to be repeated just to hear the mispronunciation of a word. I said we read a polem (poemJ) Mommy, didn’t you hear me? A POLEM!!  
They smile at a potato chip remembering when it used to be a “pip”. 
They tell the same story over and over at the same gathering, laughing just as hard with each telling, blissfully unaware that the listener could recite it word-for-word from having heard it already on the other side of the room. Three times.

It has been like this for me.

I am smitten with you. Crazy in love.  And also on the brink of insanity every single day. You swoop onto my lap or into my arms with a fierce propriety any chance you get, but you also refuse to put on pants. EVERY WEEKDAY MORNING. YOU. JUST. REFUSE.

Your foray into school has been a complete success though...except see PANTS. You love the teachers, the required change in footgear at recess and adore your two best friends, Logan and Lawson.  

Which is all to say, four has been a good year. I was thinking about this yesterday.

At drop-off I whispered that I loved you a zillion billion times around the moon, the world and all the planets. In return, you gave me a pitiable smile, pecked me dutifully on the cheek and muttered,  I love you too.  And as an afterthought: Around our town and up the chimney, Then you demanded I roll up your pant cuffs and went off in search of your friends. 

I smiled all the way to work.  

Happy birthday my sweet, sweet heart. I am so blessed to be your Mom.

Your first ever school picture. Seriously. I can't even.

On the rock in the front yard yesterday morning. You're all about a good cuff on your jeans.

The wise and ageless you

Dear Deaglan,

Tomorrow you turn seven and I can’t help but think back to when I turned seven. I had short hair like yours and was also missing a few front teeth. But I didn’t own any toys and had never watched TV.  I shared a room with 40 kids and no one ever read us a bedtime story or hugged us goodnight. There were no birthday parties or cakes; no presents. To be honest, I didn’t even know my own birth date. It didn’t matter though; no party or present could give me what I wanted that year.

I turned seven in the orphanage and the only thing I wanted was my mother.

We’ve talked about this a few times.  And on each occasion, your deep self, the wise and ageless you, snapped to attention, listened quietly and searched my face to find the sadness. Tears threatened your big brown eyes and you hugged me tight to let me know I was loved.

A few nights ago you came home from school, excited about your unity cup, a craft you’d done at school. You told me that the class had learned about Kwanzaa and explained how a black lady (whose name you’d forgotten – Rosa Parks I told you) refused to give up her seat to a white person when the “white” seats were full. You had lots of questions when I filled in pieces of the story. Why couldn’t she sit where she wanted? Why did the bus driver tell her to give up her seat? Why couldn’t the other lady stand? Carefully I told you more about slavery and racism. We talked about skin colour. We talked about the hardship that black people have had to endure. You got quiet and sad.

Your bursting heart and endless compassion fill me with hope every day.

We live in a world where just last week, Dad’s colleague told him our house was on the wrong side of town – that maybe someday we’d be able to move to his neighborhood.  People more than ever seem to feel justified in judging each other based on area codes, the tangible shows of overspending and the titles mounted on their office doors. 

I want so much more for you and your brother.

I want to see that generous heart of yours soar;

Give you every chance to feed the compassion that threatens to split you wide open.

I hope someday you do bring "truckloads of food to the starving kids in the world," as you so often tell me you will. I hope this world doesn't change you. 

During the next year while I watch you embrace seven, I’ll be thinking about when I was the same age. Each time I hold you tight, my yearning to hug my own mother will fade a little. When I see you and Naveen love each other, I’ll thank God my sister was with me through those lonely times in the orphanage. When I catch you jumping from couch to couch because you think I’m not looking, I’ll delight that in the best possible way I get to be seven again.

And each time your eyes sparkle with tears at the mention of where I’ve been, I’ll know the journey was all worth it because it brought me to you.

Happy birthday my seven year old love,

Mom.

We laugh, we sigh, and we shake our heads

Dear Naveen,

A few weeks ago on our way to Daycare, a ten minute drive after we drop Deaglan off, a motorcycle passed us. “Momma,” you said, “I wish I was a moto-cycle dwiver.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked, “how come?”
“Because they’re weally, weally cool.”

Several hours later, that same day, on our way home, you told me that 

Adam*, a boy in your preschool room, had slapped you in the face.

“Did you tell Ms. Katie or Sarah?” I asked.
“No, but I wish I could have @*#$ him.”  You replied.
“NA-VEEEEN,” I said, “when someone hurts you, you need to tell a teacher.You don’t wish ____”

That night when I had a few minutes alone with your Dad, I told him the two stories.  His response and I hope you’re reading this as a grown man, sitting behind a mahogany desk, taking a well deserved break from the stacks of blueprints for your next skyscraper, or relaxing after deposing a very rich client’s husband, was to put into words what I’d feared all along:

“I told you” he said, “that kid’s gonna be a Hell’s Angel one day.”

Here’s the thing.

Your brother ruined “normal” for you.  He was a pretty predictable as three year olds go. He had the odd tantrum but on the whole was generally good natured and went with the flow. I feel often that this has not been the case with you.  

I mean this in the most loving-but-I’m–your-mom-so-I-can-say-this kind of way.

For instance you hate mornings. I think you would like them if you weren’t expected to eat breakfast or get dressed. You hate eggs and socks.  And most styles of pants.

You also hate public declarations of love.

From the time he learned to speak, your brother has told me at least a dozen times every day that he loves me. You however, could care less about my desperate need for validation.

On the drive home from school, if I adjust the rear-view mirror to see your little face, you scowl and tell me to stop looking at you. If I bump into you on the way to the kitchen, you accuse me of hitting you on purpose.  And lately, when you feel put out by one of my demands you’ve added the phrase “stinkin’ old” to whatever it is you’re protesting:

“I don’t want to lift the stinkin’ old toilet seat, Momma!”
“I hate stinkin’ old fish. I’m not eating!”
“I’m not wearing stinkin’ old shorts to school. I don’t care if it’s hot!”

You’re a grumpy old curmudgeon in a Preschooler’s body.  

And yet.

You're never far from me.  If we’re in the same room, you need to be in my arms or on my lap. If I’m in the basement doing laundry, you’re waiting for me at the top of the stairs. If I’m inside while you’re playing out back, you come in every few minutes and demand a hug.

“Let’s pretend I’m a baby,” you often say and insist we talk about the old days when you used to nurse. You ask me again and again what you used to call breast milk and are convinced that if I just tried, I could produce it for you even now. You have no intention of growing older you tell me all the time.

You adore your brother. When you draw pictures at school, they’re mostly for Deaglan. You mimic his speech, want the same toys and tell me secretly that your favorite colour is blue “just like Dekwen’s.” This past Saturday morning, I came downstairs to find the two of you sitting on the couch, his arm around you, watching cartoons.

I had no words.

You’ll be four tomorrow and I can’t help but mourn a little. Your chubby toddler legs have gotten lean and strong.  Your smooth little forehead is no longer adorably disproportioned to the rest of your face. You’ve grown into those gloriously abundant ears and you only sometimes sound like a native Bostonian – sadly, you’re learning to say your R’s.

This year you developed a fondness for video games, swear words and grilled salmon. The first two made me uneasy and anxious while the third was bittersweet because it was short-lived. Lately you sustain yourself on anything sugary and anything that resembles a pork chop. You hardly ever mention the vacuum cleaner anymore but you often wish out loud that you could drive a real car.

Don't worry, much to my dismay, that time will come soon enough my sweetheart. But for now, I want you to know that your Dad and I wouldn’t change a single thing about you; we laugh, we sigh, and we shake our heads daily, watching you unfold. I hope you’ll always be your own quirky, delightful, weird and wonderful self.

Unapologetic. Unconventional. Unpredictable.

And if you do end up joining a biker gang when you're older, then I hope you always stay Under the radar

Happy Birthday my sweet baby!

Love always,

Your old lady.

*The names and events in this scenario were changed to protect you from implication in any future crimes.

Some pictures of you from this past year.

You will be six on Christmas Eve

Dear Deaglan,

Early this morning you shouted from your bed, “Mom! Is it time to get up yet?” I didn’t answer even though your loud question woke me from a dead sleep.

“Mom!!” this time louder. “Is it time to get up yet????”

“Not even close,” I said turning over, “go back to sleep.”

Then a raucous climb down the ladder of your bunk, a jump from the last step to the floor and then thud, thud into the bathroom.  And then, thud, thud thud toward me. 

“Mom! One more day!” 

This is how we’ve started every morning for the past week. The countdown to your birthday.

To be accurate, it’s how you’ve started every morning for the past six years.  

One second you were tiny, gripping the sides of your crib, fussing eagerly to be picked up. And the next second, bam! All of your pants are too small, your feet are gigantic; and you are sounding out words on the sides of buildings.

On the night you were born, the moment I first held you in the recovery room, the world melted away. I forgot that this kind of thing had happened before. Babies had been born before. Mothers had become mothers. Families finally felt like families. 

I forgot everything.

I forgot about the possibility of separation. I couldn’t imagine a day when we wouldn’t be close. I forgot that kids grow up. Become independent. Disagree with their parents. Learn to want different things. I forgot about families who become estranged from each other.

I forgot grade seven.  

I forgot about elaborately folded secret notes denouncing parents as annoying and downright dumb. I forgot high school where I was sure that if I could just get my own place, I would be free of their tyranny, stay out late, apply all the eye make-up I wanted. I forgot the escape to university where I could finally get my nose pierced without permission, embrace grunge without disapproval. I forgot all those years where phone calls home felt obligatory.

I forgot all of it.

Because that night I first held you, I knew with great clarity that you and I were going to be different. We would reinvent the mother-child dynamic. It would be different for us. You would always want to be with me, always need me, always look to me for the answers.

You, I could tell then, would always be agreeable, always attentive. Always compliant.There would never come a day when we wouldn’t see eye to eye on everything. 

That day did come though.

My fog lifted and there you were, already a whole person, separate from me.  You had opinions on just about everything: Your new winter coat “sucks”, you said, because it takes too long to zip up. You can't wear the waterproof thermal mitts because they don’t allow for proper snow ball formation. You hate plaid. Naveen can sit on your bed only if he takes off his socks, holds in all toots and burps and refrains from coughing on you.

When I was sad, you told me you liked my shirt. And when I was really sad you said "I love everything you're wearing Mom!" And sometimes.  Well sometimes, I noticed that you said things just because it was easier. You appeased me.

This year, you understood the vastness with which your brother adores you. At a birthday party a few weeks ago for one of your mutual friends, I watched as he hid behind you, waited for you to pioneer the way; his shield in this life.

His guide.

You love your family and tell us so all the time. You love school, your teachers and your friends. You love your grandparents, aunts, uncles and all of your cousins too. You love candy and popcorn, hockey and forts. 

Oh and Lego, you love Lego.

And you are itching for adventure every minute of the day. When we tell you about an upcoming trip, you want to go that minute. Time is such a nuisance. Are we there yet? You ask over and over.

Are we there yet?

Well no. We aren't there yet. I don't want to be there yet, is that bad? I want it all to slow down. I want to marinate in the you of today, bask in your light and sparkle. Get caught up in the world through your eyes. 

Happy birthday my big, big boy, thanks for letting me live it all again, through you.

Love Mom.

They are the very best kinds of people

Dear Naveen,

 

If I could have one wish for you when you are grown and living your own life it’s this: I hope you come across a three year old or two in your time. I say this because in my opinion, three year olds are the very best kinds of people. And if you are lucky enough to know one intimately, I hope he or she steals your heart.

 

The way you’ve stolen mine.

 

You slay me everyday with what you say and how you say it:

 

“It’s freezing hot Mama! The water is freezing hot!”  Immediately, I know to add a little cold water to your bath.

 

“Gramma! I have a penis!” This type of thing is said very loudly, usually in public places. Your sweet, gentle (and very modest!) Gramma took this in stride a few weeks ago while we were at the beach in Bayfield.

 

“Hey you pipsqueak, get back here, you!”  or "Hey you Meatballdoggie!" I almost always cringe at this hoping you won’t get punched in the nose, because you almost exclusively taunt older children you encounter at the park or who are walking innocently by our house with these instigations.

 

“Mommy look at that tiny little baby!” Usually you are pointing to a fellow toddler, often while you have a pacifier in your mouth.

 

I'm in awe of how much you love me. I was carrying you across the lawn on the weekend. Your little legs were wrapped around my body while you tenderly swept the hair away from my face you said, “I want to see your face Mama.” It was such a moment. 

I could have wept.

 

Your tenure here has been short, but you are as particular as an old granny when it comes to how you want things done. 

 

Like at Costco a few weeks ago. I made the mistake of taking your hotdog out of its bun because I knew that’s how you liked to eat it (“Bun sandwich” you call it). Evidently you wanted to do this yourself. You slammed your fist on the table, dropped to the very dirty floor of the crowded eating area, kicked your feet and howled at all the ways I’d wronged you. 

Nothing I could say (or threaten) would make you sit up and start over. Your Dad, Brother and I continued to eat, shrugging off the stares of onlookers and waiting out your tantrum. I was reminded that people are right. Three is the new Two.

“Take someone who doesn't keep score, who's not looking to be richer, or afraid of losing,
who has not the slightest interest even in his own personality: he's free.”  Rumi
 

I took my time writing this post because I wanted to get it right. Get you right.You are so much more than my simple words though. 

When you are enjoying something you say, "Mmmm, Mommy this chocolate tastes just like chocolate! I WUB chocolate!" At times like these, I look for a jar and wish I had the ability to save that instance for a rainy day. 

Within minutes of arriving anywhere, you know exactly where all lawn mowers and other relevant lawn maintenance equipment is located. You inquire every morning about our real vacuum (which you are terrified of) and discuss daily your toy vacuum and the toy vacuums of people you know ( a topic that after all this time still satisfies you enormously). 

All of this is to say, I love you at three my sweetheart. 

All of you. 

Every single, sticky, feisty, sweet, naughty, quirky and tender part of you. Thank you for filling my days up with such easy joy. Thank you for relieving them of boredom. 

 

Happy, happy birthday!

Love Mom.

 You're also crazy daring.

 

 And non-cooperative

 

Fearless

 And the best cuddler ever.

You were born five years ago

Dear Deaglan,

A few weeks ago your Dad broke out some old video footage of you around your first Christmas – well actually on your first Christmas you were fresh, new and only a day old; I’m talking about that year you were turning one with your shaggy brown hair and those big shining eyes just like your brother’s. 

I’d never seen the video before and it took my breath away.

You were holding an ornament, weaving in and around the Christmas tree singing “REEEEE-COHHHH-LAAAA.” And your Dad and I looked at each other thinking the same thing. “I don’t remember this, do you?” Two feelings shot through me just then. First, a mild sense of shame at how much TV you must have been exposed to in order to be singing a cough drop jingle acapella and also how naive I must be to think I will remember it all. 

So tonight on the eve of your fifth birthday, it seemed right that I record some of the things I want to remember. Things about you this past year that made me stop. Like your reason for wanting to become a policeman when you grow up – “because they can drive all by themselves.”

Or your loyalty which sometimes stirs in me some of the most complicated emotions I’ve ever experienced.  Like last night while your Dad was out getting some last minute stuff for the party tomorrow, you explained to me that even though you loved me, I should understand that you love your Dad just as much. I searched back for a time I might have made you feel you should love me more than Dad but couldn’t find one. I hugged you and accepted the beginnings of an ache.

The ache of watching you grow independent of me.

This year at school you shed your shyness – transferred your big brothering skills to your classmates. On several occasions the parents of the junior kindergartners told me that their little boys claimed you were their best friend. I attributed this to your fierce love and caring for Naveen. After the Christmas concert in your class a few days ago I heard you introduce him to your friends exclaiming proudly “this is my brother Naveen and he can even talk!”

You are wise, loving and often condescending when it comes to your younger brother.

Yesterday I heard you say:

“Nav, listen, when you’re a bit older, I’m going to teach you how to use this stuff,” pointing to your new fireman’s hat, badge, axe and walkie-talkie. You’d just received them at the family Christmas party we’d attended and sharing so soon after taking ownership – well it didn’t strike you as fair. So instead of just flat out refusing to share,  you explained that maybe a few years from now when he was mature enough, you’d give him a quick lesson in how to pretend to be a firefighter. Your intended generosity, the sense that you felt you were being magnanimous shone through and I could only shake my head and smile.

You gave me many parenting opportunities too.

I chose my words carefully when you told me that the new kid in your class was annoying and because of this you and your friends refused to let him play with you. I swallowed my panic and tread lightly. I asked you some questions in an attempt to uncover your empathy.

How would it feel to be the new guy and not have any friends? How is someone new supposed to make friends? Was it nice to not include him? Could his annoying behaviour be his way of trying to be friendly? How would you feel if you were left out?

I struggled because I could think of dozens of people in my adult life I’d steered clear of because of their irritating personalities.

I exhaled relief when I saw that you understood how running from the new kid when all he wanted was to be included was unkind.  I was grateful for this red flag, the chance to put this lesson in the forefront so that from time to time I could ask you about Omar and remind you of the importance of being kind.

You gave me a few scares too; instances I’d rather forget but the lessons of which I hope you remember:

•         Putting a bobby pin into a plugged-in extension cord (just because you wanted to see what would happen) will only get you electrocuted. So please, please don’t do it again!
•        Letting your little brother turn on the ceiling fan while he is on the top bunk – well that’s the reason I didn’t want you playing up there unsupervised in the first place! Luckily his black eye went down before Dad took the Christmas card pictures.
•         Burping in your teacher’s face (even if both you and she insist it was an accident) is rude. And I was beyond embarrassed.

But once again my sweetheart, I see for certain how lucky I am to have you in my life. I know these days are fleeting so I embrace them when I can, write them down here for you to read someday and whisper selfish little prayers of thanks that you still tell me, unwaveringly, that you plan never to leave me, even when you are a grown man.

Happy birthday my big boy. We love you up to the moon and back!

After attending your friend Denver's birthday party last year you were set on the idea of having your party at McDonald's this year. 

After we treated your electrocution burns from your bobby pin experiment, you were dead tired and slept for about 40 minutes mid Christmas party.

Your firefighting gear. 

I hope you always keep us laughing the way you do now.