Letter to a 12 Year Old

 Dear Matthew,

For the life of me, I cannot find a letter for your 11th birthday and here you are turning 12. What happened? How did I fail at life so substantially? My only defense is that we came home from our trip to New York together and almost immediately the entire world fell apart with the Covid-19 pandemic. It's no excuse. But that's all I can come up with. Or Will. Will was A WHOLE HEAPING HELPING OF A LOT LAST WINTER. I was barely surviving all the therapy and all the hitting and screaming that he was throwing my way. Again, no excuse. I apologize with everything in me.

You're 12. And you're a transracially adopted 12 year old. There's a lot of growth and development and adoption processing and understanding happening in these days and moments. The truth is, I didn't see all of this when I held your shrieking newborn body in my arms. I knew it would be a journey but I had no idea. Walking with you down this path of pain and awareness has been an experience I carry with great honor. I say it to you all the time and I will say it here in print: your story is yours. Your life is yours. Love who you choose. Accept what you will. Disregard what you won't. I am here for all your big, huge feelings and I am here for your silence. Decide who belongs to you and who doesn't. The choice is yours. I promise to continue learning, to sit in the uncomfortable, and to broaden my shoulders to hold what they need to. I promise to seek first to understand. I promise to do whatever I need to do in order to be what you need.

But what I need you to hear--someday, when you read this--is that I love you. I love you no more or less than your older brother or your younger brother. I know you are not biologically related to me but neither is your dad and I love him something ridiculous. I know you're not always in a place to receive that. But I won't stop saying it.

There's a line in Dear Theodosia where Hamilton sings...

Oh Philip, when you smile I am undone
My son
Look at my son
Pride is not the word I'm looking for
There is so much more inside me now
Oh Philip, you outshine the morning sun
My son
When you smile, I fall apart
And I thought I was so smart

Those are my thoughts exactly. Except, well, your name isn't Philip. But, Matthew, pride doesn't begin to cover it. There is so much more inside me. There is so much love. And in the depth of your smile I am undone. It's the same smile you've had since you were four months old. It lights up the room. It lights up my heart. And I know that is so mushy and gross but it's completely true. I am ever so thankful that I have that smile in my life.

I can list all the ways you amaze me but it would take too long. You are so smart with your straight As and your advanced math. You are so strong with your self taught flipping and your 200 push ups. You are such an incredible brother. Truly. Oh you know how to push both their buttons and you do--as brothers do--but you are so often kind and caring, patient and self-sacrificing. You are creative, introspective, and always hilarious.

This year has been hard on everyone and you're no exception. I'm sorry for the isolation. Still, we did get to go to Tahoe and San Diego. We had a blast camping at the lake with our best good friends and visiting the family in southern California. We had fun in the creek over the summer and really enjoyed our first full Oregon summer--even if our options were limited. Beach trips and Silver Falls and a million walks helped break up the huge amount of time we spent stuck inside.

With all the isolation, you'd think it would be impossible to sustain injuries. But no. You got a probable concussion--running through the house with wet feet and falling flat on your back, a sprained wrist--before you were proficient at landing flips, and a sliced open foot--because your brother shoved you off a dock and you tried to stay on it. Between you and your brother, we were visiting urgent care constantly and it was OUT OF CONTROL. But I will tell you that as of this letter, it has been 176 days since we have entered the urgent care or the ER. How long can we go? 177 days, probably.

Your laugh is infectious. Your brain, a wealth of knowledge. And your body, way taller than your older brother's was at the same age. I predict that you'll tower over him in two years time. But we'll see. Watching you grow and develop into the amazing preteen that you are is one of my greatest joys. I pray peace upon your heart as you continue to change into the person you will become.

I love you.
I love you.
I love you.

Mom

Letter to Four-Year-Old Will

Dear Four-Year-Old,

I'm sorry I'm writing this a month late, as though I forgot it was your birthday. It's true that, half the time, when I have to tell someone your birthday I get I tongue tied and mix up the date with your dad's or shout out the wrong year but I absolutely do know when it is. It's just that I didn't write because your grandparents were here and then Garrett's appendix exploded and he spent five nights in the hospital and then baseball finally started up and life happened and I kept needing to sit down and write and suddenly it was a month later.

Third child. I'm sorry.

Although, in actuality, if you had the energy of a regular child and not the intense energy of a blazing supernova, I might have more time. The truth is, I almost never write anymore and my reading pile continues to grow. I have good intentions to read and write. There's just little follow through.

I don't even know where to begin with this year. A year ago, we had just found out we were picking up our whole entire lives and hauling them over the river and through the woods to Dallas, Oregon. You still ask when you can go back and see your old house on Sunflower. Even though the street we lived on was called Starflower. It breaks my heart. I can also see you holding on to vague memories of people the way I try to reach for the contents of a dream as I'm waking up. I grasp but it slips through my fingers like spider webs. You will recall a memory and give me great details, but you rarely remember names anymore. It breaks my heart to realize that, in time, most of Utah won't even be a memory for you.

You've got such a smart brain. You can learn things so quickly when you take a deep breath and concentrate on the task at hand. Covid-19 hit in March and preschool was canceled so I home schooled you. You learned all of your letters and their sounds in record speed. I'm so proud of you for starting to learn sight words now. You're working on numbers, days of the week, months of the year, seasons and so much more. When we do shapes, you can even name the rhombus, the pentagon and the hexagonal prism.

It's been such a weird year with the move and starting preschool and Covid hitting and shutting down your world for months and months. Finally, FINALLY, you had your first t-ball practice. I assume you're the youngest on the team and, of course, you're crushing the ball. It was evident tonight, however, that we need to work on base running. You would just take off and sprint in whatever direction you saw fit. I'm not surprised that you were making great contact because, at your own home, you can hit a pitch over the fence--and do. We've had to retrieve many a ball from a neighbor's yard.

We play together every day and it is so fun to watch your creative mind at work. Playdoh, the doctor kit, Lincoln Logs, the magnet board, the drill set, play food, and Legos are some of the favorites when we have our special play time together. Speaking of Legos, you will sit and build them for very long stretches. I am so thankful for Legos. My feet and my compulsion to have a decluttered home are not actually in love with Legos, however. I'm also thankful for Disney+ which has provided many distractions during these strange times of isolation.

You love fruit and we joke that we cannot buy grapes or berries of any kind because you will walk by all day, taking them by the gobs. I guess if you're going to be a little pig, at least you're a healthy little pig. You're certainly growing! You are now in the 82nd percentile for height and the 67th for weight. Standing at 42 inches tall, you are now able to ride every single thing at Disneyland except for the roller coaster and Indiana Jones and some other ride that no one cares about. I think it might be the swings. Naturally, now, all I want to do is take you to Disneyland. But I can't. Because Disneyland is closed. Stupid world pandemic.

Maybe next year.

This year, you told me that you wanted Jesus to be in your heart so that you could go up to Heaven some day. So we prayed. Your little voice committing, as much as a tiny kid can, to follow Jesus was the sweetest thing. I know it's a tiny child's faith and it will need cultivating and watering and teaching so that it can grow, but it's a start--the most important of starts.

I love you so much. I hope that in it all and through it all, when you look back, you can see that love measured in support and marked in ten minute increments, first/thens, and, "Great job, Wills!" I hope you can one day see my dedication to the shaping and forming of you. You are the embodiment of my answered prayer as you run around with underwear on your head.

All my love, always,
Mom

Thirteen

To My Teenager,

I didn't envision this day when they put your wet, squirmy body in my arms all those years ago. You can't, really. You see this helpless little lump of adorable depravity and you instantly know that you'll do anything for this kid, but you can't imagine it becoming a teenager. That seems so far down the road. There are too many sleepless nights and tantrums and spilled milk and spelling tests before thirteen. And still, here we are.

Listen. You've basically been a dream to raise. I have very few complaints. But if you don't stop talking back to me and rolling your eyes, that's all going to change. Let's get one thing clear. I am not the absolute dumbest person on the planet, even if your internal monologue says otherwise. Let's just keep you on the straight and narrow. Stay the course. Be amazing. Even if we are trading wards on every corner for cannabis dispensaries.

Speaking of the move, you impress me so much with your adventurous, go with the flow outlook on life. You don't want to leave your best friend and of course I get that. I don't want to leave mine either. But you're excited to meet new friends, do new things, and settle in to life in Dallas, Oregon. Once we told you there was a creek running through town, you were sold. I hope that you'll do big things in Dallas, Buddy and I'm excited to watch you become the man you were born to be.

I love watching you play ball. Baseball has become a top love for you and you've improved so much this year. You played all fall and spring and then you made the All-Star team and it was such a joy to see you getting hits and making plays. In the spring regular season, you were the lead off batter and had an on base percentage of something ridiculous like .750. And, listen, we were so proud of you. But we were proud of you before you ever stepped up to the plate because you are kind. You are a team player. You are coachable. I would choose those qualities over an ability to play any day of the week.

You also got to play the lead role in your school Shakespeare play. Watching you in A Comedy of Errors was like a dream come true for me. (Not because of the choice of the show--not my favorite in the Shakespeare canon--but watching my kid up there doing my thing was incredible.) Even if you hate Times Square and would rather spend all your time in Central Park catching turtles, at least you saw the role you wanted and went out and got it. And, at least you didn't hate all of New York City when we went last August. At least you liked pretty much everything except Times Square.

Your leadership skills once again earned you a spot with student council, you finished the 40 book challenge, and you brought home amazing report cards. I couldn't be more proud of the way you shine at school and I am hoping for big things for you at Lacreole Middle School. I know you can take that Enneagram 7 personality and be amazing. And, listen, I know you aren't supposed to label kids but if you aren't a 7, I don't know what is.

No matter what you become, no matter who you become, I love you. I pray that you always walk with Jesus, that you always love big and share generously, that you remember that in all things you are performing for an audience of One. Not me. Not your dad. The One, true King. Do all things for Jesus and you will be right where you are supposed to be.

Thank you for basically being a breeze for these first 13 years. We can totally do this teenage thing. I promise we can. Before we know it you'll have a driver's license and then you'll go to college and then you'll get married and have kids (IN THAT ORDER) and then I will be really, really old. But, for now, let's just put one foot in front of the other and get moved already.

All my love,
Mama

P.S. You still occasionally call me Mama. Confession: I love it so much.

To Will, on Your Third Birthday

Hey Kid,

You're 3. I just went back and read through the "Hey Kid" series because, while it isn't exactly a story I could forget, life gets moving and it becomes increasingly more difficult to remember to reflect on the incredible way God brought you to us. I suppose that this blog is a bit like the stones of remembrance piled up by Joshua. When you ask me in times to come what these "stones" mean, I will let you know that my journey to you is like the drying up of the waters of the Jordan. I will tell you that our being together is as though we crossed that river on dry ground. I will remember and I will tell all the people of the earth that the hand of the LORD is mighty. (From Joshua 4:21-24)

You are incredible. A series of contradictions running around in the most coordinated of toddler bodies. You are sweet and spicy, kind and ever so naughty, rarely calm but somehow calming, tender but tough. You are part of Newton's first law existing in human form. A body in motion will remain in motion...

Pretty much.

And a body that is scared at night will climb into its mother's arms and wrap limb around limb like entwined octopuses. A body that used to sleep perfectly through the night will suddenly have terrors and all bets are off and the parents are tired. A body that doesn't want to will basically refuse to potty train even though that same body is absolutely capable of doing it and even though the aforementioned parents want to be done buying diapers and also would like to stop scraping poop out of tiny underwear. A body in motion will remind its parents that being a toddler is sometimes rough but it is also, perhaps, the most hysterical, adorable time in a person's whole life.

You were so excited about your birthday this year. Whenever anyone asked you what you wanted, you only ever replied, "A cake party and a gift card." Naturally, we had to buy a giant Costco cake because it was really a go big or go home kind of request. You wanted a baseball cake--because you're obsessed--and you joined in with the chorus of friends singing yourself Happy Birthday. We invited our Community Life Group and a few others to celebrate with you and you were positively darling. Your eyes were lit up like chocolate sparkles. One of your friends walked in with a balloon and you so nicely told her, "I love your balloon!" before being made aware that it was for you. Your first gift card came to the party and you were so happy to receive it. What a funny little guy you are.

What you lack in potty training ability, you make up for in your command of the entire English language. I know everyone else will catch up and the fact that you talked early and impressively will not be such a big deal. But for now, you know ALL THE WORDS. (Or, at least, a whole lot of them.) I basically think you're brilliant but I may be entirely biased.

You are the most coordinated just three-year-old that I have ever, ever seen. You can smack a ball off a tee and, if accurately pitched, you can hit one in midair. You can balance on your bike and zoom around the backyard on your brand new birthday scooter. (Thanks, Grandma and Grandpa!) Your climbing skills astound and you can catch a football from across the room. So, I mean, really, what can't you do? TELL US WHEN YOU HAVE TO GO POOP AND THEN DO IT ON THE POTTY, THAT'S WHAT!

(I hope you are reading this as, I don't know, a fully functional adult who is toilet trained. I really hope that because if you're twenty and I still have to reward you with an M&M for using the potty instead of a Pull-Up we've got a lot of big issues.)

One day, not long ago, I was upset about a thing. I was upset and then I drove our van right over a bird who didn't get out of the way. By the time I realized he wasn't going to move, it was too late. The tire thudded right over that unsuspecting fowl and I burst into tears. From the backseat, your little voice came, soothing and gentle, "Mommy, don't cry. It was an accident. It's OK. Mommy, I will take good care of you." Then you softly sang Jesus Loves Me. When you completed the song, you whispered, "It's OK. I'm right here." My darling boy, you have listened. You have heard me as I rub your back and tell you that I am here.

I love you so much. You make me laugh every single day. You are a joy gift from the real Joy Giver. I lose myself in your gorgeous eyes and endless curls (except right now you've got a summer shorter cut but they'll grow back). I am so proud of you and so very blessed to be able to call myself your mom.

Always, No Matter What,
Mommy

Ten Years Old

Dear Matthew,

I hope you see this as a "Mom's been really busy with teaching and studying and chasing Will and I'm glad it was late instead of not at all" and not a, "Wow, guess she can't even remember when my birthday is" letter. I DO know when your birthday is. I bought cupcakes for school and we had a party and you had presents and everything. Remember? It happened. Six entire days ago BUT IT ALL HAPPENED.

Happy Birthday! You are, somehow, ten years old now. I guess an entire decade has gone by but I hardly comprehend how.

This past year was a pretty big one for you. You saw your birth parents and all your siblings this year. You hadn't seen your mom since you were just over a year old and you hadn't seen your dad since right after you turned two. I'm sure I've put it in writing somewhere before but I'll leave it here for you also. Our goal has always been to try to discern what is best for you right now AND what is best for you once you're an adult who very well may want to have all your parents and all your siblings in your life on a consistent basis. So we hope and pray that we're doing right by you now and we also hope that translates into healthy adult relationships with all of us. And so, of course we flew to Texas to attend your sister's graduation last June. And of course we welcomed your dad when he came to visit in November. It was a big year with big feelings and I hope you know how very much we all love you, how much we all loved you from the minute you came into our lives, and how much we will all love you forever.

You are so uniquely you. You're smart and hilarious and stunningly handsome. You just pulled straight A's except for a pesky little B in keyboarding. You got straight E's too. Well done, you. You love science and are so looking forward to 5th grade because you'll get to do a science experiment! (To anyone else who might read this, my son is a crazy person who hasn't yet realized that the science fair is the bane of all existence. BUT HOORAY FOR ENCOURAGING EXCITEMENT IN STEM MINDED KIDS!) Hey, Matt...you're STEM brained. I don't know what to do with that. We might need to hire a Standby Mom that we bring in to perform the role of Science and Math Mom.

"In tonight's performance, STEM Mom will be playing the part of Actual Mom."

Speaking of standbys, I DO know what to do with your love of acting and theatre and that is to FOSTER THE HECK OUT OF THAT PASSION. No, you can't have the agent you've been asking for since forever ago but you CAN come with me to see Wicked and I will for sure take you to the stage door to get pictures and autographs and I will direct you in church Christmas plays and I'll keep putting money in that NYC Trip Fund we started. I'm not sure about the Hamilton tickets you requested but time will tell.

Sports. I don't know, man. You keep trying new things, looking for your niche. This fall you tried taekwondo and you were doing really well. You loved it at first and then that kind of fizzled. You played a quick season of basketball and really seemed to enjoy it. Now you're signed back up for baseball. Here's to hoping you find something you really, truly love some day.

You continue to be a man of a few close friends. You're still quiet and reserved until you really get to know someone and then you turn into a total goofball. You love your alone time but you love being cozied up to the family for a movie night. You are complex in ways I am not and simple in ways I am not. You are introspective and brilliant. You adore Garrett--when you're not busy trying to fist fight him--and you're great with Will, who you love so deeply but who you also struggle to tolerate in all his two-ness.

I really can't believe you came shrieking into our lives an entire ten years ago. The only one to scream and scream and scream and refuse to be consoled and yet, the quietest one of the trio now. I had no idea what kind of adventure you were about to take us on. But I'm so thankful you landed here, in my arms. I cannot imagine life without you. Happy double digits dude.

Love,
Mom

To My Son Who Is Somehow Twelve

Dear Boy,

We're two thirds of the way to eighteen. I can pretty clearly remember when you turned six and I realized that you were one third of the way to eighteen and I momentarily freaked out a little. Maybe it's because I have your tornado toddler of a brother now and in some ways it feels like I'll be actively parenting for the rest of my life, but I'm not lamenting this twelve quite like I lamented six. Perhaps I've just given up on trying to keep you little. Or, perhaps, I'm looking forward, in some warped and demented way, to watching you become a man.

The eye rolling, looking at me like I'm a complete moron, phase of our relationship has begun. I don't love that, not gonna lie. However, I know a lot of preteen boys and, I'm not kidding when I say that I wouldn't trade you for a single one of them. Oh some of them are great, to be sure. It's just that none of them are you.

There are more athletic boys in the world. There are smarter ones and more talented ones. I don't say that to be mean. I say it because you have enough ego strength to handle it. You always have. You may not be the best baseball player and you may not set the curve on the math test but you are incredibly well rounded. And you are respectful and kind. This summer, in particular, I have had several people tell me what an amazing kid you are. People who meet you for an hour or hang out with you for half a day and then send me glowing messages about your maturity and your manners.

I recently received a compliment on my parenting (BY THE GRACE OF GOD ALONE, KID). I was told that we are doing a great job--that we are stricter than most but that's okay. I suppose, as I look around me, that that's true. I'm sure you don't enjoy being the kid who has the "stricter than most" parents. I hope, though, that some day, you look back on your life and appreciate the rules and the boundaries. I hope you are grateful that we do not allow disrespect or entitlement. I hope that you can find peace and joy in the fact that we ask you to try to live like Jesus did and that we try (and oh how we fail) to show that to you by example. And I hope that, under all that weight of strict parenting, you know that I see you.

When we were recently in the Redwoods, I was speaking to a volunteer ranger. It was hard to keep you and your brothers quiet. Will, because he's a maniac. You and Matt because your voices and your countenance were alive with the mystery and majesty of those giants. For dad and me, we feel silenced by the awe of those woody sentinels. But for you, there was adventure in every moment. I apologized to the ranger. "We're trying to keep them quiet--" I couldn't finish my sentence. He interrupted me.

"Why?" he interjected. "They can be quiet when they're old!"

His statement rocked this boymom. I try to let you live, to watch you climb trees because they are God's gift to boys, to allow you to be loud and assertive, to be rogue in this society of screens and quiet whispers. But I still find myself apologizing for my boisterous boys. No more. God gave me larger than life, noisy boys--and He started by giving me you. And you, my dearest one, can be quiet and contained when you are old. (Except when your teacher is talking. Please also be quiet when your teacher is talking.)

You have made me so proud. This year alone, as I sat in our end of the year assembly and heard your beautiful name so many times. Making it to Regionals in the science fair--you just kept doing extra work to make it ready for the next level. You and your dad sat and sat and worked and worked and fixed and fixed that project until you took it as far as you could and got second place at the highest level. You finished the 40 book challenge. You participated in Monster Math. You took second place in the geography bee, losing only to a sixth grader.

Beyond your academic accolades, your teacher told me, on so many occasions in the faculty room, what an amazing friend you had been to someone that day. You served on student council after having to interview for the position. Outside of the classroom, you had an incredible batting average on the baseball field and worked so hard on the football field. You earned your Tenderfoot rank in scouts and are well on your way to Second Class. You participated in Kids Club and always memorized all your verses and completed all your homework.

You love the outdoors and want to be in the military. A free spirit at heart. A boy who loves travel and adventure and discovery. Your eyes--still the most unique color I have ever, ever seen--are deep and wise even if you are telling dorky twelve year old boy jokes most of the time.

We're going to New York. You and me and Grandma. I promised you a trip at the end of sixth grade if you were respectful and kind and didn't turn into a raging preteen jerk. But then we sold puppies and had the money now. And so we're New York bound for this twelfth birthday of yours. We'll kick off your last year of elementary school and celebrate your eclectic self. You are excited to see the Statue of Liberty and your history loving side can't wait to go to Ellis Island and visit Hamilton's grave. But you're also excited to go to a Broadway show and wander Central Park. I'm so excited to spend a few days with just my one oldest son--making memories and seeing one of my most favorite cities through your eyes.

I love you. Don't get me wrong, there are days when I'd pay gypsies to take you, but they are not the norm. The reality is that I wouldn't trade you for all the money in the world. You are such a very, very good egg. I love you. And if you ever, ever doubt that, I hope you will read these words and know that you were worth the wait. You were worth the tears and the fears and every moment that it took to finally hold you in my arms. I am so thankful that you made me a mama.

Always, all of my love,
Mom

On Your Second Birthday

Dear Will,

I don't know why I find it surprising that time flies when you're raising kids. Your brother is already nearly two thirds of the way to 18 so the fact that you are two should come as no earthly surprise. But it kind of still feels like that moment when the very first picture I'd ever seen of you came flashing onto my cell phone screen.

My goodness, I was instantly in love. I am and will always be so thankful that your mom chose us--out of all the families--to be yours. You are perpetual motion and everlasting energy. You're busy. You're crazy. You're a handful and a half. But in all the chasing and wrangling and "no" yelling and time outing, you bounce through life--this little extroverted, outgoing, friendly ball of joy. Your smile and giggle are infectious. Your hugs, tender and heartfelt. Your curls, perfect. I love every inch of you so very much.

You are so tiny but intensely mighty. There really isn't an ounce of fat on your skinny-highest-metabolism-ever body. Yet, there is a fierceness to the way you live your live. On fire with an energy that cannot be contained.

You talk SO MUCH BETTER than either of your brothers did at two. I just didn't even know boys could be this verbal this early. I know that's a gross generalization and stereotype but honestly. I just didn't know a not-even-two-year-old could look at me and say, "Mommy, my mouf* hurt." Like. What? How are you basically fully communicating with me at two?

I exaggerate. I can actually only understand about a third of what you say. But, as soon as those other two thirds become clear, you'll have full command of the English language. It's adorable. Your little voice is, quite simply, the world's cutest thing.

Baseball. My goodness, kid. You're obsessed. You spend all of your brothers' games trying to steal equipment so that you can swing bats, wear batting helmets, throw balls, and wear gloves. You LOVE to run the bases which basically means that you swing the bat, drop the bat, and run a series of quick circles wherever you're standing. You will straight up sit on the couch and watch A GOOD AMOUNT of a baseball game which is astounding given your short attention span and the fact that, only very recently did you start to watch any television at all.

Really. As for movies, there's no way you'll sit still long enough to watch an entire movie. I think we got through the first five minutes of Cars before you abandoned it. Ever so thankfully (to my own sanity and because I'm never in the running for mama of the year) you have finally started watching Daniel Tiger, Peppa Pig, and Paw Patrol. 

You sleep SO well. I recently took away your beloved pacifier, telling you that they're for babies and you're a big boy. You cried for all of fifteen minutes total and that was that. Bye bye, Paci. Even without it, you sleep from about 7:30-7:00 and you nap for 2-3 hours. I don't know why I complain about your ability to climb the walls during your waking hours. I'd climb them too if I was sleeping roughly 14 hours out of every day. But boy howdy kiddo do I ever need those 14 hours because you are actually like a pinball when you're awake--darting from here to there and everywhere.

I love you so much. I love the laughter and joy you bring to our family with your excited spirit. I love how you say hi to everyone and wave to everyone and believe that everyone is your very best friend. You are so incredibly amazing. I thank God for you. I thank Him for showing me that, "Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning." Thank you for being YOU. Crazy, amazing, wonderful, you.

Love,

Mom

*Mouth.

Dear Matt,

You're halfway to 18 which is wackadoodle crazy, if you ask me. I cannot understand how you have suddenly turned into a 9 year old 3rd grader because I am sure that you were just born yesterday. And listen, kid, if you're reading this one day and you want to know what you were like, get a copy of the old television show This is Us. Watch Randall. All that wanting to be perfect. All that anxiety about not being perfect. All that thinking that anything less than perfect is failure. All the ways he loved his mama and his family. His struggles and his victories.

YOU.

Every week, we watch that show and it's like watching what we imagine you'll be like in 7 years or 28 years. And son, I hope you can shake all the needing to be perfect because that's all in your own head. But if you grow up and love your wife and your kids and your mother the way a fictional character loves those people in his life, well, I think you'll do okay.

Right now, you flip and flop and back handspring and walk on your hands ALL THE TIME. If you could practice gymnastics in our living room 24/7, you would. Of course, you also want to do karate, play baseball, play football, and wrestle. You are super strong and your chiseled body is basically ridiculous. Especially because you're NINE. You love to rock climb and can scurry up the wall like a buff little spider monkey.

You're a great speller and you love science. You would make potions and do experiments all day long (except for the times you were busy flipping and flopping about the house) if we'd let you. Reading is NOT your favorite thing to do but you are happy to read books about science and we have found a few others that'll hold your attention. You say that you want to be an actor and, when you come out of your shell for long enough, you are straight up hilarious.

You have the tenderest of souls, never wanting to choose something if your choice might hurt someone's feelings, never wanting to do anything to upset either of your brothers, always wanting to take care of people, often sacrificing your own opinion for what others might think. You've always been a hot and cold kind of kid. From the moment you were born, we've always said that your personality was like looking at a heart monitor. Up, down, up, down, up, down. You have big highs and big lows. The white folk you live with are a mostly German bunch and we're baseline steady--for the most part. You add emotion and flare to our relatively calm bunch. If you can harness all that passion for good, you'll move mountains.

I love you, man. I love your silly sense of humor and your tender side. I love how you love your family--both the one you live with and the one you came from--and want all of us to be happy. I love how you love Jesus. I love the way you self-sacrifice for your siblings. You are one of my most favorite people on the planet.

Grow and live and thrive and don't worry quite so much about being perfect. We love you just the way you are.

Love,
Mom

18

Dear Boy,

I'm sorry that in honor of your one and a half years on planet Earth, you have managed to catch the creeping crud that has your dad and me both on amoxicillin. Me for a cold turned sinus infection and him for a cold turned ear infection like a common four-year-old. Here's to hoping your snot stays in your nose and doesn't venture to other places in your head. Meanwhile, I'm sorry for sticking that green bulb up there and sucking your brains snot out.

Today, when I picked you up from the nursery, the worker commented, "He's exhausting." It's not the first (or fiftieth) time I've heard this from someone. A little old lady who spent approximately five minutes observing you at a party recently expressed the same sentiment before asking, "Is he always THAT busy?" It was almost as though she thought she was making a never before expressed revelation.Yes. I am aware that you never stop moving. I live with it all day, every day.

You are busy. And you are some kind of mechanical baby genius who loves taking things apart to see how they work. It's not that you can't entertain yourself because you most certainly can. It's that your idea of entertaining yourself is to remove every DVD from the cabinet in record speed. No, no, Will. Or climb on the coffee table so you can flip the light on and off and back on again. No, no, Will. Or grab fistfuls of kitty litter and throw it all over the house. No, no, Will. Or climb on the chair and then the kitchen table to quickly destroy my centerpiece. No, no, Will. Yes, you can self entertain but it almost always involves a moderate to serious level of destruction.

It's a good thing you're cute!



And you are very, very cute. You've recently entered that very brief phase where someone crying (or fake crying) will cause you to run to them immediately. You hug. You gently rub their back. You cuddle. It's adorable. You've also started to make a smack sound when you give kisses. And, to further build my case for how cute you are, you also wave to everyone you pass, alternating hands and acting only half interested. Much like a celebrity in a parade. Your smile lights up whatever room you're in and sometimes I feel sorry for the other babies because your fun personality is as big as that smile. Which is to say that you have a larger than life personality. It might not be fair to all the other babies that you got the looks and the charms.

You don't say much yet but you're still well on your way to being a full fledged talker much sooner than your brothers. You can say, mama, dada, Garrett, Matt-Matt, dog, kitty, Tessie, tree, thank you, shoe, sock, food, fish, nana, and side (outside). There might be more but those are the ones I can think of off the top of my head.



Speaking of outside, there is no where you'd rather be. The tub is a close second. Evenings are still a bit of a witching hour for you, but if we take you outside or stick you in the bath, you are a happy dude. You also love to play with your brothers, throw balls, and dance. You adore Tessie. You're obsessed with microphones but only if they're turned on and capable of amplifying your voice. And right now, you're pretty impressed with the large tree that is set up in our house.

You are still so tiny but so mighty. And, in all honesty, I'm so thankful that you wiggle and move and are so smart and coordinated. If you can harness your incredibly strong will for good, you'll do great things. But first, you'll need to stop throwing food at every, single meal.

You are my very most favorite small person. I love you so much. I'm so grateful that you're here with me.

-Mama

Eleven

Dear Eleven,

Once upon a time, there was a baby. He was thin, long of limb, with a large brain or, at the very least, a big skull. As he grew up, he maintained his slight appearance, with the exception of a time during toddlerhood where he resembled an Easter ham--chubby, warm, and sufficiently succulent. One day, quite suddenly, he was eleven. His mother realized, with a bit of a surprised jolt, that he was somehow closer to turning 20 than he was to that day she first held his squishy body in her arms. If there was such a thing as late onset postpartum depression, she would certainly be presenting all symptoms. For it had come to pass in those days that her baby boy had grown up right before her eyes and she had somehow failed to see it until, perhaps, that very moment. Or she had seen it every day but faithfully perfected the art of denial. 

Garrett, you are, somehow, all grown up. And, oh, I know that isn't exactly true. I know that you have to grow facial hair still and eat me out of house and home and grow taller than me. I know there are still countless report cards to bring home and proms to go to. I know that I still have time. But you have become your own person and sometimes, I still want you to be that little boy who made me fast forward through the part of Finding Nemo where the mama dies, that little boy who made me sing him to sleep for years, that kid who kicked the preschool director in the gut because there was simply no way he was going to stay there for one second without his mom.

But mostly, MOSTLY, I really love this version of you. You are a joy and a delight to me. Son, in my days as a substitute teacher, I have met A LOT of kids. Some of them are wonderful, to be sure. But when I see you walking through the halls or laughing with your friends at lunch, my heart swells with pride. I am SO GLAD that you are mine. And occasionally, as misguided and arrogant as this is, I feel sorry for everyone else in the world because they aren't lucky enough to call you their own. Then you'll tell some horrendously corny joke, thinking yourself to be hilarious, and I'll close my eyes, shake my head back and forth, and praise God for humbling me.

You are bold and brave. So much bolder and so much braver than I am. You're smart and athletic. You take direction and criticism but don't let either soak in and change your core. This past year, you participated in a geography bee and were the only fourth grader to advance into the second round. Sitting at that table, with all the bigger kids, you looked small and nervous but somehow confident and sure. You're gaining skills and speed on the soccer and baseball fields, and in a quick minute you'll be trying your hand at football. We tried to convince you that you're too small, that you'll get smashed--possibly beyond repair--but you won't have any of it. Of course, we have friends who look at us like we're psychotic parents for even thinking about letting you play but, Son, parenting is nothing but a fine line between letting your kids live and keeping them alive. I don't want you to look back on your childhood and say, "All I ever wanted to do was play tackle football and you wouldn't let me."

You're already going to blame us for the fact that you'll never reach your full potential as a rugby player. Because that's what you really want to do. And fencing. But the closest fencing place (studio? field?) is in Park City and that just seems treacherous in the winter and rugby is like football without rules. I'm apprehensive enough about football WITH rules. But you look stinkin' adorable in the shoulder pads so I'm embracing it. I know, I know, you aren't "going for" adorable. You're going for menacing but have you seen yourself? You're nothing but lanky limbs and a cute smile.

You love Jesus and that is a source of abundant joy to me. I hope and pray that you keep that fire as you get older. This isn't the easiest place for a pastor's kid who passionately loves the authentic Jesus of the Bible to grow up but you've made the best of it for the past decade. I'm so proud of your unwavering dedication to learning about the one true God.

I continue to believe that you were born in the wrong decade. You're such a free spirit, like Huckleberry Finn without the abusive father, and seem to have been born to wander. But, as Tolkien reminds us in The Lord of the Rings (look at ME quoting LOTR!), "Not all those who wander are lost." You long to fish, hunt, camp, and live a life connected to the land, to the elements, to the wide open countryside or mountain top. Your soul longs for the next journey and almost everything is an adventure in those twinkling green eyes and welcoming grin. I fear and rejoice in the fact that you cannot be contained.

Use your wanderlust for good, my boy. Be respectful, always. Love others, always. Show the light of Jesus to an unbelieving world, always. And when they hit you hard in football, hop back up again because your mama can't handle waiting to find out if you're gonna live.

I love you.

-Mom

8 Months

Dear Will,

This is not my first parenting rodeo. I've done it before. In fact, I've been doing it for ten and a half years. So you'd think I'd understand and accept the whole growing-up-at-the-speed-of-light thing. But no. I still scratch my head and wonder how IN THE WORLD you are already 8 months old.

It seemed like an excellent idea to purchase blocks when you were itty bitty teeny tiny. Blocks that I would strategically place near you once a month with the number corresponding to your age. This was a beautiful plan. Until it wasn't. Somehow, I forgot that you would start moving and want NOTHING more than to destroy those nicely placed blocks. So, what should take 5 minutes takes 45. And instead of 13 adorable pictures to choose from, I get 1,042 that look like this...

This month you learned how to get from your back to a seated position. This allows you to pull everything out of your bookcase. Which is awesome.

You started crawling.

Sort of.

Your arms do what they're supposed to but your legs are very confused. One leg walks in a weird sort of frog hop while the other one kinda drags behind. But, you get where you want to go so I guess that's all that matters.

You still have no teeth but that doesn't stop you from eating just about everything. Last night, it was scallops, clams, shrimp, crab, and lobster at Red Lobster (courtesy of a gift card. You should learn now that our family does not eat at Red Lobster without a gift card. Our money doesn't buy lobster. Our money buys imitation crab. In plastic wrap. At The Walmart.)

You eat what we eat only cut smaller. This is evident every time we try to feed you baby food and you spit it wildly at the person on the other end of the spoon. It is NOT charming. We tell you no nicely the first 17 times and then our NO! turns harsh and you cry.

You love your brothers and your dog and your DADA! We don't think you actually understand that you're calling for him but it's only a matter of time. You also imitate, "All done." Just recently, you've added the "B" sound to your repertoire of noises. 

Today, we left you with a babysitter for a few hours and she declared that you were standing up at the couch. "Did you stand him up? Or did he pull himself up?" I asked nonchalant like because I was unaware that you were doing that.

"He pulled himself up."

Well. Okay then. You do that now, too.

I'm not surprised. You'd almost done it several times this morning. I just wasn't aware you were going to master every single thing in the span of a week.

I mentioned the dog before. Now that you can move, the two of you are becoming fast friends. She continues to think that you are a viable option for ball throwing and continues to forget that you steal her ball and keep it for yourself. Today, you were on all fours staring at her and she was on all fours staring at you. She is a very vocal dog and she "growled" (which is really a very noisy groan) and wagged her tail frantically. You grunted in return. This went on for a solid minute. Her groaning, you grunting. Back and forth. Then she smeared your face with a fantastic lick and walked away.

This past month you and I flew to California for a long weekend. You were as magnetic on the plane as you are everywhere else we go. A dozen people--from two rows in front of us to the row behind us--were all busy trying to be the one to make you smile. You were giving them liberally and, Will, your smile is just the absolute best. The Lord has blessed you with joy and it radiates out of you like sunbeams.

I could not have told anyone, three years ago, that what I needed was a third son. But here you are, being one of the very best things that has ever happened to me. I'm sad that you're getting so big so fast, but whenever I feel your little heart beating, or listen to the sound of your breath, I am so happy that you are living and growing and thriving.

Thank you for being you and for being here, in my home and in my heart. You are larger than life and I can't wait to see what God does through you. But take your time, Baby. You don't have to grow up quite so fast.

I love you big.

Love,
Mom

My Phoenix

Hey Kid,

Somehow, some way, you're already three months old. A quarter of a year old. The fact that children grow up at the speed of light continues to astound me. The science of it remains a mystery to me. I meant to write you a letter every month but, life. Also, it's totally your fault because you all but refuse to sleep if your arms aren't strapped down. We really need to wean you off of being swaddled but you are completely uninterested in that business. So at night we swaddle you and during the day I hold you, rock you, put you in your crib, try to get a nap out of you and rejoice if you sleep unswaddled for more than ten minutes in a place that is not my arms. I just took a shower, made your brother lunch, and sat down to write. I knew I was operating on borrowed time and, sure enough, about three sentences ago you started crying. I'll leave you in there for a few minutes, hoping that you'll fall back to sleep. Your screaming will escalate and it'll all be over. So, I get nothing done, including letters to you. But that's okay because you are totally worth every pile of clothes unwashed, every speck of dust that lies in wait, every dinner thrown together at the last second.

It's louder now, that cry that only rings out when you're tired or hungry or want to be held. The one that will stop the moment I enter your room. It'll be instant, the switch from scream to smile. Because you are always happy to see me.

I'm pecking out the words with one hand now while you snore on my chest. You've got the neck of my shirt in a vice grip, as if to say, "Don't ever put me down, Mama. Oh the things I've seen in my crib. Dreadful things!"

Kid, ANY time that you happily kick next to us on the bed, sit in your swing, or chill in your bouncer is considered a major success because, generally, your opinion is that there are four able bodied individuals around here who should be more than willing to hold you AT ALL TIMES. Except you will sleep at night so thank you for that. Swaddled up tight, you'll gladly sleep for 8-10 hours. That particular feat happened consistently at 11 weeks.You weighed between 10 and 11 lbs. Your brothers consistently slept through at 8 and 9 weeks but they were also between 10 and 11 lbs. So my new theory is this: Back slowly off the night time feedings and then wait until the kid beefs up enough to live off his fat reserves.

                                                

You have fat reserves now! They appear in the form of two plump leg rolls and a pair of chipmunk cheeks. When I saw your teeny little body for the first time, I wasn't entirely sure that rolls were achievable. But then I stuffed you full of breast milk and just look at you now. Speaking of that, we've had a steady supply and I couldn't be more thankful. I feed you about half milk and half formula and it works well (as is evidenced by the aforementioned fat reserves).

Your smile, your curls, and your eyes SLAY me. It's like a trifecta of adorable traits that come together and form some kind of Mama Kryptonite. I'd sooner shrivel up and die than choose a favorite. You're just really stinkin' cute and I'm not even being arrogant when I say that because I had nothing to do with it. I mean it. Well done, to your parents.

You currently enjoy sucking on your fists, taking baths, and snuggling. You are, I believe, just moments away from laughing. You have been letting out a strange sort of guttural chortle which then surprises you so much that you start to cry. If we could just get you to realize that mirth is joyful and hilarious and not at all scary, I'm certain you'd be well on your way to constant laughter.

                                     

In your first few months you have flown on an airplane three times, been to the beach and the bay and the San Diego Zoo, gone swimming in pools, been passed around to more people than I could begin to count, and brought so much happiness into our home.

Sometimes, I get caught up in sports and diapers and church and school and homework and all the living and I'm just like, "I have a baby." And then sometimes, in the quietness of our time together--just me and you--I really think about it. I mean, you are this huge miracle, this fantastic work of God that landed himself right in my arms, this person that I didn't even know I needed. God is using you to heal a part of me, to turn to scar what was gaping and sore. It is as though the Great Physician has stitched you through the broken places. And when all is said and done, there will be a reminder of the sorrow--always--but woven through it all is the healing joy of you. Sometimes, tears spring to my eyes when you grin at the world because I simply could not have dreamed up the beautiful phoenix that would rise from the ashes.

I love you so much more than you can know or imagine.

-Mama

A Decade Old

Son One,

I can vividly remember splashing around in the spa one night after swim practice. I was 9. My friend was about to turn 10 and that seemed so old to me. Double digits. I remember thinking that once I was double digits, I'd never be anything else. Even then, I didn't have the highest of hopes that I'd live to see 100. I couldn't wait to be 10. It seemed so monumental. Somehow, I'm now speeding toward 35 and I have a son who is bidding farewell to those single digits. I think I'd have a panic attack if I didn't also have a six week old. But then, I think about the fact that when he is 10, you'll be in college.

My goodness, life goes fast.

I love you so much. I love the boy you are and the man you are becoming. You're a gentleman, a sweetheart, and a daredevil. You're funny and kind and polite. You love God, your family, sports, scouting, and the idea of traveling to far away places.

This year you played flag football, baseball, and ran track. You had a blast doing them all but you really got into baseball. It was your first year without the pitching machine so there was a huge learning curve. You improved and really enjoyed playing second base. In track, you set a new personal record in the 1600m. (7.21.02) And you had fun learning the plays in football and even scored some touchdowns!

In school you did very well. Your report cards were great and you were never in any trouble. The 3rd grade put on a program and I was so proud of how hard you worked. You were very upset that you didn't get a speaking part but you put so much time into practicing the songs and you did such a fantastic job. As Stanislavski said, "There are no small parts, only small actors." This year you really found a love for reading. You've always been a very good reader--and well ahead of grade level--but you didn't really enjoy silent reading on your own. One of the series you discovered is the The Land of Stories by Chris Colfer. You cannot put them down. They exceed 400 pages and you read the last one in just a couple of days. I'm so excited for where this love will lead you.

One book you claim to want to read is War and Peace. Your mind is a steel trap for historical facts. You know so much about wars--especially the Civil War--, tanks, battles, etc, etc, etc. You still say that you want to go into the Coast Guard and, with your military mind, I wouldn't doubt it. Among your favorite things are historical documentaries. Son, this is not from me. This is all your father.

What is from me is your developing love for theatre. This year, we got to go see the Newsies together and you really enjoyed it. You like to sing along to my Broadway cast albums and, recently, like the rest of the country, you've become obsessed with Hamilton. You've begged me to take you to see it and, kid, if anyone could get tickets, maybe I'd consider taking you. Until then, you'll just have to sing along with the cast.

What you don't get from either of us is your daredevlish nature. For your birthday, you're going to the pool because you're finally old enough to jump off the platforms. Of course, you've already jumped off the two lower platforms because I said you could as long as you didn't lie about your age. Since no one asked how old you were, I said, "Go for it!" on account of the fact that you'd jumped from higher places in Hawaii when you were five. Also, you've been water safe since you were three so I totally trust your swimming ability. But, you have yet to plummet from the highest platform, the 10 meter high dive. You have been talking about this for years and, today, you are going to attempt to leap off. My money's on you and your rock solid nerves. I guess this will be your first test in training for your future job as a Guy Who Jumps Out of Helicopters in the Coast Guard. Raising you is not for the faint of heart, Son.

I don't know why I was blessed with the opportunity to raise you. I know that I waited a long while and God gave me a really good one. You were so worth the wait. Your spunk, your heart of gold, the twinkle in your eye, and your infectious laugh are all mine to cherish. One thing I am clinging to is our cuddle time at night. I thought this would go away by the time you were 5 or 6. At 9, I was surprised that you still wanted me to climb into your bed each night to lay with you. Recently, you've been opting to put yourself to bed so that you can read more words. You have been asking less and less for me to crawl onto your top bunk to snuggle with you. When you do request it, there is a palpable shift. You wrap your arms around me, instead of the other way around. I'm starting to feel very I'll Love You Forever about our relationship.

I'm proud of you, Kid. I love watching you learn and grow. You're a terrific big brother--especially to Will. Seeing him in your arms melts my heart every time. But then again, you've been turning me to butter for an entire decade. Thanks for being mine. Thanks for making me laugh and smile and love fierce. You'll always be my guy.

Love,
Mom

Seven

Dear Matt,

This one's a tough letter to write because last year was a difficult year for all of us. Last year, when I sat down to write, only four weeks had passed since we stood, staring, at the minuscule casket that held your baby sister. We all grieved hard but we mourned in different ways. You spent the better part of a year breaking into loud, wailing sobs when I least expected them. You, experiencing such a loss at such a tender and formative age, were the embodiment of Ecclesiastes and/or The Byrds.

To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven: A time to be born, And a time to die; A time to plant, And a time to pluck what is planted; A time to kill, And a time to heal; A time to break down, And a time to build up; A time to weep, And a time to laugh; A time to mourn, And a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, And a time to gather stones; A time to embrace, And a time to refrain from embracing; A time to gain, And a time to lose; A time to keep, And a time to throw away;  A time to tear, And a time to sew; A time to keep silence, And a time to speak; A time to love, And a time to hate; A time of war, And a time of peace. -Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

This was you. One minute laughing, another crying. One minute mourning and the next, dancing. It broke my spirit to watch, knowing I could not fix the heart hurt you endured. But it healed my heart to see you grieving authentic. You didn't care if people watched you cry. You didn't hold back your hysterical sobs. You didn't apologize for laughing or loving. You yelled that it wasn't fair and you told God you were mad and you thanked Him for giving her to us at all. Your six-year-old process for coping was, in all honesty, a gift to us all.

This year, you also lost your beloved best friend, our golden retriever, Beck. One minute he was running happy and the next minute, an unknown tumor on his spleen ruptured. We lost him just a couple hours later. So I did what any rational mom whose kid lost a sister and a dog in the span of five months would do. I ran right out and bought you a puppy.

Tessie, the sweet, hyper, lovable golden puppy is your new best friend. You love to play outside with her, throw her ball, and wander the yard looking for adventure. It was a learning curve for you, never having experienced the exuberance of a retriever pup, but you quickly became inseparable. Of course, she treats you like an equal instead of an owner so you can often be heard howling, "TESS!" as she tries to pull some shenanigan or another over on you.

You're a genius.

Okay, I doubt that you are an actual genius but you're incredibly smart. You read well above grade level, you're in the top spelling group and you ace every test, you excel at math (for which I feel we have to thank your other parents because Dad and I are not so much with the math) and you just seem to learn with ease. The other night, after you finished practicing your spelling words, Dad jokingly told you to spell "disinfect." You knew he was kidding but you replied, "Okay. I can. I can do that one." And then you flawlessly and without much thought at all, printed it perfectly. Kiddo, disinfect is NOT a first grade word.

The problem with this high intelligence is that you are WAY TOO HARD ON YOURSELF. If you don't get a 100% on something, your little heart is just broken. At this point, you hold yourself to a higher standard than we ever would. So far, managing your education has been easy. There's never been a concept that you've struggled with. But managing your own expectations is a nightmare. Matthew, a 99% REALLY IS OKAY.

You ran track over the summer and played flag football in the fall. You're so fast. If you got the football, you were likely to either score or, at least, pick up a lot of yardage. You're signed up to play baseball this spring. We'll see how that goes because, at the moment, you close your eyes and knock down anything that comes flying at your face. But, in general, you're a coordinated guy so once you put it altogether, I'm sure you'll be great at baseball, too. I really believe that you can do whatever you set your mind to.

This was the year that you told us you were getting married. You and Brooklyn have grand plans to run away together and live in a "bush house" that you discovered over the summer at Santee Lakes. You've got it all planned out. You'll put down carpet to help with the ants and you'll fish for your meals. I'm fairly certain the two of your have broken up at least eleven times and gotten back together at least twelve but I'm not overly concerned. I mean, your ultimate plan is a bush house so I'm not putting a lot of stock in your marital judgement at this point in time. Still, it's been an absolutely hilarious ride for Brooklyn's mom and me.

You're still so funny that you make me laugh on a daily basis. Just last week, I opened your curtains to wake you up for school and you threw your blanket over your head and moaned, "Oh no! Not this again!" Yes, son. This. Again. For the rest of your life. You sure do love your sleep though and your teenage years are bound to be a challenge for us. And that whole lifetime in the workforce thing doesn't bode well for you either. At least you'll keep making me laugh while I keep waking you up.

You love church, your brother, sports, playing in the yard with friends, any substance that qualifies as food, spending time with your family, vacations, reading books, watching television, laughing, dance parties, listening to music, and playing with lightsabers.

We love your heart, your smile, your beautiful face and everything that you are. Happy 7th Birthday, Little Buddy.

Love,
Mom

Letter to a Nine Year Old

Dear Garrett,

I remember it like it happened yesterday. You were there and I was there and I'd waited so long for you that all of it seemed like a dream I'd wake up from. I was afraid to sleep, for fear that the bassinet by my side would vanish into the night. But it didn't. You kept on existing. Days turned to weeks and months and years and now we find ourselves nine years in.

Halfway.

I let that one word pass so quickly through my mind because I cannot think on it. You're halfway to all grown up. This breaks me in ways you may never fully understand and, if you do, it won't be until your own children are mostly grown. The years seem faster now, kamikaze and out of control with the way they topple into one another. Long gone are the lazy and never ending days of toddlerhood which were broken, if I was lucky, by a mid day nap. Now it's all sports and school and scouts and homework.

You are so much more than I ever could have dreamed. Ephesians 3:20 says that God is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine. Son, you are living proof of the awesome power God has to surpass our wildest dreams. I couldn't have dreamed up this wonderful YOU if I'd had a million years and all the parchment in the world.

You are so much better than me in every way that matters.

You are brave. You are tender. You are uninhibited. Your smile lights up a room. You are gentle. You are enthusiastic. You are friendly. You are spiritually sensitive. You are flexible. You are respectful. You are optimistic.

This year has pretty well sucked for our family. That isn't to say that we have not been blessed in incredible ways. We serve the God of our good days and our bad ones. He never changes and He always loves us. But, the year has been hard. Still, yesterday, you informed everyone within earshot at church that this has been the best year of your life. It was as if the hard stuff disappeared and what was left was tree climbing and campfire having and firework watching.

But the hard things didn't disappear. They all happened and I watched you change. Before my very eyes, you transformed. You watched your dad and I crying and you decided to grow up. It broke my heart and made it swell with pride all at the same exact moment. As your mama, I don't want you to have to grow up. I don't want you to see or feel or experience any of the tough stuff. But when I watch you weather the storm, I see a glimpse of the man you're becoming and I feel, somehow, confident in the person I'm releasing to the world.

You took care of me. While you still needed me for food and shelter and tangible things, you put your arms around me and gave me permission to lose myself. I didn't feel like I had to be strong in front of you and that, son, was the best gift your little eight-year-old self could have given me.

I think, in some ways, you realized how crazy fierce I love you. If I could love your sister that much without ever even having set eyes on her, how much of my heart must be wrapped around every inch of your body? I hope, something immense, that one day another mama picks us because I am convinced that you will be the best big brother that ever there was. I'm longing to see a day where you hold your sister in your arms.

I'm sorry you couldn't hold Kate. I know you desperately wish you'd been able to. There are choices we make, judgement calls and parenting decisions, and I hope that one day you can understand why we couldn't let you. I hope that one day you can process life enough to know that, while ultimately cathartic and good, it was an experience that wrecked me. I couldn't let that happen to you. It's my job to try to keep you unbroken. I'm sorry that you don't have another sister yet. I know how desperately you were hoping to by the time you turned nine. God has other plans. And, like I mentioned before, they are so much better than anything we can imagine.

You are light and life and volume and energy. You're also very NINE and very EYE ROLLY and very MY-PARENTS-ARE-THE-DUMBEST-PEOPLE-ON-THE-PLANET. I do not so much love those things but I understand that it comes with the territory. I do love that you still want me to climb up into your bed to snuggle with you at night. Every night. And I'm well aware that those moments are numbered. I love that you'll still have insane dance parties with me. I love your cackle as we watch Duck Dynasty or Amazing Race or American Ninja Warrior together. I love the freckles that dot your nose and the fact that you were born a freer spirit than the rest of us put together.

I'm mostly convinced that you'll grow all the way up, buy a one-way ticket to Hawaii and live in a van down by the ocean. The old me would have experienced heart palpitations just writing that sentence but the me who has parented you all these nine years has been kneaded and stretched and she understands that you are different from most all the other boys. The same in that you love bodily functions and poop jokes as much as the next kid. But different. Waiting, perhaps, for something the rest of us don't even know is coming.

I don't know what it is. I can't put my finger on it. But it's there, beneath the surface of who you are. Something special. Something different. Something that makes me wonder how I got so lucky. Of all the boys in all the world, God chose me for you.

Thank you for listening to teachers and coaches and other adults. Thank you for understanding that the world likes well-behaved young men much more than it likes hooligans. It is my heartfelt prayer that you hang on to that, that testosterone doesn't flood over your brain and cause a great deal of damage, that your annual letter in five years doesn't start with, "So, you're away at military school."

I sure do love almost everything about you. I love that you run fast and surf and love the outdoors and love your family and play soccer and baseball. I love the way your eyes sparkle when you smile. I also know that it's only by the grace of God that we've managed to make it this far together--and fairly unscathed. So I'll keep praying for every part of your life and you keep trying not to go to juvie, deal?

I love you,
Mom

Eight

My Eight-Year-Old,

Some things, like this letter, are better late than never. Like you. We waited and waited for the opportunity to be parents and, let me tell you, I'd have waited so much longer for the chance to be your mom. But, let me tell you something else. This halfway to sixteen business is ridiculous. I can't even try to process how it's been EIGHT YEARS since I held your tiny body in my arms for the very first time. But then, there you are, growing and changing and learning how to spell words like squirm and threat and square. There you are swimming and surfing and wrestling and running your way to manhood, one moment at a time.

Your love for running is such a perfect reflection of your personality. Steady. Dependable. Consistent. Focused. You just start running and you don't stop until someone tells you to. But you're also confident, outgoing and built tough. Your ego strength is through the roof and you've never met a stranger. Instead, I had to teach you not to take candy from a friend waiting to be made or climb into a car with a new acquaintance. I love that about you. Not the part where I worry that you'll be willingly kidnapped, but the part where each and every person is a friend waiting to be made.

The older you get, the more I can't believe that God chose me for you. You are, hands down, infinitely more fantastic than I am. You're so much more sure of yourself, so much more passionate about life, so much...better. I truly have to prayerfully keep my pride in check because I think you're one of the absolute best kids--your ridiculous eight-year-old fake laugh aside--and I want to shout your many accomplishments from the rooftop.

"QUALIFIED FOR THE ALL COUNTY MEET IN THE MILE BY PLACING 3RD AT THE REGIONAL MEET!"

"CHASED THAT RACE, A HALF HOUR LATER, WITH A 5TH PLACE FINISH IN THE 800--ALSO QUALIFYING FOR THE ALL COUNTY MEET!"

"KNOWS A WHOLE HECKUVALOT ABOUT THE BIBLE. NOT JUST FOR AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD."

"WAS IN THE HIGHEST SPELLING GROUP IN 1ST GRADE. AND IS READING WAY ABOVE GRADE LEVEL!"

"RAN MORE THAN ANY OTHER 1ST GRADER AT THE FUN RUN FUNDRAISER!"

"CRUSHED IT IN WRESTLING THIS PAST WINTER BY GOING UNDEFEATED."

"HAS A HUGE HEART FOR JESUS!"

I also want to brag about how tenderhearted you are and how much you love and care about your family. You want to take care of us when we're sick or hurting and your spirit is so gentle and sweet. You love movies with epic battles but you also love musicals and you're incredibly excited that the two of us get to go see Wicked together in a couple weeks. Teachers, doctors, and coaches always comment on what a well behaved, incredible kid you are. Well...everyone except that nurse you battered with your neck brace...

You were tired and scared and hurting and wanted no part of wearing a neck brace and I can honestly say that I can't blame you but, still, we shouldn't hurl our neck braces at unsuspecting nurses. I still can't believe that you were just walking around with a skull fracture for months. Next time you're flying down the sledding hill and see yourself approaching a huge metal grate, BAIL! For the love of your own brain, Son, BAIL! 

You make me want to be a better person. You, with your honesty and your friendliness and your gumption. You're exactly the person I want to become. Except, I don't want to tell knock-knock jokes that don't make any sense. 

"Knock knock?" you'll ask.

"Who's there?" I'll humor you.

"Hammer."

"Hammer, who?"

"Hammer at the door with some nails! HAHAHAHAHAHA!" And I just...I don't understand. Your humor is lost on me. I'm sorry. I really am. I'm sure it's funny if you're eight. I just haven't been eight in a very long time. And I was also never an eight-year-old boy. So that's why your jokes about burps and toots and bums aren't overly hilarious to me.

But, dude. I love you so much. And I'm not sure I could ever convey with the words given to me through the English language just how proud of you I am. I wouldn't trade you for all the tea in China, all the shofars in Israel, all the salt in the sea, and all the money in all the mints in all the nations.

Happy 8th. I hope it's all you want it to be.

Love,

Mama

Dear Matthew

Dear Matthew, 

Four. Years. Old.

Yesterday, in the fading sunshine of late afternoon, we sat on my bed together and watched home videos. You, a baby, giggling hysterically as I tickled your neck. You, a bigger baby, in your high chair, eating tomato soup and repeating single words in the cutest little voice. You, bigger still, strumming the guitar during one of our impromptu dance parties.

It's how we roll. 

There's a lot of singing and silly dancing that goes on in this house. Your musical wiring seems perfectly fine with the arrangement.

I sometimes can't believe that you're the same kid who emerged into the world, only a few shades off white and covered in a full head of soft, fluffy hair. You slept all day and screamed all night and when I looked into your eyes, they told a story that said, "I need to talk. I need to explain the way I see things. I need to make a few of the rules around here. There's some changes I need to make." But you couldn't speak, so you twisted your face into a smushy mess and wailed.

We've come a long way together in these four years.

You smile. Much more often than you cry. You laugh. You have found joy.

You are my little athlete. You kick the soccer ball and score goals. You stand on your head. You do the splits--almost the entire way. You learned how to swim this year. Last night, at Garrett's wrestling match, they called the preschoolers and you stood up and started making your way down to the mat. "Matthew, where are you going?" I asked you.

"To wrestle," you told me as though you'd been doing it your whole life and how did I not know that's exactly where you were headed. It was difficult for me to explain that you aren't wrestling right now. "But I want to," you said. You want to do everything. You are physical force and I have no doubt that if you channel all that energy and attitude into training, you will make a fine athlete one day.

You're smart. So smart. Your memory is astounding and your learning pace is fast--when you want to learn. On your terms. Yellow is still identified as "the color of a banana" because, apparently, that's easier to say than "yellow." But you consistently know almost all your letters and almost all the sounds they make which is more than I can say for about half of Garrett's kindergarten class.

I asked you a dozen times what you wanted to do for your birthday. "Nothing," was the typical response. Crowds overwhelm you. Loud places with hoards of people are generally not your style. In the end, I suggested a couple friends, a trip to McDonald's and then ice cream at Leatherby's. You were thrilled with the idea so that's what we're going to do. Tomorrow.

But yesterday we had presents and cake and ice cream together. 

                                                  

We let you pick the place for dinner and you would not be deterred from your original declaration of, "TACO BELL!" 

"How about somewhere a little nicer?"

"TACO BELL!"

"Are you sure you don't want to go somewhere else?" We made suggestions.

"TACO BELL!"

"Del Taco?" we asked because we think we're funny.

"TACO BELL!"

So Taco Bell it was.

On Wednesday, I'd taken you with me to Walmart where I made the mistake of looking at cakes--just to see what they had. I was planning on baking you a cake for a grand total of two dollars. But you saw this...

And there was absolutely no changing your mind. "I want that one because it is blue! And I love that one! And can I have it pweaze?" Then you looked at me with those deep chocolate eyes and you flashed that million dollar smile and what was a mama supposed to do? I mean, really. There are times for putting a big, heavy foot down and there are times for picking up that beloved blue cake and placing it in the cart because you only turn four once.

My baby is gone. I told you as much this morning. "What happened to my baby? You're so big now!"

"Yeah. I know. But I can be a baby again someday if you want me to," you suggested.

"No, Bud, you can't. That's the way with babies. They grow up. They just keep getting bigger and bigger."

"Oh. So sad," you said in a tone that meant that you weren't sad at all. Then you ran off to play with your new toys.

So sad, indeed.

But you are larger than life, Matthew. You always have been and, I suppose, you always will be. I'm fairly certain there are big things in your future and I'm so glad that I get to be the one to guide you into the blinding brightness of that life.

I love you.

Love,
Mom