Dear Max,
The clock has struck midnight announcing your 14th birthday, and I’m so giddy with emotion I can’t sleep.
This is the first year I recall being filled with enough excitement that the nostalgia can’t get me. Instead of winding down memory lane feeling my heart swell with sadness that I can no longer pull you onto my lap or take a stroll through our midtown hood, just you me and Rocky, I am bubbling over thrilled with the here and now. Don’t get me wrong, the longing to snuggle and scoop you up after chasing your toddler self down the alleyway is still here, but how exciting is your life right now?
Moving to the basement? Having your own bathroom? Getting a new phone? (Surprise!)
High school?
Damn. I wish you could understand what a whirlwind the last fourteen years have been. (I know this makes me sound like an old person). And how I wish I could express to you, or better yet, insert into you some sort of device that could let you know physically, lighting up your whole being, how much I LOVE you. Parents don’t say this, but I would bet that if you polled them and they were honest, they would admit that their first born feels like their realest kid, the one to whom they feel most committed and responsible, the most connection. Or, maybe it’s just you.
You feel most mine.
I feel most responsible for you.
And I light up inside when your six-foot-one inch being approaches me for a hug.
I made this human?
This is the babe who wouldn’t take anything but the real deal until solids? The same one that scared his Uncle Doug (okay and maybe me a bit too at first) with eyes so big and brown they seemed to see through people, straight to their soul. This is the specimen who rolled over at two weeks, becoming the rugrat who was all things ball and bug, but left the silly play to the others. No pretending for you, only play with purpose.
Building. Creating. Drawing. Sorting. Memorizing. Studying.
This is the kid who was watching, always watching. Socially aware and inclusive to all. This is the kid who wouldn’t accept a treat unless there was enough to take home to his little brother. This is the finger holder from the backseat, the crystal lover. This is the kid whose giggle bubbled over, delightfully contagious.
I remember Thomas, sea serpents and ankylosauruses. Hours and hours of Polar Express, Little Einsteins and Wild Kratts.
I remember, but this year I’m not so sad. Sure, I wish I could have cloned me so that you could have stayed a baby a bit longer; I needed more hands for more brothers. But taking care of others is in your DNA. You can’t help yourself. I am awed by your loyalty to friends, your disgust of gossip and your hope and vision for the future. I am even more inspired by your contentedness with the here and now. I know it’s been tough this so-called-Spring, being injured and unable to participate in basketball and track and that having a broken phone is only poisoned icing on the proverbial cake, but watching you deal so gracefully with reality as it is is extremely heartening. It gives me faith that somehow I haven’t screwed up, and that you’ve got what it takes. You are the example I need.
I know first-hand it’s hard to be first. Your parents are ignorant, often insecure, and looking to you to lead your brothers by example. Thank you for doing that. You give good brotherly advice, and when you make mistakes you nimbly pick yourself up with your head held high. You apologize quickly and you call others out on their bullshit. I still remember the time you told me as a toddler, “Mommy, you can be mad, but you can’t be mean.” It’s the best parenting advice I’ve ever gotten, even if it’s some of the hardest for me to follow. Thanks for your patience with me, sweet child.
Please know you’ll always be my baby, even as you are transforming into a towering and handsome man. And know also, I’ll always be concerned enough to kick in a hole in my wall for you. I love you deeply and wholly.
There’s not a thing you can do to change my love for you.
For ever and ever,
Mom