My Beloved First-Born,
It is quite simply ridiculous that you are no longer a baby or a toddler, but a boy. It is both traumatic and absolutely wonderful to have both you and your brother’s birthdays in the same month. Regardless of whether or not I want you to, you are (both) growing up. Let me tell you a little bit about what you have done and who you have become this year.

Yes, it is true! You are now riding a full-on, two-wheeled, no training wheels bike. It took you an hour to learn and a day to master and there were no falls and barely any bruises. Although, there was still whining. And tears. Let’s work on that this year, shall we?

In just over a year, you’ve gained a brother. Your world was shaken, turned topsy-turvy, but you’ve handled it with the grace and wisdom of someone ten times your age. You love your brother. You play with him, you teach him, you laugh with him. It’s beautiful to watch you two develop a relationship. This isn’t to say that when your brother wants the toy you are playing with or copies every little thing you do it doesn’t drive you mad, but for the most part you’re cool with it. The other day I left you two alone while I went to change the wash to the dryer. Upon my return, your brother had velcro Nerf Darts stuck all over the back of his diaper. I’m assuming this is how you enact revenge for playing with your space rocket: by shooting him in the butt with your Nerf Darts. Let’s just always keep it to spongey, velcro-tipped, soft projectiles, please. I don’t need the kind of hazing your Dad and his brother used to perform on each other with their beebee guns.

Which leads us to this picture. While we were visiting your Paw-Paw out on the Ranch, you learned how to shoot a beebee gun. Your mama had grand designs never to introduce guns into your life. I’m much more of an anti-gun, peace person, but I’ve come to believe that shooting things are in Little Boy DNA. Anything can be made into a weapon and while I don’t condone pretending to shoot real people, you’re all about blowing up your Lego created towns. Oy. I think I’m getting heartburn.

You’ve tried many different sports and activities this past year.
Roller-Blade Hockey:

Not so much a fan, but you were pretty amazing. You have the balance of a gymnast (you get it from me) and are a quick learner (also: ME). Alas, you did not possess the patience to stick with it (your father). Maybe someday.
Tennis:

You’re good. You’re damn good. And! You like it, which, BONUS. As much as I’d like to, I can’t take credit for this. Your father is the tennis player in this family. I don’t do well when balls are hurtling towards me at a rapid speed.
Soccer:

You weren’t exactly a fan at first. Probably because you come from a fairly lazy stock. Your mama would much rather the object come to her than to run after it. But after a few false starts and some picking the flowers in the goal box, you’ve caught on to the whole Ball In THEIR Goal aspect of the game and your killer instinct (Again, ME) is kicking in. (See also: Your mama is a woman of many contradictions. Get used to this and expect it to show up somewhere in your life.)

Yoga, golf, karate, and the violin are some of the other things you have tried. You and I go to yoga once a week and you’re still trying to figure it out. Like me, you are cripplingly shy and haven’t yet learned the Art of Doing It Anyway. I know you enjoy yoga because I watch your face. It lights up as the other children are talking, laughing, and posing. My hope for you is that you conquer your apprehension (self-consciousness? I’m not really sure where it comes from) and can learn to force yourself to participate anyway. I know how much joy you would find in that.

Your favorite things are all wheel and horse-power related. As in, you love cars. You have no less than 496,265 Hot Wheels cars and a whole bunch of remote control vehicles. Lucky boy that you are, your grandparents also gave you this for Christmas two years ago:

Cue mama’s heart attack. You’ve sat through all of our required lessons on safety and have learned to drive like a pro. You and your father zip around the neighborhood (because, of course, he has one too) and I can barely watch for the panic this induces in me. My baby! Driving! Something about this seems totally wrong, but I know it’s creating memories that will last you a lifetime.

This family has the kind of sense of humor that others may find, well, offensive. We are constantly razing each other and making jokes at each other’s expense. Needless to say, one needs guts to survive here. This year your sense of humor has developed and it would be no lie to say that you fit right in. You still enjoy all of the young boy’s jokes about farts and poop and butts, but you’ve developed a keen comedic timing and perfect sense of irony and dry wit. It is with pride (and some serious embarrassment) that I tell you about the joke you played on me the other morning at the school drop-off. I do not get along, nor even like very much, the principal of your lower school. She is a fake, phony bitch and, sadly, you know about the way I feel about her. (This was accidental. The last thing I want is for you to have opinions on things based on my experiences. I’d rather you learn for yourself and work out your own belief. Regardless, I forgot: Little pitchers have big ears.) This woman happened to be helping you out of the car on this particular morning and, as we were exchanging pleasantries and goodbyes, you looked at me and said, “Now remember, Mama, don’t cancel my birthday party!” This was an empty threat I had given the night before when you wouldn’t go to bed. The old bag principal looked at me, shocked that I would even suggest such a thing and said, “I’m sure your mom would never do that.” To which you replied, “Of course she would! We are talking about the same woman, right?” For about a split second, I was speechless. Does he really think I’m that mean of a mama? That is, until you looked me dead in the eye, winked, and then bust up laughing. Thanks, dude. You really know how to make me feel special.

You’re old enough now that holidays are massively fun. This year was the first year that we really went trick-or-treating and you were all about the candy. By the way, your homemade Darth Vader costume? It totally rocked and you were the Most Awesome Darth Vader Ever. We took a hayride through the back part of town and stopped at all the houses along the way. You quickly made friends with all the other young kids in our trailer and raced to each house to grab as much sugar-laden crap as would fit in your small hands. Christmas was also a blast. We left cookies for Santa and you crafted a glorious letter to him, thanking him for his journey and your presents. Such a big heart you have, my smiley, Bug Boy. I always say, “You can’t teach a child to have a kind heart.” You have the kindest heart of any five six year old I have met this far.

Last week I decided that you need to start falling asleep in your own room, without your dad sitting at the foot of your bed. This has been an extremely difficult transition– for both of us. When you were just a baby, I left you to cry in your crib. I thought I was teaching you how to self-soothe and how to learn to fall asleep. I now realize this taught you nothing because I’m starting back at Square One. Only now, instead of crying you yell out to me to tell me how sad you are. I’m sad too, buddy. One night after an hour of you calling out for more water, a trip to the bathroom, a snack, you asked me if you could look at pictures of your family if you couldn’t fall asleep. This made me all teary because I realized that you just wanted to look at the faces of the people who give you comfort. We also modified the transition. I now sit in the hallway, just where you can see me, and wait for you to drift into the Land of Nod. It works better because you know I am there and, sweetheart, I will always be there. I want you to learn your own way in the world, to learn to navigate fear and loneliness, but I will always provide you safe harbor if a storm passes your way.

You started out FIVE needing flotation devices to help you swim and throughout the year, have learned to dive, to swim laps, and to do the breast stroke. What will this year bring? I look forward to finding out with you. So, Giggle Boy, it is with a bittersweet sigh that I bid farewell to Five. I welcome Six and all your new accomplishments with joy, but I will always remember that this was the year you became All Grown Up. You don’t quite need me in the same way that you used to, but in strange and news ways. Forgive me if I stumble, as we already know I’m not perfect. I’m learning, just like you, and I’m trying to be a better mother every day. It is beautiful to watch you grow, learn, become.

I love you,
Mama

It seems crazy to me that a year ago, practically to the moment, I had just pushed you out into the world and was drinking in your sweet face. The roundness of your cheeks, the crystal clear blueness of your eyes, the softness of your skin, the delicate rosebud of your lips, the ten perfect fingers and toes. You were so alert in that first hour after birth. You stared in quiet wonder while we snapped photos and passed you around the room. I was the last one to hold you which was probably a good thing considering I WOULD NEVER LET YOU GO AGAIN. With the birth of your brother, I was given the title Mother. With your birth, I grew into that role and realized what kind of Mother I want to be to you boys. You have forced me, very happily I should add, to grow and stretch in ways I never thought my person could handle. I am so very blessed that you have come into my life.

This past year you’ve gone from a sweet bundle of lump, very easy to entertain and care for, to a mobile, walking, talking (it’s mostly gibberish BUT STILL) baby with opinions! And lots of personality. I’ve been composing this post in my head for weeks, as I’ve watched you grow and change, but I can’t seem to come up with something perfect enough for you. I would love to capture a piece of your almost gone babyness and bottle it up on this web page forever, but despite all of our modern technological advancements, I can’t quite perform that miracle yet. I just can’t believe you’ve been in our lives for a year. It seems as though you’ve been here forever and life didn’t really begin until you arrived. So when words fail me, I’ll just say thank you. Thank you for choosing us, Baby Boy. You’re perfect.

Let’s all ignore the fact that I have nothing witty and intelligent to say and instead admire the cute baby!

Laughing Baby from Magic Mom on Vimeo.
Sorry for putting the camera down. I had no nom baby cheeks. Nom Nom Nomnom Nomnomnomnomonm. Awww, cute baby!!

Feeling cooped up in the house on a bright, beautiful, warm, Florida day (which pretty much sums up EVERY day in South Florida), the boys and I decided to head to a park near our development. I try to do this several times a week, if for no other reason than I like to be consistent. I’m also trying to make Friends with Kids because it would be nice to have play dates once in a while, but also to have Adult Conversation. Have I mentioned I’m really shy and I have a really hard time making friends? Turns out, people don’t ever get to know you if you don’t open your mouth and talk once in a while. Yeah! I know! I didn’t know either! Where was I? Oh yes, The Park!

We took lots of pictures, which wasn’t any fun at all because “Wait! Stop! I know you’re having fun, but don’t move so I can take a picture!” is surely annoying. All that stopping and focusing and setting up a shot resulted in a lot of these types of pictures:

There was still much fun to be had! Lots of swinging!

Much sand was dug!

The sand was a whole new experience for the baby. He didn’t eat any of it luckily.

There was lots of sliding down slides and jumping from high places!

There was also some relaxing, which was nice.

There was lots of moving from one place to another.

We had a pretty good time. Didn’t we, Baby One?

I think he agrees.

He used to carry handfuls of white, oblong pills in his pocket. This scared me because when he sat down they would fall out, leaving the story of where he’d been and what he’d been doing scattered around like crazy, white, mood-altering sprinkles all over the carpet. At least I always knew where he’d been. Whenever we were out with my family, in a doctor’s office, in the living room with a visitor, or even at some random appointment, I would have to pinch him, kick him under the table, address him in a voice dripping with the unsaid “Dude, you better wake the eff up right now or I will tan your hide” to keep him from falling asleep in his soup in the middle of a sentence. He wasn’t allowed to drive. Ever. He fell asleep. At the wheel. Thank God it was in our development, on our street no less, but still. People saw him. They complained to the security guard. Frankly, I don’t blame them. It was horrifying to watch, let alone to be the one who was responsible all the time. Passing out while standing up with the baby in his arms was an occurrence to numerous to count. Thankfully, Baby One only fell on the floor once before I realized I couldn’t leave him alone with the Baby, like, ever. I’ve lived that way for the past two years with him. Constantly monitoring him, being on Red Alert for something, anything, to go wrong. It’s not surprising that the last few weeks without Him were much easier than I had thought they would be.

But now he’s home and he’s a different person altogether. He has kept his word. He has attended a meeting of recovery every day since his arrival. He hasn’t drifted off while telling me something. He hasn’t denied my reality– No, baby, what you’re seeing isn’t real. It’s not there. It’s like this. . . The reality has been no less than fantastic. He hasn’t let me down. I’m impressed, but I’ve always known he’s had it in him. The man I met and fell in love with was this man, not the high, dead one. He works hard. He keeps promises. He is consistent. He is the father to his children.

However, I’m not inside his head. I can’t read his thoughts. Sometimes the internal change we feel takes much longer to see on the outside. And while there is many new and wonderful things to see and feel, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. It will fall, it has to. Is that its shadow I see, falling across the lawn? I’ve realized, over the course of the last few days, that what “they” say is true: the addict’s family gets sick right along with him. Damn those experts for knowing their shit. I guess I need to practice some of that compassionate detachment that “they” are always saying such good things about. Whenever I get a whiff of a behavior that might be something he would have done a few months ago, I feel a rage so overpowering that I need a tranq dart in my neck. Being in this position is just so strange to me. I’ve been on the flip side of this very same coin many a time, but I’ve never been so close to another who has fallen and gotten back up again. I guess I now know how my family has felt for all these years.

I look forward to what may come with my eyes and heart open. The future’s so bright, I gotta wear shades.