Birthing Beautiful Ideas

Dear Alec,

Lately, I’ve been writing about our mother/child adventures as if they were battle scenes from World War Two-year-old.

I’ve compared your antics to “mashing my brain matter” as if it were a ripe banana.

I’ve compared you to a rabid howler monkey.

And I’ve documented just how much I’m drowning in (among other things) the trials and tribulations of parenting you and your brother.

And I won’t deny any of it.  It’s been hard.  It’s been so. hard.

But.

But.

I don’t want you to ever feel as if I have resented parenting you, or as if I have dreaded spending time with you, or as if I haven’t respected your astounding curiosity and ingenious resourcefulness.

And I don’t want you to think that I’m forgetting just how hard it is for you to be my child, or just to be two.

I know that it can be so. hard.

For instance, I know that you don’t yet appreciate the importance of a good night’s sleep.  You’re too young for that–”appreciating the importance of” is not even in your cognitive horizon right now.  And what you have in its place is this magical exuberance that tells you that climbing over your crib is what your little legs and arms were built to do and that the nighttime holds the promise of yet-unseen adventures and that sleep itself means missing out on all the mysteries that occur under the moon and stars and in our quiet house.

And I want you to know that in these still and silent moments–in the few minutes I have to sit and reflect–I appreciate the importance of that magical exuberance.  I want you to sleep, oh how I want you to sleep.  Both for selfish reasons (oh! how I need these still and silent moments) and for reasons of love and care and concern (oh! how you need this sleep to keep growing, to keep that smile on your face, my darling boy).

But I know, I do know, and I do love that you yearn to know what’s just beyond your little world, what lurks underneath the moon and stars and nighttime sky.  I’m secretly proud of your adventurousness, that frightening twinkle in your eyes.  You’ll scale mountains, both literal and figurative, some day.

But just remember (perhaps with my voice ringing in your ears) that you always need a good night’s sleep before you start climbing.

I know too that it’s frustrating to hear the word “no” over and over again.  And I know that I’m not always the best at choosing redirection or affirmation or patience over the word “no.”

But I also know that, no, you shouldn’t play with scissors, and no, the buttons on the oven are not for touching, and no, you shouldn’t spit on your brother when he makes you mad.  I’m just trying to keep you safe.  I’m trying to keep you healthy.  I’m trying to teach you respect and thoughtfulness and self-restraint.

Maybe, just maybe, I won’t have failed completely with all of my “nos,” and some day you’ll hear my “no” in the back of your mind when you decide not to join your friends in taunting that kid on the playground, or when you don’t pick up that cigarette, or when you don’t do that thing that’s unsafe or unhealthy or unkind.

And maybe, please maybe, you’ll hear my “yes” and “great job” and “wow” and “you’re amazing” too.

You’ll take all of that curiosity and find a way to supply everyone on the planet with clean water, or you’ll take that ingenious resourcefulness and build bridges or schools or sculptures, or you’ll fix leaks or cars or broken hearts.

Maybe you’ll take that frightening adventurousness and fight fires or crime or injustice, or maybe you’ll just take that magical exuberance and be the best damn person that you can be.

And I’ll be right there, right there, shouting “Hell yeah!  That’s my kid!  That’s my kid!!!  The one with the curiosity and the resourcefulness and the adventure and the exuberance!  He’s my boy!“

And I hope you’re able to appreciate the importance of my appreciation then.  Because it will be enormous, and it will be immense.

And it will always have been here, right here, all along.

the climber of cribs (and mountains) and his mother

Love,

Mom