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The C Chord

Nov 11th, 2011 by

For the last 19 1/2 years (really!) I’ve been watching Matt sit on the couch or in a chair and strum a guitar or bass. Last night, I got a preview of things to come:

And it was really sweet. Matt taught Simon a C chord on this ukulele, which we bought in Hawaii back in 2005. He struggled a little with the hand placement (“That’s not right for me. I’m left-handed.”) but got the hang of it just fine after a while. He might have put his fingers on the wrong fret a few times, but it was his first try, and he’s only five.

After this session, he explained his future plans to Matt:

“When I’m 19, I’ll go to band practice with you.”

Matt’s got his own plans. As he explained to me last night:

“Two more chords and it’s Ramones time.”

What do you suppose the Ramones sound like on a uke?

Posted in Jessica, Little Boy, Simon says... | No Comments »

Kicker!

Nov 9th, 2011 by

Simon’s swimming program is organized into 6 levels, ranging from Level 1 Splashers whose goal it is to not freak out in the water to Level 6 Flyers who are perfecting a multitude of strokes. Simon started out as a Level 2 Floater and has remained one for three months. This past Sunday, upon seeing how close he was to advancing, I talked to the swim director about Simon’s next steps. We discussed adding private lessons and the like, until finally she suggested that I try Simon out at the Wednesday Level 3 Kicker group.

If he could hang with the group, he could move ahead now and pick up his last skill from the Floaters while working with the Kickers. I figured it was worth a shot, and Simon seemed excited enough until right before his lesson, at which point he complained of being tired, which was true enough, and scared, which was even truer.

One hour later, he ran out of the building telling every man, woman, or child he could find about his swim lesson. He held the door open for people to give him the chance to talk. He galloped to the car. And when we got home, he ran up the stairs with abandon screaming for Matt to come down and look at his stickers.

Of which he had four: one for each of the Level 3 Kicker skills he mastered today. I could not believe my eyes. When it was time to float on his back and kick, he moved a good ways across the pool with no help at all. It was the same with the front, and even more so with the modified arm strokes they had him do. He actually floated better today while having to concentrate on other skills than he did on Sunday when floating was the only task at hand.

With each new attempt, he gained more confidence and was eager to try more. And he just kept succeeding. At the end of the lesson, I asked his teacher if there was any point in his returning to the Floater group to finish up. “No way!” Ms. Julie yelled. “I’m entering him into the system as a Kicker today. Bring him 5 minutes early the next few weeks, and we’ll catch him up the rest of the way in no time. He’s going to do great.”

Simon was so proud of himself he could hardly contain his glee. I have to think that this success was all the sweeter because it was so hard won. In the car, I told him how happy I was for him. Then I asked the big question:

“Why could you do all those new things today that you couldn’t three months ago? Is it because you are an awesome swimmer?”

His answer made my heart sing:

“No, Mommy, it’s because I practiced.”

Atta boy! Also, if you keep this up, you will be an awesome swimmer. In fact, I’m getting ever more inspired to start lessons again myself. Maybe with this new system and enough practice I could manage well enough to do laps for exercise.

Posted in Jessica, Little Boy | 1 Comment »

Courage

Nov 6th, 2011 by

Courage is being scared to death… and saddling up anyway.  ~John Wayne

Or, in Simon’s case, being scared to death and jumping in the pool anyway. As Simon progresses through the skills in his swimming class, only two items remain before he advances to the next level*: (1) rolling over from his front to his back unassisted and (2) jumping in the pool and then floating on his back unassisted.

Today was the day we were going to work on these last two items, but not before a drill on his unsinkable back float, an exercise in which Simon floats on his back—and, crucially, stays floating—while the instructor splashes his face, makes huge waves in the pool, and yanks on arms and legs. Simon did this on Wednesday with no problems at all, but today, for reasons unknown, buckled under the pressure, sat up in alarm, and promptly sank underwater. At which point he wailed in some combination of fear and disappointment. While Blair consoled him in the water, a second instructor whispered in my ear:

“Uh oh. He’s such a perfectionist that this is going to freak him out for the whole rest of the lesson.”

Those were the words of wisdom of Julie, a 17-year-old swim instructor who has the insight and maturity to glean this about my son based on three 30-minute lessons.  She was right, too. Simon got cold despite his wet-suit, a reaction to fear I’m sure. He rallied for the middle of his lesson, a review of skills he’s got down cold, but then grew apprehensive at the notion of jumping in the pool and not being caught.

“Will Ms. Blair catch me?”

“If she needs to. But first try to roll over and float on your back.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“You’ll never know until you try. If you can’t, I’ll be proud of you for trying. And if you can, well, that would just be icing on the cake.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Simon, honey, the only way to learn is to try. It doesn’t matter if you can do it or not. You just have to try, and Ms. Blair will be right there to help you. We’re not going to let anything happen to you.”

He still wasn’t convinced. So Ms. Julie hopped in, putting the lifeguard-to-child ratio at an amazingly safe 2:1. He hemmed. He hawed. He shook from cold and fear. And finally, after what seemed like an hour of agonizing wait-time, he counted down from three, jumped in, …

… rolled over, and floated on his back. All with just the teeniest bit of help from Ms. Julie, who nudged him along on his roll. There were hugs and cheers and high-fives. Later, in the car, I asked him:

“Simon, what am I the most proud of you for today? Is it that you jumped in and floated?”

“No, Mommy, it’s that I tried.”

Actually,  it’s that he understands enough of what I’m telling him to say that without my providing the answer for him.

*Lest I sound like a Tiger Mother here, the reason I am eager to have him advance is two-fold: (1) I want him to get the feeling of reward that comes from graduating to the next level; (2) He’s so close that part of his current lessons are repetitive and boring; he’s ready for a lot of what they do in the next level, and he’ll have fun with it.

Posted in Jessica, Little Boy, Simon says... | 2 Comments »

The Hard Part

Nov 3rd, 2011 by

When I held Simon as a baby, I sometimes pondered what the hardest part of parenting might be: Potty training? Whining? Teenage angst? Giving him car keys? They all seemed like good bets, and I still don’t like thinking about the last two. But the one that I dreaded the most was telling Simon about some of the awful things that happen in this world.

I just got my first taste of this unpleasant task, and it was every bit as awful as I had anticipated. It centered around my friend Gabriel. Simon has heard tiny bits of Gabriel’s story before. He knows that Gabriel is from Sudan, that he moved here a long time ago, and that Alek and Agotich moved here just a year ago. Last week might have been the first time I used the word “war” with regard to Gabriel’s story. I told him that people were fighting in Gabriel’s country when he was a boy, and that Alek moved north to be safe while Gabriel moved south.

Tonight, for who knows what reason, Simon asked more. Did Ms. Alek move north to be safe? Yes. Did she move with her family? Sort of. She went to live with her Aunties. Did her family know she was OK? Yes, they did, and she talks to them all the time. What about Mr. Gabriel? Did he move south with his family?

Stop. I don’t believe in lying to kids. I believe in evasion and simplification, but not lying. So when he asked me this, I drew in a long breath and answered him.

“No honey, he didn’t. Mr. Gabriel didn’t know exactly where to find his family, so he went south with other boys.”

“How did they [his parents] know he was OK?”

“They didn’t, Simon. Mr. Gabriel’s story is very sad. He just ran and ran with other boys until they got to Kenya and could be safe. He was able to talk to his mommy later, and five years ago he visited her in Sudan. She knows he’s OK, and she’s seen pictures of Agotich and Anyieth. But he didn’t get to move south with her.”

I was almost hoping he wouldn’t understand the profundity of what I had just told him. One look at his stunned face and wide eyes told me he was taking it in, and soon enough he was shaking and sobbing. I cried myself, hugged Simon, and then did my best to manage the scene.

“Simon, I know it’s sad and scary. But look at me; I have to tell you two important things. First, Mr. Gabriel is fine now. He has Ms. Alek and Agotich and Anyieth, and the girls will always be with their mom and dad. Their family won’t be separated, and this makes Mr. Gabriel and Ms. Alek very happy. Second, this will never happen here. We’ve never had a war like that, and we never will. We are some of the luckiest people who have ever lived, because we live in a safe place and at a safe time where we will always be together.”

It worked for a time. But between lights out and Simon’s falling asleep, he cried out twice for me because he was scared of “phantoms”. I have no doubt that those phantoms were a projection of the fear Gabriel’s story aroused. When I suggested he put a happy thought in his mind, he explained that “I can’t get the scary thought out of my brain. I’m trying, but my brain isn’t working too good.”

What in the world could I say to that? He’s sleeping now, and I can only hope he doesn’t bring up the subject—or worse, ask about Gabriel’s father—again tomorrow. If he does, I’ll give an abbreviated version of today’s story, focusing on the happily ever after part. Still, such delay tactics won’t last forever. And worse still, explanations of other atrocities loom in the future. Because I am Jewish, it is the prospect of explaining the Holocaust that looms the largest. Because I still don’t understand these things myself, I worry I won’t have the right words. Because having the right words won’t make any of this less terrible, I worry that all my worrying won’t do any good.

Anyway, sometime after the worst and before I tucked him in, Simon began asking me about Mr. Gabriel’s houses. Did his get knocked down? Did they rebuild it? Does his mother live in a new house? Will she get to stay there? Innocent questions that led my own brain to recall some lines by my favorite poet James Fenton:

It is not what they built. It is what they knocked down.
It is not the houses. It is the space between the houses.
It is not the streets that exist. It is the streets that no longer exist.
It is not your memories which haunt you.
It is not what you have written down.
It is what you have forgotten, what you must forget.

(James Fenton, “A German Requiem”)

If only forgetting were an option.

Posted in Jessica, Little Boy | 2 Comments »

Neck Update

Oct 31st, 2011 by

I am almost afraid to type this. And if I awake tomorrow with crippling neck pain, I’m going to just know that I tempted fate and did myself in by declaring that my neck is better. A lot better.

Immediately after my MRI results came in, I called my brother to commiserate about them and to find out if he knew the neurosurgeon to whom I had been referred. Surprisingly, one of the first things he told me was that my MRI results may have nothing to do with my problems. Bulges and herniations are a normal part of the aging process, he informed me. And while my neck might be going south a bit ahead of schedule—I clearly inherited some vulnerabilities from my mother and grandmother—my problem might have little to do with that.  He hemmed and hawed a bit over the spinal stenosis at C4-C5  and interference with nerve root at C5-C6, but urged me to begin with physical therapy and give it my all.

I have, and it’s worked. Twice a week I spend ten of the longest minutes in my life on an arm bike. The rest of my exercise routine takes about 30 minutes. Then Tim, my therapist, comes over to assess, massage, and adjust. The first few sessions he made my spine sound like popcorn and I ended with a weird electrode massage. The last two weeks, there’s been less snap-crackle-pop action, and my massage has been swapped out for something called traction. It looks like part of a medieval rack, but this stretching device helps ease compression of the cervical spine and increase mobility.

My last pins and needle sensation was about two weeks ago. It was replaced by an odd wave sensation, which in turn disappeared as of last Wednesday. I have some weakness on my left side, but nothing more. Today I required no adjustments at all. What I DO have, noticeably and happily, is more mobility than I have had in years. The stiffness and pain crept up on me so gradually that I didn’t realize how bad it was. I do now, because I can once again sleep on my stomach (though I’m not supposed to, and I shift when I catch myself at it), check for cars in my blind spot without turning my whole chest, and back out of driveways and parking places with ease.

Four weeks ago, my neck moved like a plank. Today, it articulated itself like a string of pearls being laid down bead by bead. I’ve got work to do yet, including maintaining all the lifestyle changes that are part of my recovery and keeping up with an intense exercise regimen. But compared to having a functional, pain-free neck and a neurologically normalized arm, none of this seems undoable. Mark my words, in eleven days I plan to have the most boring neurosurgical consult in history.

 

 

Posted in Jessica | 1 Comment »

Halloween Parade 2011

Oct 28th, 2011 by

It’s that time of the year again. KIP opted to host their annual Halloween parade a little early, on Friday the 28th instead of Monday the 31st. At first I was a little confused about this, but I think the logic was that a parade + party + trick-or-treating on Monday = a bunch of super-tired, miserable kids on the big day.

Do you recognize Simon’s costume? He’s Flash, a B-grade (C-grade?) super hero from the Justice League. Simon kept asking for him, and I kept saying “Who?” and assuming I’d be making one. Then Amazon and Google came to the rescue, telling me who Flash is/was and making it easy to find a costume. The back-story on Flash is uncommonly silly even by super-hero mythological standards. Some dullard was struck by lightning and then—Flash!—became possessed of lightning quick reflexes and super speed.

The attraction to Simon is pretty simple. This is a kid who likes to run and have us time him. “Was that 110?” he’ll ask me. Or better yet, “That time I was going one ten, one eighty, seventy-five, six hundred, a thousand million!”  If any math majors out there want to figure out what this number could possibly be, have at it.

As it happens, Simon’s affinity for Flash is as quirky as I thought, but maybe not so unexpected. When discussing Simon’s choice with my brother Steve, the fast runner, fast talker, fast everything in our family, he didn’t laugh. Nope, his response was, “Oh yeah, Flash. I always liked him.” So there it is, Simon exhibiting a rare (for him) Goldstein strain of his DNA.

Posted in Jessica, KIP (Preschool), Little Boy | 1 Comment »

Our Town

Oct 25th, 2011 by

Louisville is a small city/big town, the kind of place where everyone is, or seems to be, a few degrees removed from everyone else. I didn’t feel a part of the web of the city my first few years back. I had been gone for seventeen years, and many of my connections were lost or forgotten in that time. Working from home also meant that I had few opportunities to get out and about to forge or renew these connections.

By now, I’ve been out of the work force for a year and a half, a part of a preschool community for over three years, part of a second preschool community for over one year, and part of a volunteer organization for four years. The connections are starting to not just form, but also to cross and develop into a true Louisvillian web. What follows are two recent examples.

Tale #1: The Preschool Connection

Three weeks ago, Simon had a make-up swim lesson at the JCC on a Tuesday. Afterwards, we hit the playground, where Simon befriended a boy, Mikhael, who is about eight months older. The next day, I was sick with a fever, so Matt took a half day off from work. The weather was nice, so he decided to take Simon to a local park, Big Rock. Shortly after arrival, Simon saw Mikhael, cried out “Hey, I know you!” very happily, and ran off to play.

Fast Friends at Big Rock

That left Matt to chat with Mikhael’s mother, who was with a two-year-old girl. The conversation went something like this:

“So how old is your daughter? “

“Two.”

“Is she in preschool?

“Yes, she’s at AJ.

“That’s interesting. My wife drives a two-year-old girl to AJ a few times a week.

“Really? Who?

“Agotich Kwai.

“She’s in Avigail’s class. I know your wife!”

And she does. Avigail’s family moved here from Israel about a year ago, and Keren (the mother) and I have compared notes about how much the girls are speaking at all, and what percentage of their speech is in English as opposed to their native tongue. Come to find out, Mikhael was very close to going to KIP for kindergarten, so he and Simon just missed being classmates. We’re setting up a play-date for this week.

Tale #2: The Elementary School Connection

I’m getting ready to gear up for choosing a kindergarten for Simon. The process here in Jefferson County is so deeply divided, complicated, controversial, and—if I do say so myself, stupid—that I’m not going to get into the details. Suffice it to say, I have a few magnet schools I’d like to check out, and then I plan to tour neighborhood schools. Magnet schools are chosen by lottery, and Simon is not guaranteed his neighborhood school either, so I have to look at several schools and rank them. Further, at least half of the schools I choose must be in neighborhoods with low income levels, low rates of education, and high percentages of minorities.

Anyway, given all this drama I’ve been asking around about people’s experiences with schools. Where are their kids, are they happy, and the like. I’m especially interested in those who are happy with a B cluster school, i.e. one of the schools in the low-income, low-education areas. About a month ago, I talked to the assistant in the toddler room at AJ, Agotich’s class last year. Margaret has kids at Byck, a B-cluster school.

It wasn’t her first choice—or even her second. It might have been her last one. She was devastated and frankly worried, but headed off to open house with an open mind. What she found was a well maintained building, an energetic staff, and a Waldorf-inspired program that appealed to her. She enrolled her boys, gulped hard, and hoped for the best. Which is what she got; her kids are in their third year at Byck, and the entire family is very happy with the school.

This made me feel better. Byck came up again when the daughter of an extended family member (my sister-in-law’s sister) ended up there this year. She had been at a different school for kindergarten and first grade, but the family moved last year and had to choose all over again. They, too, got Byck, and the school was their last pick as well. They are also happy with it, something we discussed at my nephew Ben’s birthday party last month. Then Julie, my sister-in-law’s sister-in-law joined the conversation.

“Are you talking about Margaret’s kids? They’re our new next-door neighbors.”

Seriously, that’s how small Louisville is. But wait! Just three days ago Matt, Simon, and I stopped by Guitar Emporium to run an errand. Matt has been building effects pedals lately, and he and a guy who works there were going to exchange some components. The conversation turned to kids, then I directed it to schools, and soon after Greg was telling me a now very familiar story about Byck.

“You know, I heard a very similar story from a family member and from a teacher at AJ.”

“Are you talking about Margaret?”

“Yes!”

“That’s my wife.”

THAT’s how small this city is.

But wait, there’s a…

Bonus Round:

Two weeks ago we had an electrician out to the house. As we’re chatting while ensuring that I ordered the right switches (my house still has some early twentieth-century knob and tube wiring), he says to me,

“Now, did I get your name right? Jessica Goldstein?”

“That’s me.”

“Rita’s daughter?”

“Yup. She’s the one who gave me your name.”

“Does that make you related to Perry?”

“He’s my brother.”

“I’m sorry.”

They are friends, as it happens. Chris, the son of my mom’s electrician and the one who came to our house, is somehow related to old neighbors of my brother.

Can you believe how small this city is? I could go into how the home inspector I used to refinance two years ago screamed “Goldstein’s sister!” when he laid eyes on me, or how I see the woman who is a family friend and who inspired my name every Sunday at the JCC, or how I avoided a fellow KIP parent for several years because he was my worst baby-sitting job ever, but I think you get the idea.

The moral of this story:

  1. I should really go check out Byck;
  2. I should be nice to everyone, because you never, ever know when doing otherwise could come back to haunt you.

Posted in Family, Friends, Jessica, Little Boy | 1 Comment »

The Golden Mean

Oct 21st, 2011 by

As Simon gets older, he’s interested in a wider variety of activities and only rarely naps. I sometimes sense that he’s under-stimulated by being at school from 9 to 1 and then hanging out with me at home. After a brief snack and rest, I feel like he’s ready to DO something.

And he is, though not as much as I booked him for this past week. Behold Simon’s agenda for the last seven days:

  • Saturday: School birthday party
  • Sunday: Swimming class and family birthday party
  • Monday: School and then not much else
  • Tuesday: School, play-date with Taylor at Grandma and Papaw’s house, Rookie Hoop Stars basketball at the JCC
  • Wednesday: School, play-date at Puzzles Fun Dome with Braylon
  • Thursday: Full day with Caroline, including 2 hours running around the house shrieking and over 2 hours at the Speed Museum’s Art Sparks Exhibit
  • Friday: Trip to the Newport Aquarium with Ruby

I am sure that a golden mean of children’s activity exists; I am equally sure that this wasn’t it. I began to realize this, unfortunately, at promptly 1:15 p.m. on Friday when, upon paying the hefty admission fee and entering the aquarium, Simon announced he was hungry and tired. Thankfully, he did not pull out Baby Kitten on us, but it was close! He laid down on every bench he found, slouched over and against display walls, and did that thing where he twists his legs, trips over himself, and declares himself unable to walk.

We made it through the exhibit, saw some interesting and beautiful sights, and had a fine time, but it took a marathon of coaxing, encouraging, borderline bullying, and sugar-based bribery to get there. Once we hit the penguins (a disappointingly small and isolated display, incidentally), the last exhibit before the exit, I felt a palpable sense of relief.

The funny thing about this, is that I should have seen it coming. For on Wednesday, an hour or so into Puzzles Fun Dome, Braylon announced that he was ready to go back to Simon’s house. I didn’t understand this at first: Why would he want to just hang out at home when he could be out doing something fun? Then I thought about the fact that Braylon is at school until 5:30 every day and probably relished some down-time with a single child. He was exceedingly happy to sit on our couch, watch Looney Tunes videos, eat a snack, and then play with hot wheels. After the week Simon had just had, I think he was ready for some low-key family time today.

So Simon, I’ve got some really good news for you. Tomorrow we have a family dinner for Aunt Bobbie’s birthday. Sunday you have a half-hour swimming lesson. And the rest of the weekend? Nothin’. We’re going to have the kind of weekend that makes you feel like an amnesiac when asked about it on Monday. A happy, well-rested, amnesiac. Bring on the nothing!

Posted in Friends, Jessica, Little Boy | 1 Comment »

It Takes a Village

Oct 18th, 2011 by

Against the backdrop of birthday preparations last week, other stuff was percolating. This stuff, which I will get to in a moment, demonstrated to me more than anything that it takes a village—or better still an army—to raise a child.

It all started the week before last, when I had a five-day fever that didn’t end until Yom Kippur was over. This was the same week I learned that my neck was a mess. (PT is helping, by the way, but I still have an appointment with a neurosurgeon in three weeks.) The timing was pretty bad, because I wanted to use that week to get my house in shape before birthday-palooza arrived.

Then, Sunday night, Gabriel called. Agotich had been sick with a fever since Friday night and was refusing to eat or drink. He was looking for parent-to-parent advice until he could get her to the pediatrician the next morning. I wasn’t too concerned about the food, but the lack of fluids made me nervous. I gave him the address of a pediatric immediate care center, he decided to go straight away, and the doctors there immediately referred Agotich to Kosair Children’s Hospital. Turns out, she had an uncommonly severe form of Hand Foot and Mouth Disease that had left her entire mouth and throat covered in ulcers. That’s why she refused to eat or drink, and the two-day fast had left her dehydrated. Poor baby.

So what’s a family with one car, one licensed driver, and a five-month-old baby to do when a second child ends up in the hospital? Anyieth couldn’t go to the hospital with her parents, Alek doesn’t drive yet, and Gabriel couldn’t leave Agotich alone in such strange and stressful surroundings. They needed someone who could pick up Alek and Anyieth, drop off Anyieth somewhere to be watched, take Alek to the hospital, and then reverse things several hours later.

Friends Alier and Yar helped out, Matt and I helped out, and staff at Agotich’s preschool helped out. I’m sure others did too: they had to. Agotich was in the hospital for six days, during which time this family needed the kind of support we lucky ones get from our extended families. How does anyone do this alone? I can’t imagine. My Sudanese friends have friends, siblings, and cousins, but none have parents to help.

I was happy to step in, and I tried not to think about what it boded in the days ahead that I spent several hours on two different days running carpool instead of getting ready to entertain twice. A sick child takes precedence over parties. Nor did I think too much about the time I was spending coordinating a preschool fundraiser that week. Nor did I think too much about the time I spent in physical therapy for my neck. Nor did I think too much about the fact that school was out Thursday and Friday for Sukkot. Nor did I think too much about the fact that last week was my most intense week of fall half-marathon training, with runs of 6, 7, and 13 miles. I even managed to put out my mind the fact that Simon’s swim lesson on Sunday was going to take away precious preparation time.

I can assure you, however, that when I awoke Saturday morning spectacularly unprepared for the days ahead, I thought about all of these things! We were having 12-14 kids at the Louisville Nature Center for Simon’s class party on Saturday and a total of 18 family members for dinner at our house on Sunday. And as of Saturday morning, I had not made party favors; picked up my junk, much less cleaned my house; or gone to the grocery. I was as or more behind preparing for Simon’s parties than I have ever been for anything in my life.

Evie kindly helped out at the kid’s party and brought a key part of Sunday night’s dinner. Matt and Simon ran errands Saturday and Sunday to get ready. And my mother, an army of one in her own right, helped me cook Sunday and even, I’m embarrassed to admit, helped clean my house. The very woman that Alek wants to cook for was, in fact, cleaning my downstairs bathroom hours before guests arrived.

Thankfully, it all worked out. Simon had a fantastic time at both events, and we were graced with perfect fall weather. But man oh man was I pooped Sunday night. More than that, I was grateful for the village that helped me make Simon’s birthday special and that helps me in so many ways all the time. I’m going to be especially mindful of this when I pick up Braylon Wednesday so he and Simon can have a play-date and celebrate each  other’s birthdays (they missed each other’s parties), when I watch Caroline Thursday when school is closed for Shemini Atzeret, and again when I watch Ruby on Friday when school is closed for Simchat Torah.

Call it paying my karmic debt. Call it paying forward. I’m calling it being a villager.

Posted in Family, Friends, Jessica, Little Boy | 2 Comments »

Five

Oct 16th, 2011 by

With Baron at Kids’ Party on the 15th

Dear Simon,

This is the year that sealed it for me and your Dad: We are some of the luckiest parents in the world. Not because you are perfect—no one is—but because, Baby Kitten aside, you are the perfect kid for us.

I’m sure if I had sat down and described my ideal child: curious, smart, dreamy, funny, sweet, gentle, affectionate, social, I would have ended up describing you. Then you threw in some bonus items: a love of maps to match your Dad’s, a love of music that matches your Dad’s but delights me as well, abundant qualities of empathy that help me understand my own childhood better, an immediate affinity for Tolkien that simultaneously amuses and concerns me, and a love for all things vehicular and sporty.

Those last two bits are all your own and have opened previously closed doors to us. Do you think your Daddy knew anything about Nascar before you started asking? Or watched a baseball game on TV? Do you think I ever attempted to pitch correctly? Or drove a go-cart? Or could recognize more than two or three makes of cars? No, no, no, no, and no. Then again, your daddy is thrilled beyond words to have a couch buddy for English Premier League football and Boston Celtics games.

If you are starting to notice how much more you’re hearing about your Daddy this year, well, there’s a reason for it. This is the year that gender identification was cemented. Girls were good friends on play-dates, but at school you only play with boys, a situation you have explained to me quite clearly: “I’m a boy, so boys are good for me to play with.” Go-cart riding with Mommy was fun, but improved in your imagination by substituting me with Uncle Dan and Daddy. You will still pick out pink paint, a pink cookie, and pink mums for the porch, but you never ask for pink shoes or clothing anymore.

All this Daddy-ness aside, I still see plenty of glimpses of me in you. Like when you ask for mango or green tea flavored frozen yogurt. Or when you go to the library with your Bubbie and come back with a stack of books, half of which have Japanese illustrators. Or the smile on your face the first time you tried a real ballroom dance. Or the way you cackle at the Bugs Bunny Roadrunner Show. Your Daddy was more of a Daffy fan. And no, I don’t get that, either.

Then there are the areas where your interests and ours perfectly harmonize. Take the solar system. You dig it. So your Daddy has shown you videos of Mars Rovers and taught you about helium and hydrogen gasses, and I spent the better part of two days painting Styrofoam balls to make you the (freakishly accurate) solar-system Derby hat you wanted for this year’s school parade. Or the Beatles: Sure, your dad is the one who can play the songs and teach you John’s harmonica part on “I Should Have Known Better”, but we both sing with you and I’m the one who took you poster shopping and scrounged the Internet for hours looking for the just-right Beatles tee-shirt. Do you think I did this solely for your sake?

I’m sure there are dozens more instances like this. And after every odd-but-endearing act or utterance, your dad and I exchange sidelong glances that silently communicate “How did we get so lucky?” In fact, on the vast majority of nights, after I lay down with you, kiss you goodnight, and tuck you in bed, I close your door behind me, walk across the hall into your dad’s office, and wait for him to say what I’m thinking:

“Sweetest little boy in the world.”

And you are. Still. Not quite as hesitant as you used to be. Better able to make new friends on the playground when you run into them. In the thrall of boys who are older and/or more rambunctious than you. But still achingly sweet. This is not just a mother’s wishful thinking. I hear it from your school director, your teachers, and other parents. At five, you don’t cry as much as you used to, but the sight of one of your good friends hurt or in tears is enough to bring on the waterworks, which in turn melts my heart.

In last year’s birthday letter, I promised to not to strike too elegiac a tone. We had wrapped a great year, and I sensed that the next would only be better. It was, and I feel much the same again. In the past year, you have happily climbed, jumped, run, biked, and floated. You have learned to write your name without help, picked up some Spanish, and begun to mostly dress yourself. You can give directions to our house, name all the roads we travel on, and help me find the car when I can’t remember where I’ve parked it.

Every day you get a little more independent, a little smarter, a little more daring, and quite a bit taller. On your absolute worst days, which come rarely, you still provide at least a few tender or funny moments that make me happy to be your mom. On most days, you provide multiple occasions that make me stop, ponder my good fortune, and feel immense gratitude.

You are my dear son, the best thing I’ve ever done, and the most fulfilling job I’ve ever had. Happy fifth birthday, Simon. And here’s to many, many, many more.

Posted in Birthday Letter, Jessica, Little Boy | 3 Comments »

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