Your dad did this thing when we were first dating. Actually well into it. Sometimes he still does it, now that I think about it. I'd be mid-sentence and he'd get this look on his face. And I'd interrupt myself to self-consciously ask, "What?"
And he'd say, "Who are you?"
Or, "Who is this Jessica Stone person?"
He was simply baffled about where I'd blown in from, how I'd settled so completely into his world, taking over his life and his living room and making him whole new people to take care of.
It was kind of disconcerting, the question, but kind of sweet.
And he'd say, "Who are you?"
Or, "Who is this Jessica Stone person?"
He was simply baffled about where I'd blown in from, how I'd settled so completely into his world, taking over his life and his living room and making him whole new people to take care of.
It was kind of disconcerting, the question, but kind of sweet.
And I get it. As I leaned over you tonight, tucking you in, before I knew what was happening the thought crept in: Who are you? Who is this skinny person with the sharp elbows and the joyous laugh and all the answers? Who are you, Emmett?
Every day it seems you're someone a little different than the day before. I know they say that about newborns, about infants, but they don't warn you about the phenomenon that has carried us right up to elementary school, where I can see no end to it in sight.
Every day your universe gets bigger — and with it your vocabulary, your bank of opinions, your curiosity. Your assuredness, but conversely your apprehension. Your worldview and its influencers, people I don't know. People you describe as your "new best friend who chased me at recess today," but whose names you can't quite ever remember. People who get to spend more of these days with you than I do.
Still, though, I know you better than anyone. By which I mean I know you better than I know anyone else, but also, I know you better than anyone else knows you. I know your scent and the timbre of your voice and when you're about to jump on me, even if it's from behind. I know what frustrates you and what delights you and the size of your hands and that, left to your own devices, you will unequivocally lie straight to my face about whether or not you've brushed your teeth.
And yet, you're an enigma to me.
I don't know what you dream at night and I'm afraid that by the time you could tell me, you won't.
I don't know whether you'll be scientifically minded like daddy, a lazy creative like me, or something else entirely, something entirely unto you.
I don't have the words to keep you near me at all times (and I don't know, if I did, if I would. It's probably just best that I don't).
I can't fathom why you're so obsessed with weaponry and farting.
I don't know who you're going to be tomorrow. Which is exciting, because I know whoever it is will be amazing, and terrifying, because I don't know how to keep that precious person safe.
"What's the rule?" I call out to your fleeting, fleeing back. For a while you indulged me, hollering over your shoulder so I could hear, if the wind was traveling the right way, "No dangerous tricks!"
Lately, though, as you've pedaled toward the playground, you've just answered with, "I already know the answer to that stop asking!" I'll note that you shout this at me from an unhelmeted head, from the middle of a street you've crossed without looking one way, let alone both, with no sense of irony.
And I realize my fatal flaw: We've not come to terms with what we define dangerous to be.
Perhaps that's what six will bring us, with all its new mysteries: alignment on what's yours and yours alone — like your dreams; what's always going to be ours; and how, together, we'll keep you growing, keep you learning, and keep you out of the emergency room.
How I love you, Emmett James.
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