A letter to my eleven year old.

Wednesday, August 19, 2026

My father rarely lost his temper with me. I can’t remember him yelling at me, ever. But I can remember a car ride with him once, when I was probably about your age. In this instance — which stands alone in my memory; I don’t know what precipitated it, or how we resolved it — he squeezed the steering wheel really, really hard and hissed through gritted teeth: Don’t. Talk to me. Like I’m stupid. 

Child of mine, I feel those words in my soul. True that you’ll never get to tell anyone that I hardly ever lost my temper. And I’m not proud that you’ll remember getting yelled at pretty frequently. You might not be able to look back yourself and recall any singular moment of me telling you not to talk to me like I’m stupid, because I say it so often I might as well be telling you to brush your teeth. (Which I probably say just as aggressively. It’s either morning and you’re late for the bus or it’s nighttime and I can’t go to bed until you do, dammit.) 

Your brother is the only other tween boy I’ve spent any notable amount of time with since I was also a tween and, candidly, it wasn’t my favorite chapter. I’ll take 17-year-old Cooper over 11-year-old Cooper any day of the week. He’s moody and he grunts a lot and he still talks to us like we’re stupid most of the time we speak, but he’s so smart. He’s learning to articulate, both his vowel sounds and his opinions. He’s funny. He gives me hope, and I’ll tell you what, those glimmers are what keep mothers from taking off in the middle of the night for the nearest liquor store or airport. 

And here you are, just as he emerges from the depths, ready to dive in yourself. We’re entering into some murky waters, I fear. You so desperately want to be grown. Or at least more grown than you are. You’re reaching for puberty — like, actively trying to bring about its onset:

• I listen to you singing in the shower as you make your voice crack, even though I’ve told you it doesn’t work like that. 

• You were so excited by your first pimple, and took your disappointment out on me when I pointed out that it was a mosquito bite. 

• A few days ago I said you’d be home by yourself for a bit while my schedule and dad’s crisscrossed. Your response? “Well, I really couldn’t ask for more.”

I suspect you’ll be less enamored with the process of getting older than you are with the idea of it all, but that’s not going to slow time. You’re still so lean and lanky but you’ve got those Great Dane puppy feet that can only mean, like it (you) or not so much (me), it’s coming. 

But, as I’ve said to you so many times over so many years about so many things: not yet, my love. You’re kind of feral, but also wholly incapable of getting your own snacks. Independent and self-motivated, but can’t sleep without a back scratch and Lamby and a lullaby. Brave and curious and whip smart, but surprisingly shy in new situations. Independent, yes; mama’s boy, oh yeah. 

No matter how much time I spend begging you to stop, I love watching you grow. No matter how much you whine about school, I love watching you light up at learning something new. No matter where it all goes from here, I will be watching. And I will love you. Every version of you. Even the one with pimples. 

How I love you Emmett James.