A letter to my six year old.

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 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. 

A letter to my five year old.

I have to admit, Noodle, I’ve been dragging my feet on this one for a bit. You’ve been five for two weeks already, but the truth is, there’s so much to say it’s hard to know where to start. It’s been a doozy of a year. But we’ve carried on bravely, you and me, I think, in spite of all the dooziness.

 

Here’s what I’ve tried and failed to teach you so far:

·       To snap.

·       How to pronounce yellow (“lello”) or cupcake (“pupcake”) or Jeb (it’s more of a “Zseb,” like Zsa Zsa; and sometimes, it’s just “Dog! Come here, my dog!”), although you have nailed “coronavirus” which is equal parts endearing and sad.

·       That not everyone, dogs and cats included, want to “battle” all the time. I know I don’t. Stop sucker-punching me.

 

What I’ve had moderate success teaching you so far:

·       The lyrics to Hamilton. You make up a good chunk of them, but your spirit is in the right place.

·       How important words are. All of them, even the ones you can’t pronounce yet. Learn as many as you can. Choose them carefully. (Longer is not necessarily better. Never say utilize when you can just say use, for crying out loud.) I've said it before and I'll say it again: "poop" is not as great a word as you think it is. Remember the two most powerful ones, in any scenario: thank you. 

 

And here’s a quick look, my fiver, at a few things I’ll never be able to teach you:

·       How to be colorblind. Because you’re not. None of us are. (I mean, except for the people who actually are. You know what I mean.) Don’t be. See all the colors. Mix them up. Use them in unexpected ways.

·       What it feels like to be Black.

·       How afraid a mother is to send her boy out into the world. Me, because you’re a little bit insane and fucking fearless and use the words “most dangerous” with glee as you set off for the swings or eyeball rooftops. Her, because she doesn’t know what about the way her son looks might trigger someone’s fear or violent bias.

 

This year, only your fifth, has already been fraught. With tension, with illness, with the unknown, with the broad awakening of some and the stubborn shutting down of others. But it’s okay. It’s good. Because that’s where the change comes from. And whether it feels okay or good right now, we are living in a time of notable change. For women, for people of color, for those who identify themselves and their view of the world differently than I do, or than you may as you grow into your own perspectives. Don’t believe the cynics who say nothing will change. They’re protecting themselves, or trying desperately to. They’re the reason nothing has. Instead, believe in the dreamers. The resisters. The question-askers. The protestors. The fact-finders and the truth-seekers. Watch them. Listen to them. Empathize with them; when you can't, find compassion for them anyway. So you’ll be ready to join them when you’re called to do so. And until you are, I will carry this torch for us, the one you’ve lit inside me.

 

You have already proven your value to this world a thousand times over in your short few years here. It steals my breath to imagine what you’ve got in store for us as you learn and grow. Just not too fast, my love. Not too fast.

 

How I love you, Emmett James.

Mama.

 

We’ll bleed and fight for you. We’ll make it right for you.

If we lay a strong enough foundation, we’ll pass it on to you; we’ll give the world to you and you’ll blow us all away.

A letter to my four year old.

You are, in innumerable ways, so perfectly, purely, indelibly, ordinary. 

Don’t get me wrong — not for one second — and mistake me for saying that you’re not anything special. Everything you do is tinged with special. With the extraordinary. But framing up all that extraspecialness is… a pretty run-of-the-mill toddler. Just a kid. Your typical preschooler. I find it, you, so comfortingly, frustratingly, expected. 

Just like so many four year olds before you… 

You stall like a champion, award-winning, black-belt, heavy-weight staller. 

You can do it yourself. 

You bang on everything.

You jump off everything, oftentimes while banging on something. 

You can do it yourself.  

You beg me and your dad not to kill ants or spiders or mosquitoes. (I always listen (except for the mosquitoes) and your dad becomes Rambo in the presence of anything with more legs than us.)

You can do it yourself.

You sing Old Town Road… the Emmett remix (“Got the ‘Vengers in my bag and the Snoopy Dog poop”). 

Everything is a competition. 

You love to be read to, to be sung to, to stand up when you pee especially when you’re outside. 

Your hide-and-seek skills are still woefully underdeveloped. 

You can count high and spell your name and you tell the best bedtime stories. 

You dance, you march, you race, you skip, you play, you snuggle, you laugh, you entertain. 

You ask questions. So. Many. Questions. 

You can do it yourself unless you need help and then you cry. 

And all that means I become every run-of-the-mill repetitive mom of a run-of-the-mill crazy four year old. You hear the same things from me, over and over and over and over and over and that’s not even close to the number of overs I could list. 

Watch where you’re going. 

Yes, you can take a bubble-y bath. And probably to follow it up with a chocolate-y treat. 

Be careful.

No, you can’t climb on that. 

Stop climbing on that. 

Get down. 

Pull your pants up. 

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD be careful. 

I love you too. 

This year, baby, let’s work on figuring out where you can be special, and where it’s okay to just be. I can’t wait to see where your extraordinary self takes you. What excites you and scares you and challenges you. It’s going to be an exciting, scary, challenging year, my little love, in all kinds of ordinary fourth-year ways. 

I hope you’ll carry mommy’s words forward with you, through four and into forever. Watch where you’re going. Take time to relax and smell good. Eat the treats. Pee in designated spots only. Be careful, my brave wrecking ball. How I love you, Emmett James. 

Year in (Book) Review: Q1

The Book of Speculation, Erika Swyler

One of my favorite accidents: I’m strolling through Target; I only have 62 things in my cart, so I’m on the hunt; I somehow end up in the book aisle even though I swear I was looking for … well, I don’t know what, but it wasn’t needed and it wasn’t a book; I pick up something I’ve never heard of on a whim and I love it. It’s super convoluted and kind of weird — it's got a librarian and some circus freaks — and it’s just right.

On Being 40(ish), edited by Lindsey Mead

As someone safely on the “ish” side of 40, I listened to a dear, dear friend and regular contributor to the book list talk about this one half checked out. Then, for her birthday (because she’s that friend) she sent me a copy of fun short stories written by ladies running the gamut from pretty young to almost old to one foot in the grave. (those might all be exaggerations.) It sits on my nightstand, all pink and little and cute, and it’s the perfect thing to read when you just need something lovely and relevant and sometimes bittersweet and sometimes hysterical.  

House Rules, Jodi Picoult

My take on that old cliche, as it applies to Jodi Picoult: She could rewrite the phone book and I would read it. There’s just something so inherently readable about her to me. This one’s the story of a mother, her autistic son who’s accused of a terrible crime, her non-autistic son who has his own uphill battles to climb, and how you cope with not having all the answers. Which is motherhood in a nutshell.

Becoming, Michelle Obama

This is not a book about

• politics
• Barack Obama

This is a book about

• a freakishly smart, incredibly gracious, humble, stylish, funny mama chick
• okay, sort of politics
• hope

If you’re politically inclined and lean left, read it. If you’re not at all politically inclined, lean right, want to feel slightly in awe and inadequate, and/or just think amazing women are amazing, read it.

My Husband's Wife, Jane Corry

Needed another spontaneous plane book. Have a propensity to gobble up page turners. This one fit the bill just fine: semi-creepy easy reading. Husband wants me to include a note that if anything mysterious happens to him, someone should check my Dateline notes.

Don't You Cry, Mary Kubica

Needed a spontaneous plane book since my copy of Becoming is hardback and heavy.

I admit to getting a little judgy — there are a few spots she tries a little hard for the, I don’t know the word (see why I write book reviews and not books) — the mood? (“The grass is brown. No longer green.” Thanks. Got it.) And also I figured out the ending really super early on, which I never do. But it was a fine choice for a mindless page turner. Plus apparently she went to Miami of Ohio so she’s got to be kind of cool.

You Are a Badass, Jen Sincero

Lemme start right here, right at the beginning: I'm not a self-help kind of person, book or otherwise. It's weird; I feel like I should be. I'm pretty introspective. I like improving as much as the next lazy person. But most self-help seems a little eye-roll worthy to me. A little ... much. But when your yoga teacher/girl crush/friend hands you a book — doesn't just give you a recommendation, I mean actually physically hands you a book — you take it. You say thanks. And you read it out of obligation.

And if you're lucky you end up loving it, in spite of yourself.

It's a little much. In the best way. Think The Secret, but with F bombs.

Three.

A letter to my three year old.

Someday, sooner than I can imagine, I won’t be able to kiss away your discomfort. I won’t be able to ease your mind just by being in your sights. Someday, sooner than I can cope with, my very mommyness will be, at best an afterthought and, more likely, an embarrassment. You claim more of your independence every day. I couldn’t be prouder or more devastated.

Today, you still think that I’m your center. The start and finish of your every day. That dad and I are your only real needs. I want you to always remember that I’m your most important thing. But of course, I want you to forget. I want you to look past me. To what’s next, to what’s yours—and yours alone—to discover and learn and want and understand.

Today, your hands are so small. They grab my face and turn my head if you think I should be focused on you instead of, say, your dad or my dinner.

Your voice is so sweet.

Your belly is so round and soft and smooth.

Your fine hair still bleaches blond in the summer sun.

Your eyes—my eyes, your dedo’s eyes—still look to me for approval and permission and acceptance and validation.

Today, I still clip your fingernails and rub your forehead to make you close your eyes and curl around you for bedtime stories.

I still translate you for the world, because only I can understand what the hell you’re saying, and even that’s only about 17% of the time.

I can still pick you up and hold you to me.

Someday, there won’t be matchbox bulldozers to pull out from between the sheets before I go to bed, or discarded Paw Patrol underpants to trip over.

Or a high-pitched “mommyyyyy” called out from a crib in the next room when it’s time for the day to start.

Or a tiny naked butt running banshee down the hall away from bath time, inexplicably carrying a football nightlight in one hand and hand sanitizer in the other.

But today, there’s today’s version of you and me. The next version will have to come at the unbearable cost of losing this one. But today, there’s three-year-old little you, and little old me.

How I love you, Emmett James.

love first.

When I tuck my kid in at night, I pray over him. First I whisper to him that he is so loved (straight up some Lily Potter parenting right there, folks), and then I say a prayer. It usually goes something like this:

Please, God, let him be healthy and strong as he grows. 

Please keep him safe. From the mean world, from the unforeseen, from himself. 

There's usually something along the lines of a 'please Lord keep his mama calm and sane,' which sounds like a prayer for me but I assure you his best interests are at heart. 

Please give him an open heart and a compassionate spirit and a desire to make his world better—for himself, but also for the people he crosses paths with. And, you know, for me. Obviously. 

Please, God, teach him to love well. He already does. At not quite three, he is so love-filled. He loves his life. Like, loves. his. life. His Lamby. His family and his scooter and the lady at the grocery store and piles of rocks. And me. Oh my gosh, how he loves me. He loves to touch me and hug me and climb on me. Sometimes while he's sitting next to me he'll roll over to get a little closer and say, "Mommy, I miss you." It makes me weepy already that someday someone will replace me in that way—someone else will be his first line of defense, his first call, his safe haven. 

I have no idea who that person will be. 

I have no idea who he'll grow up to love. Given our surroundings, chances are decent he'll fall in love with a pretty little midwestern Christian girl. And we will love her because our son does, and because she loves him. Even if we secretly think she's a little flaky and wears too much eye shadow, we'll love her. 

And if she's not white, or midwestern, or if she calls her God something else while she honors her faith through good living, or she's a he, we'll love her. We will love whomever our son chooses to love. 

For almost three years of praying over him, I've prayed innumerable times that he is well-loved. 

I've never prayed about who that love will come from (although I've prayed for that person). It's never crossed my mind to ask God to make sure my son is straight. I've never prayed that all his friends believe the same things his parents do. I've prayed for him to have love. And friends. And a life that lets him stay, as often as possible, the joyful, funny, empathetic, curious, snuggly maniac he already is. 

I love him ferociously. He understands that love is the most mighty thing. 

I love him completely. He's learning that love is a big deal. 

I love him even when he's being a total shit. He knows love comes first. 

I love him. 

I can’t wait to see who he’ll love in return. 

What if.

I used to get the biggest kick out of badgering the crap out of my high school best friend/freshman college roommate with "what if" questions. I'd love to share a few of the real gems with you, but sadly, there were none. Mostly they were just absurd and unanswerable and asked only to make her laugh but instead just made her roll her eyes and groan.

The "what ifs" in my head right now aren't funny. Oh, they're still absurd - because it's absurd to have to think about these kinds of things; they still feel unanswerable, but really, they are not. 

What if fewer guns really is the answer to how do we keep our children alive until they hit the mean streets of the real world? Until the end of the school day?

What if tighter regulations and some basic common sense would make a difference in the survival rate of our children as they come under attack by their peers? 

WHAT IF YOU'RE WRONG, and you could help change this, and you're just too close-minded and heels-dug-in stubborn to try? 

If it doesn't work, okay. If people are still violently, brutally murdered in seconds, and by the dozen, okay. You win. If the bad guys just shrug their shoulders and get creative and turn to machetes or monster trucks or slow cookers and the same level of mayhem still ensues, okay. If after a reasonable amount of time of trying what seems to work exceptionally well for every other developed and shithole country alike (even those with mentally ill people, and angry people, and cop haters, and racists, and extremists, and non-Christians), if it turns out we were wrong, we can come back to where we are now. 

What if it could be different? Better?   

The audacity of refusing to try. Something. Anything. Of suggesting that a better answer is more of the same. More guns. Of deciding that somehow my husband, my sisters, my friends, should be responsible for making the kind of decision law enforcement trains endlessly for, and in a panicked, confusing, loud, chaotic, terrified moment take it upon themselves to kill a child, because it should be their job to take care of it, not ours. 

The selfishness of being unwilling to ask yourself what an alternative might look like. 

The lack of humility in saying that your rights are greater than the rights of each of the people I say "I love you, have a good day" to every morning. That your rights were written out for you hundreds of years ago, so they can't change and we should stop talking about it, thank you very much. (Did you know there have been 27 amendments proposed by Congress and ratified by enough states to become part of the Constitution? That's 27 times we've said the original version either wasn't quite right or wasn't quite enough, so we made it better.) 

Be humble. Be audacious. Be selfless. Or just be ready to gloat and tell the rest of us we were wrong. Who really cares what your motivation is to impart, or at least allow for, change. 

What if your way of doing things is just. not. working. anymore. 

What if we take better care of each other.