Oh what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?

My dearest darling beloved Zeke. This is my belated birthday post to you.

Even just writing those words - dearest, darling, beloved - makes me choke up a bit. The love I have for you is so intense and boundless, it overwhelms me sometimes. Which is a good thing, because the past few months with you have required me to draw on every ounce I have of strength, patience, and parental abilities. 

If I didn't love you so much, I wouldn't bother. 

I had high hopes for the start of high school. You were so motivated. You signed up for a panoply of challenging classes. You were excited to be in a great school with all of the neighborhood friends you had known from kindergarten and beyond.

But you immediately started hanging out with some non-neighborhood friends who were leading you down a bad path. You were making truly terrible choices, some of which were just irresponsible, others of which were truly dangerous. 

Because I will always respect your privacy, I won't get into specifics. Suffice it to say I was dismayed, worried, and occasionally terrified. 

I have cried and raged and nagged. I get headaches from grinding my teeth at night. I have anxiety dreams and restless sleep. 

I have leaned heavily on my mother to try to figure out what to do. I have asked my brothers to be mentors to you. Even Greg, who also did some stupid shit when he was in ninth grade, offered you some guidance.

Thankfully, the lightbulb seems to have come on. You ditched your trashy friends and are hanging out with kids from your school who appear to be better influences. Because I'm not naïve or stupid, I am under no delusion that you guys don't do stupid shit. But mostly you do normal teenage stuff like go to the mall or hang out at each others' houses or go skateboarding nearby. 

I still nag. I'm crying and raging less often. But we are on a positive trajectory, thank goodness.

It's been frustrating because you're so smart and talented. In terms of sheer brain-power, of an inquisitive approach to the world, of breadth of interests, you could have it all. It would take minimal effort to be a super-star, which is one of the things that has so frustrating to me. 

My approach to you and Josie (and most situations) is to try to assess what's going on from an objective and reasonable place. I examine what outside stressors you're dealing with, why you might make the choices you make, and what you're capable of from a maturity/developmental perspective. 

So I understand that 15 year old boys are morons whose brains aren't done cooking yet. I have to take that into account when you're making dumb decisions. 

But still. You have gone above and beyond in this regard.

On the other hand, it's not all bad, or even mostly bad. When you are on your game - which is most of the time - you are one of the most delightful people I know. You're funny and affectionate and sweet. You're witty and clever and fun to talk to. When you're not sulky, you constantly give me hugs and tell me how much you love me. 

I know this is true. As you have told me in the past, I am your person. The one you lean on the hardest, but also the one who bears the brunt of the bad stuff because you know that you are safe with me and that I can handle it. That I will never turn my back. 

Sometimes the relentlessness of your need for me feels crushing. But it has also made me a better mother and a better person.

This shit isn't for the faint of heart, that's for sure. I also know that it will pass. You will mature and it won't be so hard.

You are 15 now. You are charming and a gatherer of people, your peers pulled in by your heliotropic powers. You are truly gorgeous. You're a talented athlete. Kind. Sensitive. Brilliant. 

Complicated. 

Anything you want to do, you could accomplish. You just need to believe in yourself and put in the effort. I will always have high hopes for you.

And you know I will be there for you however I can. 

All the love in my heart,

Mom

Fire on the mountain

 "I have a treat for us on Tuesday 11/8," he texted about four weeks ago. "We'd need to leave work early. Can you do it?"

I could. Even though he wouldn't tell me what the treat was. 

A couple of weeks later I asked what kind of clothes I would need. The answers ranged from "little black dress" to "something warm, and make sure you have your ice axe and crampons." 

He also sent me this:

I laughed. He knows me well enough to know not to schedule a night of sleeping in the snow. 

The day we were leaving, I asked, "what's the sleeping situation? What should I bring to sleep in? What about toiletries?"

His response was "toothbrush. Kindle. Scratchy wool negligee." 

So unhelpful.  

Finally I threw some winter boots, warm socks, underwear, PJs, and a sweater into my backpack, and hoped for the best. 

We drove west towards the mountains and turned off to Evergreen and got on the road heading up to Squaw Pass (the same road that killed me in the Triple Bypass). After about 12 miles, we turned off to a very rocky road, bumped along for a bit, and parked in a little clearing. He gave me a big backpack that looked to have a sleeping bag in it. I put on my boots and sweater, took the backpack, and we started walking up the mountain path. I still had no idea what we were doing.

After about a mile and a half, I saw the top of a fire tower peeking over the rise. 

"Is that where we're going? Cool!"

He tried to fake me out again by suggesting that we would be camping on the ground below the fire tower. I put on a game face before he finally acknowledged we were going into the tower.

"You're a good sport," he said.

"That'll be on my tombstone. 'She was always reasonable, fair, and a good sport.'"

What followed exceeded my expectations (a low bar, considering I had no idea what to expect at all). The fire tower is a historic structure maintained by the U.S. Forest Service and they now rent it out to the public. Reservations get booked up months in advance. Greg had been going on the website with the intention of booking something for next year, but then saw that someone had cancelled and there was an opening for November 8. Election night. With a full moon. I was thrilled.

This is what it looked like inside. It was delightful. And the views were insane.

Looking east as the sun sets

We watched the sun set behind the mountains and the moon rise over Denver. We listened to music and drank bourbon and ate onion crackers with stinky cheese and prosciutto. He taught me to play cribbage, which has random, confusing rules. We looked at the stars and the planets (Jupiter was particularly bright). We talked and laughed.

We celebrated being off the grid and off our phones on election night, meaning that if our democracy as we know it was going to be destroyed, we could at least have a last romantic night of blissful ignorance. 

"Like Schrödinger's election!" I said. 

The only wrinkle was the wind. It was blowing extraordinarily hard, whistling fiercely and rattling the windows and keeping me awake. But in the morning, the colors of the sky were gorgeous, and it was worth it.  

And later, when we made it down the mountain and had cell service again, we discovered that the cat was still alive and our democracy would survive. All in all, another perfect night when I didn't want to be anywhere but where I was.