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

The kid is more than all right

Josie turned 13 in late September, and I'm a month late doing her birthday post. 

Birthday posts are hard now because my children are teenagers and their lives are theirs. I have all kinds of funny stories that I might tell my mom or a trusted friend, but I am very mindful of protecting their privacy. Which means that I am not going to tell their stories here, with very limited exceptions. 

In that spirit, here are some non-embarrassing examples of why my daughter is a truly lovely human, in addition to being utterly hilarious and fun. 

She does funny voices and cracks jokes and keeps everyone laughing.  She walks around the house dancing and twerking. She is either super cute in jeans and crop tops, or she goes to school looking like a homeless person, wearing oversize t-shirts and pajama pants. She sends texts that consist of strings of two or three word messages that eventually add up to a full sentence.

This had me rolling

The current thing is to talk like Jennifer Coolidge in Legally Blonde -"I'm taking the dog, dumbass." Her imitation is spot-on, and it's never not funny.

A few weeks ago she decided that she wanted to paint her room a different color. She got some new bedroom furniture for her birthday, courtesy of her extraordinarily loving and generous grandparents, and wanted a new look that was more mature than what she had.

So we walked up the block to the Ace Hardware and studied the paint options. She had a very clear idea of what she wanted, and decided on a pale beige-y grey that has very subtle hints of pink. I tend to gravitate towards bright, bold colors so it felt weird to go with something so muted, but it's her room and she gets to choose, and it looks really great. 

I was telling Greg about this and he was amazed. Not about the color, but about the fact that it took us 20 minutes to pick it out and Josie had no doubts that it was the right one. 

Almost a year ago, he fixed a squeaky stair, which led to a decision to replace the carpet. After months of deciding on a carpet, he had it installed and immediately declared that he hated it. The color (beige) didn't go with the walls (also beige). 

That led to a decision to repaint the walls, and then months of trying to pick out a shade of beige that wouldn't clash with the beige of the carpet (my suggestions to maybe try something other than beige were met with derision). Paint samples were purchased and tested on various walls. "My house looks like a leopard," he said.

Again, making a final decision took months. Thank goodness he likes the way it looks, because at this point if he didn't, my advice would have been to burn the house down.

"So you just went to the store and picked out a color and Josie's happy with it??" he asked.

"Yep."

"And that's it?"

"That's it."

Mind blown.

Anyway. 

Josie and I went home and got out the painting stuff and got to work. I showed her how to use the roller and how to paint edges by placing the paint on a certain part of the brush and holding it in a certain way. It was fun to work on a task together. 

"Why don't we put on some music," I suggested.

She put on the Grateful Dead. 

I looked at her, bemused. 

You have to understand that this is a child who thinks that nine-minute jam band songs are an abomination. She's thirteen. She's supposed to be surly, especially about my generation's musical choices. I'll be listening to Dead & Company in the car and she'll exclaim, "how can you possibly listen to a song that's this long??"

So it was a surprising choice.

She shrugged. "I know you like it, Mom, and I appreciate you helping me. I love you."

She is the sweetest girl. 

She is sweet to everyone.

Yesterday afternoon I picked her up from school and we were talking on the way home. She was telling me about a student in her class who has autism. She understands that autism is a social/communication disorder that makes it difficult for people on the spectrum to understand social cues or how their behavior might be interpreted by others. So he's a little bit awkward, but he's a nice kid and she is friends with him.

"Mom, there are kids who bully him and talk about how he's annoying. They say shitty things and the teachers know about it and don't care. It makes me so angry."

"That's awful. I hate hearing stuff like that."

"I try to stand up for him and tell people to knock it off. But they don't."

"How does he react?"

"He tells me not to worry about it. He says he's used to it and that I don't need to advocate for him because he needs to advocate for himself."

"Ugh, that's heartbreaking."

"I know. I tell the others that it's not ok. IT'S NOT OK! He can't help the way he is. And he's a really nice guy. It's so wrong."

"It's definitely not OK. I'm proud of you for sticking up for him."

The kids in Josie's class definitely need Jesus.

She is a good person. She is decent and kind and principled. She is not afraid to speak up when others are being unfair or unjust or mean.

I'm so proud of her. I have so much respect for her. She always, always keeps me laughing.

I'm lucky to be her mom. 

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy

 My darling Zeke,

This past Sunday was your 14th birthday. You were with your dad, but you and I had planned to go shopping for a new skateboard. You have recently gotten very into skateboarding - taking your board with you everywhere, constantly practicing your ollies, putting holes in my delicate lathe-and-plaster walls by accidently crashing the board into them. It's been fun seeing you develop this new interest, and in typical Zeke fashion, you practice tirelessly because you want to get good at it. But you were riding a crappy board that had been cobbled together from a couple of other crappy boards, so for your birthday I promised you a shiny new one. 

We ended up not going because a couple of your good friends came over and you wanted to hang out with them. Which was absolutely fine. I'm happy that you have some close friends that you spend time with. It's as it should be. 

Instead, we went on Monday after I got out of court. You picked out an awesome board with all the accoutrements and I ended up spending far more than I thought I would have to on a skateboard, but I was happy to do it. 

This has been crazy year. It started off with you and Josie still doing school remotely, which absolutely sucked. You were miserable and bored and depressed. Sometimes you took it out on me - I guess that's par for the course for parents of teenagers. 

You were unhappy, you weren't getting enough exercise, and you were unhappy with your life and with yourself. You didn't like how you looked and worried that you were fat (you weren't). I told you that you were obviously getting ready for a growth spurt, and whatever minimal COVID- and isolation-related fluff you were carrying would disappear in no time.

And man, did it ever. 

Over the past five months, you have transformed into a different person. You have grown a few inches and totally leaned out. Your face has lost any semblance of baby fat and you look like you're three or four years older than you are. You're growing your hair out and it looks amazing. You're beautiful. 

But even more importantly, you're wonderful. 

I don't know what happened, but at some point in the late spring a switch flipped and you emerged from your funk. Maybe it was just a maturity growth spurt to go along with your physical growth spurt. Maybe it was the bike camp adventure you went on in June - two weeks biking and camping the length of Vermont with a bunch of other kids your age. Maybe it was finishing school and getting vaccinated and feeling like there was some respite from the strictures of COVID life.

Whatever it was, since then you have been consistently delightful. You're sweet and kind and affectionate. You're helpful most of the time. You might not always do what I ask, but you're never a dick about it. You're fun to be around. You have nice friends, many of whom are always at my house eating all of my food. You're enjoying being back in school. 

Of course, life is not without its bumps.

This year also brought a significant problem that the family is dealing with. Suffice it to say that it threw you for a big loop and was starting to send you down an emotional tailspin. I was unable and unwilling to watch you spiral when things were just starting to feel good and stable for you after years of dealing with some traumatic shit, both COVID-related and otherwise. So I stepped in and did my best to fix the problem, and things have calmed down again.

It sure scared me, though. I love you so much, and I have spent so much time over the past few years trying to help you navigate the trauma you experienced from the divorce, from the abuse you suffered from your first stepmom (not the current one), from the difficulties you and Dad were having, from the pandemic. 

My mama-bear instincts kicked in and I was hell-bent on protecting you. 

I realized that's part of what will always make our relationship special. Of course I love your sister to pieces, but she doesn't need me the way you do. She's always been more resilient than you are, and she relates to Dad more than you are able to. 

So I am your safe person. And you are the one I will always rush to care for and protect, no matter what. To say that I love you doesn't begin to describe how utterly you occupy my heart. 

Love love love, 

Mom

Go shorty, it's your birthday

 My dearest darling Josephine,

This morning I woke up and found that you had crawled into bed with me during the night. I snuggled up close to you and brushed your hair away from your face and started to sing, "happy birthday to youuu..."

Without opening your eyes, you smiled and put your hand on my cheek. 

"Happy birthday, twelve-year-old girl! Do you want to hear the story of the day your were born?"

You nodded, so I told you about getting to the hospital super early and how lovely and peaceful your birth was. Then we got up and picked up Starbucks for the car pool group and drove to school with the other girls, playing birthday songs (everything from the Beatles to 50 Cent) and gossiping about teachers in your school. 

Today is a good day. 

This year has been hit or miss. 

Being 11 was not easy for you. COVID school sucked so much - you were miserable. You felt stupid and overwhelmed and like you couldn't focus on anything. 

Plus ... you were 11. Being an eleven-year-old girl is awful. Your body is changing, your hormones are flooding, you're going through developmental changes that basically render you clinically insane. 

Let's just say that your hair-trigger temper was even more hair-trigger-y than normal. 

But you're still my sweet, funny girl. It's like living with an improv comedian who is always on stage. Crazy voices, sassiness, riffing different scenarios. You always make me laugh.

This school year is off to a much better start. You have good friends, you like your classes, and you're getting good grades. You're much happier.

You've become very interested in fashion and in what you wear. You and your grandmother recently had a virtual shopping trip together and you picked out a bunch of new pieces. Mimi was concerned about the quality and fit of some of the things, but you made good choices. 

You're so cute. 

But note the shoes. Which are mine. Which I did not give you permission to take. 

This is a thing you do and it drives me absolutely insane. I will walk into your room, which is never not a disgusting mess, and see my black suede high heeled boots. 

"Why do you have my boots?"

"They're stripper boots. They're awesome. I like wearing them."

"They're not stripper boots. The heels aren't even that high. And they don't have lucite platforms."

You take my shoes, my shirts, my photographs, my sweatshirts, my makeup. It drives me insane. 

As you know, there are two things that truly send me into orbit. The first is when people grab things out of my hands. The other is when I put something away in the same place every time, but can't find it because some little turkey - i.e., you - has taken it without asking.  

But this is a teenage mother-daughter thing I will have to deal with, and I will. We have may battles and many joys yet to come. 

I can't wait. 

I love you to the moon and back.

Love love love,

Mom

We're gonna break out the hats and hooters when Josie comes home

My wonderful, colorful, hilarious, delightful Josephine,

Today you are 10 years old. I'm excited to be writing this birthday post for you because I know you are going to read it. The other day I was writing a blog post and you were sitting with me on my bed. You asked me what I liked to write about, and I told you that writing annual birthday letters to you and Zeke is up there on my list of favorites. I showed you some posts that I had written to you and you were utterly tickled by them. So I will show you this one.

I thought it would be fun to post a picture from each year of your life, so here they are:

Fresh out of the box



One year

 

Two - at the science museum

 

Three - awesome hair and face paint



Four - looking fancy at the museum

Five - school picture

Six - of COURSE you are wearing an eye patch to go to camp

Seven - newly pierced ears

Eight - boat ride along the Cinque Terre

Nine - hanging out with me at the mall

Just about ten - first day of fifth grade

So, double digits. Ten years. It's hard to fathom. People say, it all goes so fast, blink and you miss it, and tropes to that effect. But I don't always find that to be true. Ten years is a long time. Giving birth to you was a long time ago. Thinking about you as a baby or a toddler does not feel like thinking about yesterday.

As always, the past year has brought on changes and challenges. A year ago, when you were with your dad, you were living with him and Zeke in a house in Lowry. Today, he is remarried and you live with a new stepmother and four new stepbrothers.

You are not thrilled by this. When you were told that within three weeks your dad would be getting married and you would be moving into a new house with five additional people, you said, "Ugh. I don't even get a sister out of it!"

But you deal, because that is what you do. You deal.

Even as you get older and (somewhat) more mature, though, there are certain things you cling to. You still suck your fingers when you're tired. You don't like being away from me - when we're home, it distresses you if I go into a different room. You still sleep with me when you're with me.

I feel like I should mind this. Like I should insist that you're old enough to sleep alone, in your own bed. But I don't. You and your brother have had a lot of turbulence in your lives since the divorce. Your living situation with your dad has been in a constant state of flux for the past 5 years - different houses, different women, and now four additional children.

My house, on the other hand, has stayed the same. It's comfortable. It's relatively quiet. It feels like home. I know that to you and to Zeke, I feel like home. You tell me all the time how much you love me and how much you trust me. So if cuddling up with me at night gives you a sense of peace, that's fine with me. Getting whacked in the face in the middle of the night when you stretch out your arms is a small price to pay.

Something that has really blossomed this year is your insane sense of humor. You're constantly putting on voices and characters, and providing hilariously random commentary on everything you see. You'll do things like starting calling your grandfather "The Elegant Elderly" and saying, "hello, my good man" in a funny voice when you talk to him on the phone.

You've turned into a reader. You constantly carry books around with you. I finally gave you one of my old kindles so that you wouldn't have to lug around anything too heavy. I love lying in bed with you while we both read.

You like cool music. You change your hair color every other month. Your fashion choices are on the bold side. You walk around the house singing and dancing.

You make me smile and you make me proud.

You are with your dad this week, so I stopped at your school before the bell rang so that I could give you a hug and say happy birthday and tell you about the day you were born. You greeted me with love and joy. I hate not being with you on your birthday, but we will celebrate this weekend when Mimi and Papa are visiting. I can't wait to paint pottery with you, to make a cake with you, to snuggle with you.

I feel extraordinarily lucky to be your mother and to guide you through your childhood.

All the love in my heart,

Mom

Today I didn't even have to use my A.K., I got to say it was a good day

I turned 49 a week and a half ago.

That same day I went skiing and pushed myself hard, skiing through trees (which I had basically never done before) and burning my legs out on moguls. Then that night I went out for a fun birthday outing.

It's always fun to celebrate something, and a birthday is as good an excuse as any. I'm shameless about asking for a free drink or dessert. I mean, all they can say is "no," right?

On a deeper level, though, I have no idea what that number means. I mean, obviously, I understand the numerical value of 49. But as an age - as my age - I don't know how to feel.

I know how my children feel. They think I'm fucking ancient. Josie has been fascinated by my age for a while now. It's become a running joke that I'll go skiing with the kids and sometimes we'll get in the single line because it's quicker, and then meet up at the top. Invariably, Josie will start chatting with the people on her chair lift, and by the time they get to the top, they know all about me, including that I've got one foot in the grave, at least according to my daughter.

Often they will wait with her until I arrive, and say, "we know everything about you. We know where you've lived, where you've traveled, what you do for a living, how old you are..."

"She's 49!" Josie will repeat.

They laugh. "She's adorable!"

Whatever.

As an age, 49 is sort of unremarkable. It's the last time I can say I'm in my late forties, but it's not quite 50. Now 50 - that feels insane to me. My grandmother was 50 when I was born. When I was younger, 50 was super close to death.

But I don't feel old. I don't even feel middle aged. I have friends my age who refer to themselves as middle-aged and I'm always taken aback by it.

I hear and read about women reaching a certain age - i.e., my age - and starting to feel invisible. They lament that while men in their late 40s and early 50s are still considered attractive and virile, women of the same age fade away in the eyes of society.

I feel fortunate that that has not been my experience, at least not yet. Physically I feel as strong as I ever have. My skin is holding up pretty well. By virtue of not having been able to breast-feed, my boobs are still relatively perky. Men, particularly younger men, still notice me.

As my friend Ali observed, "yeah, 50 is the new 30 or whatever. Of course, 60 is still 60, so...."

I've got some time.

And honestly, I'm very happy with where I am in my life. I have a wonderfully rewarding career. I'm strong and healthy and in shape, particularly since I lost 10 pounds doing Weight Watchers. My kids are great, I have friends and family whom I love. I live in a place that lets me pursue things I love, like skiing and hiking and travel and culture.

Maybe that's the best thing about being in your late 40s. You can enjoy life more because you have lost  the ability to give a fuck about stuff that's inconsequential. I don't worry about the opinions of people I don't know, or who I'm not connected to emotionally. I'm confident in my abilities. Nothing makes me nervous. I feel prepared for whatever comes.

I can't feel the weight of age when I'm still jumping at the chance to see Snoop Dogg, Ice Cube and Warren G at Red Rocks next month. Or flying down mountains with Zeke, going as fast as we can go. Or climbing fourteeners. Or surf camp in Mexico. That's all got to count for something, right?

So I'll keep on keeping on and feel fine about it.

I can freak out next year when I turn 50. For now I'm good.

Happy birthday to me

This one goes to 11

My dearest Zekey-beans.

Today you are eleven years old.


Eleven is a weird age. There isn't the novelty of being in double digits, but you're not quite a teen. You're in full-on tween-dom. Which is weird.

On one hand, you're still a kid, still very much attached to me, still loving on me like you did when you were a toddler. You still hug me and tell me that you love me multiple times a day. You still have an extraordinary willingness to show me your physical bizness as the situation calls for it - "mom, I have a rash!" - while bending over and revealing all. Oy.

On the other hand, in true teen-adjacent fashion, EVERYTHING IS EMBARRASSING!!

You were horrified last Friday when we made our ill-fated trip to a local haunted house and Josie was so terrified of the prospect of what was to come that she burst into tears and refused to go in at all. That wasn't the embarrassing part - what upset you was my effort to go get my money back for the cost of Josie's and my tickets. "Mom, don't!! Can't we just go home???"

I'm not allowed to talk to you while you're playing PS4 with your friends while wearing your headset, because god forbid they hear me telling you to come eat your dinner, or reminding you to get off the game because it's bedtime.

A couple of weeks ago I picked you up at school and you were in tears because your teacher made some innocuous comment that could have possibly been interpreted to accuse you of looking at your girlfriend rather than at your work.

"It's the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me!" you wailed.

Sigh.

Things are not easy for you right now.

You're living with me full-time because things between you and your dad are not great. So in addition to the normal mercurial nature of being eleven - the normal feelings associated with early puberty and having crushes, trying to act like you were created in a petri dish so that you can pretend your parents don't exist, generally being a dick to your sister- you're often sad and anxious and grumpy ON TOP of all that.

It's not so much fun for either of us. We fight a lot. We push each others' buttons. We don't get time away from each other.

I get no time to myself, period.

But there will be moments when everything between us feels perfect. Little moments.

Last night you were feeling sore - I think you're having some growing pains - and asked me to massage your back. So I was working on your back muscles, and then I had you lie on your back so I could help you with some stretches. And then I lay down next to you and you curled into me, and we were joking and laughing about something, all snuggled up. I showed you a picture I have on my phone of you as a baby.

"Who's that good looking fella?" I asked.

And we were smiling and talking, feeling relaxed and happy.

You have told me I am your safe person - the one person you feel you can totally rely on when you're sad or upset or scared. You trust me completely. You tell me everything, good or bad.

Sometimes being that person can be exhausting and anxiety producing. You have said, in so many words, "I can't function without you."

I feel so much responsibility to make everything OK.

But in moments like the one last night, I feel the privilege of being the one you open up to. I feel utterly, overwhelmingly loved and appreciated.

You are a complicated, difficult, delightful, intelligent, interesting, beautiful human being. I created you, and you are mine and I am yours. It is a great gift.

To say that I love you seems woefully inadequate. You are a part of me in every sense. You fill my heart.

Everything's going to be OK. I will help you and make it OK.

All my love,

Mom

Joy to the world

Josephine, my sweet love. My delightfully funny, beautiful darling girl.

Today you are nine years old.

You are with your dad this week, so I went to school this morning to find you and wish you a happy birthday. I was already having a frazzled morning and I wandered around school, not able to find you. I was about to leave when I got a message from your dad that you had come to school late. So I got out of the car and went back in and had to wander around some more because you had left your classroom with a math group you're in.

Something about all the wandering around, not able to find you, made me feel weepy. I wanted to say to everyone I encountered, "where is she?? I just want to wish her a happy birthday, dammit!"

So when I finally found you, I did weep a little bit. I wrapped you up my arms and hugged you and kissed you.

You shouldn't have been that hard to find. Your short, blue-green hair stands out.

We did your hair two weekends ago. You really really really wanted blue hair. I had no problem with blue hair, but I really really really didn't want to spend hundreds of dollars, and many hours in a hair salon, in order to achieve it.

So I did it myself.

The bleaching part was easy, though there were gaps in my application. So when we rinsed and dried it, there was a little bit of a tiger stripe-y effect. Which was kind of cool, honestly.

Then we applied the blue dye. After 45 minutes, we rinsed it out. I realized that when you're paying all that money at the salon, what you're really paying for is access to a salon sink, in which you can tilt your head back and rinse the dye directly down the drain, rather than having to kneel in the shower as blue runs over your hands and your body and gets on everything.

But it was worth it. It looked super-cool.

You're super cool.

You're in fourth grade now. You have tons of friends. Everybody loves you and thinks you're delightful.  You're funny and goofy and strong.  You keep getting taller and taller.

Your brother is having a rougher time right now - he frequently feels like you're the favored child. And he's probably right, for some people. It's not fair, but it's true. You're easier than he is, at least for the time being.

The two of you bicker and get on each other's nerves, as siblings do. But when you were at your dad's this weekend and Zeke was with me, I had a feeling you would miss him. I wasn't surprised when you texted last night asking to talk to him.

You are a kind soul. You still say, "AAWWWWW!!!!" every time you see a dog anywhere, anytime. You're sweet to your friends.  You're funny as hell.

Even though you now have your own room with two beds, you still always sleep with me. "I don't like being away from you," is your rationale. And it's OK. I don't mind. I love waking up with you. You put your hand on my face and say, "I love you."

I love you, too.

There was something about your new hair color that was reminding me of something, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Then the other day, in an "ah-ha" moment, I realized what it was - the character of Joy, from the movie Inside Out. With her optimism and cheerfulness and zany side.



 You are Joy. You are joy.

I love you to the moon and back.

Love,

Mom

Double digits, plus a month

My dearest, sweetest Zekey,

I am writing your birthday post a month late. I don't think I've ever been so delayed in writing a birthday post for either you or your sister, and I'm kind of at a loss as to how I let it happen.* This will be the subject of another post, but for now my only excuse is that for months now I've felt overwhelmed and exhausted and anxious, and my thoughts have been jumbled and disorganized.  It has paralyzed my ability to write.

So. Back to you.

You're ten years old now. You're smart and athletic and increasingly independent. I encourage that independence - you are free to ride your bike around the neighborhood, walk from school to tae kwon do class to home, as you see fit. You can go to the park with your friends without me. You're friendly and sweet. You're a huge pain in the ass, sometimes.

On your tenth birthday, we were in Italy. Mimi and Papa were in Lucca for a month, so you and Josie and I went for a week.  

In June I had started studying some Italian in preparation for the trip, and sometimes you joined me in studying. You have the family's ear for accents and languages - listening to you practice was lovely and endearing.  I was using the Mango program and loaded the app onto your Kindle, and the next time I opened the app I saw that in addition to Italian, you had started lessons in German, Japanese, and Mandarin. 

You were utterly yourself in Italy. In Lucca, you climbed up walls and jumped off of them, climbed up and down the stairs of Guinigi tower, and hugged the soprano who performed Puccini arias at the San Giovanni church.  You talked to waiters and shopkeepers in Italian, telling them "buongiorno!" "Si, grazie!" "Parlo un po' italiano."

On top of Guinigi Tower.

You climbed the tower in Pisa and explored the basilica.

You can't go to Pisa and not take this shot. I think it's the law.

At the top of the bell tower

You splashed around in the water in Vernazza and enjoyed a snooze on the boat ride along the Cinque Terre.

That water is disgusting, but it didn't stop you (in the black shirt) from fully submerging yourself

You were game and interested in looking at art in Florence.  Granted, you took the greatest pleasure out of taking extreme close-ups of David's junk with my phone, but you also admired the sculpture as a whole. When you walked into the Duomo, your jaw dropped and you exclaimed, "WOW!! Mom, this is amazing!!" When we were in the Uffizi, you did get to the point of saying, "I just can't look at any more paintings or churches," which, fair enough. We all have our limit.

At the Galleria dell' Academia in Florence

On the Ponte Vecchio

Being you, you also had some incredibly difficult episodes. Disagreeable. Oppositional. Infuriating. Frustrating.

I worry about you. You seem to be going through a rough patch. You cling to me and are emotional about the custody arrangement - you hate going back and forth and often tell me you only want to live with me. The divorce obviously still affects you deeply and I feel so guilty for upending your life because of my failed marriage. It's not fair to you.

About a month ago, you said, "Mama? Do you mind if I call you 'mom'? 'Mama' seems kind of babyish."

"Of course," I responded. "You can call me whatever you want. I never insisted that you call me 'mama.' It was just something that you and Josie did and kind of stuck with."

Now you make a point of throwing "mom" into conversations with me, as if you're trying on a suit that makes you look and feel grown up. It's adorable.

But when you're tired or upset, you reach for me and wrap yourself around me and say, "I love you, Mama," as you bury your face in my neck.

Even at the ripe old age of 10, you have no problem expressing your love for me. I'll take it for as long as I can.

Because I love you too, son. So, so much.

Love,

Mama

_____________________
*OK, I checked. I was a month late for Josie's post in 2014, because September of that year was when Emma died and I was a wreck.

I see who I want to be, in my daughter's eyes

My dearest Josephine,

This past Thursday, when I was driving you and Zeke to school, we were getting close to the carpool drop-off lane and I saw a dad and his son heading toward the school. The kid was wearing a tie and my heart immediately sank.

"Guys, is it picture day today?"

Zeke said, "yes."

You, with your purple-y mauve-y hair, clean but frizzy and sticking up from having taken a bath and then gone to bed with a wet head, started to cry. You were wearing leggings and a t-shirt. You looked fine, but it wasn't one of your more glamorous days.

"I don't look nice for picture day," you wailed. " I don't look pretty."

"Honey, you do look pretty. Your pictures will come out fine. Don't worry."

"No, I don't. I look ugly. My pictures will be terrible."

I dropped you and Zeke off and then parked the car. I needed to go up to the front office get the forms to fill out so that you could get pictures taken at all.

As I walked through the playground, I saw you with your arms around one of your friends as you sobbed with your head on her shoulder. A gaggle of little girls surrounded you, all rubbing your back.

"It's OK, Josie. It'll be OK."

It was utterly pitiful.

When you saw me there, you came and buried your face in my belly as you cried and cried.

"I can't go to school. I don't look pretty."

You were inconsolable.

"Don't worry, sweetie. It's going to be ok. I'll fix everything. I'll go home and bring you a pretty dress and something to fix your hair. I promise you'll look pretty. I'll take care of it."

I walked you up to your classroom when the bell rang. As I went to leave, I saw Zeke in the hall.

"Is JoJo ok?" he asked.

"She'll be fine. I'm going to go home and get her something to change into."

"Can you bring me a nicer shirt?" he asked. He was wearing a plain blue t-shirt.

"Sure. I'll bring something with a collar."

He smiled at me and went back to his class.

Two hours later, after I had delivered to Zeke his Polo shirt, I stood with your class as it lined up for pictures. I pulled you into the girls' bathroom and helped you change into a dark pink polka dot dress. Back out in the hall, in line with your class again, I gave you one of my old necklaces to wear, brushed your hair, smoothed it down with a de-frizzer, and clipped it back with a big flower barrette.

I felt like a stylist at a photo shoot.

It did the trick. You looked beautiful and polished and photo-ready. You and your friends giggled and held hands.  You were happy again, which was what really mattered to me. Looking pretty was important to you, so I didn't hesitate to make you feel that way.

I thought about that today, your eighth birthday, when I was thinking about writing your birthday post.  That incident, and its juxtaposition with your birthday party today, in which you fearlessly climbed walls while dressed in a Wonder Woman costume, encapsulated what you are right now.

Thursday you were all uncertainty and nervousness, worried about not looking pretty. Today you were all fierceness and confidence. Two sides of yourself, often at war. Sometimes you need me to boost you up, to convince you that your confidence is warranted. Other times you flex your muscles and acknowledge me from afar with a sly wave, as if you know that I'll be there, but you don't need me right at that exact moment.

I try to gauge where you are and adjust my behavior accordingly. I push you to have strength and independence, but will be there if you need to fold yourself into my lap.

I cheer you on when you're riding your scooter with the stoners at the skate park.

I wrestle and do gymnastics with you while we wait for Zeke to finish his football practice. I encourage your means of self-expression, be it pink or purple hair, leather skirts and motorcycle boots and crushed velvet baseball caps.

I feel a great responsibility to let you figure out who you are while making sure you know that I'm here to help you if you need me or want me. It's a beautiful dance that we do.

And you make me so proud. You're so funny. You're such a kind friend. You're so clever. You're so brave. You're such a sassy monkey. You're such a weirdo.

Being your mother thrills me. I absolutely adore you.

Happy birthday, my love. Spread your wings and fly. Be bold. Know that I'm here to catch you if you fall.

All of the love in my heart,

Mama

Now you've grown so fine and come so far

My dear sweet Ezekiel,

I realized today, when thinking about you turning nine years old, that we have essentially reached the halfway point in the time that I get to claim you as fully mine, before you spread your wings and fly out into the world as a quasi-adult.

Obviously, you will always be my baby, my first born, my best boy.  But then you will go to college or off to fulfill some dream of adventure and start your own journey. Maybe, as my brothers and I have done, you will settle somewhere away from your parents. Thinking about that possibility - of not being able to see you whenever I want - makes my heart ache and my eyes fill with tears.

I'm getting ahead of myself, I know. But it goes so fast. It's such a cliche to say it, but it goes so, so fast.

I look back on pictures of you as a baby. You were so beautiful, with your dimples and your twinkly blue eyes and your wonky right ear that sticks out a little bit at the top - your dad dubbed it the "wingnut," which always made us giggle.

You have lost all of your babyish qualities. You are lean and strong. Your feet keep growing and stick out from the ends of your legs like paddles. You work on your six-pack abs.  There are no soft, baby-fat-ish curves in your face. You still have the outrageous dimples and the strikingly blue eyes, the freckles on your straight nose, the open grin. Setting aside any bias I have as your mother, objectively you an incredibly handsome kid.

From the beginning, you were strong and agile and coordinated and fearless.  You love hearing the story about the doctor was checking you out when you were first born, and marveling at how powerfully you kicked back when he pushed on the bottom of your foot. That strength and agility and athleticism has never abated.

This year, your interest in soccer has become particularly pronounced. On my weekends with you, one of our favorite activities is to go to the park and play soccer. Usually it involves me being permanent goalie while you try to score, or we'll run up and down the field doing passing drills.

You keep me young and healthy.

You have always been smart and interesting to talk to, but I'm seeing that intelligence and curiosity intensify. You're at the age I was when I was tested to be placed in a gifted program, and you're exhibiting some of the frustrations that I had at that age - being a bit bored in school, feeling like everything is a little too easy. Wanting to absorb as much knowledge as you can. You're doing gifted testing next month - I'll be curious to see how it goes.

Sometimes when you're lying in bed and we're talking, you'll ask me about history. Who fought in World War II? What were they fighting about? What's an ally? What's this song from the Hamilton soundtrack about? Who's singing? Who was that? Who are they talking about on the news? Who's the guy that has the disease but knows everything about black holes?

One day we were thinking about what to do on a beautiful Saturday.  "What do you guys want to do?" I asked. "Let's go for a hike in Boulder and then go to the science museum," you responded.

I love that.

We read together. We watch football together. We talk about life together. We have conversations about Greek mythology and poetry.  You're interested in everything.

Recently you and Josie and I were watching Project Runway together. Josie was looking at one of the designs and said, "that looks like a Valentino."

I gave her a skeptical look. "What you you know about Valentino?"

You said, "is he Italian?"

"Yes," I responded. "He's a famous Italian designer."

"How come so many great artists and designers are Italian?" you asked.

"Who else are you thinking of?"

"Leonardo..."

"Yes, he was a great Italian artist and inventor."

"And Michelangelo...."

"Yep," I said.

"And who's that other guy? Starts with a "d".... Dona-something?"

"Donatello. How do you know Donatello and these other guys?"

"Ninja turtles!" you responded.

I cracked up. And then you cracked up. We both started to laugh and laugh.

"You goofball," I giggled.

We laughed some more.

It's been an incredible nine years. I don't ever want to let you go, even thought I know someday I'll have to.

You fill my heart and make it sing.  Happy birthday, sweet gorgeous boy.

All my love,

Mama

Who run the world? Girls. Who run this mother? Girls.

My darling, sweet, crazy Josephine,

My Josie, Josie-jo, JoJo, JoJo-Bean. Little Monkey. Sweet Pea.

Guuuurl.

Today you are seven years old.  It's crazy to think that it's been seven years since I checked myself into St. Joe's at the crack of dawn so that I could meet you a few hours later. Happy birthday to you. Happy birth day to me.

It's been amazing fun hanging out with you and watching you grow. Last year when I was writing your birthday post, you were just starting first grade and it was a little daunting for you. Though you like to ham it up and act like the life of the party, I could tell that being the youngest kid in the class at a time when so much of learning is developmental was hard. Other kids were getting comfortable with reading and you had fallen a little bit behind and sometimes it made you feel stupid.

Reading is one of those things that kids get when they get. One day it just clicks. I knew it would click for you eventually and that you'd be fine.  But seeing you struggle in the meantime was hard.

Of course, it did click for you and then you were off and running, getting a reading award for your class by the end of the year.  It was another opportunity to watch you go from "I'm stupid and I can't do anything" to "Mama, look how great I am" in the blink of an eye.

You continue to be this warm, friendly, outgoing social butterfly. On the first day of school, after being all anxious about whether anyone would like you or be happy to see you, as soon as we got to the playground you saw some of your girlfriends and the three of you immediately threw your arms around each other and started jumping up and down and squealing. When I'm dropping you off before school, I'll run into the parents of friends of yours and they all laugh about how funny and amazing you are. "We need to set up a play date! Snowflake never stops talking about how hilarious Josie is!"

You walk around cracking jokes and making funny faces and goofing off with people, young and old. You're affectionate and sweet and generous. You'll sit on my dad's lap and give him kisses and scruff up his hair and say, "Papa, you're so cute! I love you so much!"  When Lisa and her kids came to the Outer Banks with us, you adopted four-year-old India as your special charge, holding her hand in the water and snuggling with her during quiet time.

You have recently developed this urge to give people money. You're constantly sticking coins or dollar bills in your backpack because you want to give money to your teachers, or your friends, or to Mimi and Papa.  When a bunch of my India peeps were visiting and I was having a get-together at the house, you brought your piggy bank downstairs to give to my friend Rob - the image of him sitting in the living room chatting with people while holding your big ceramic Minions bank in his lap is one that cracks me up to think about.

Another new thing is that you have developed a, shall we say, interesting relationship with the truth. You seem to have no compunction at all about making up random shit when the mood strikes.  My favorite recent example involves your new second grade teacher. The first week of school you came home all excited to tell me that Mr. O is Australian.

"Really?" I asked. "That's so cool. You guys have that in common."

"Weeeell, he's not all the way Australian.  Just half, like me. I know he spent a bunch of time teaching and traveling there."

"You'll have to tell him about your trips there," I said.

That night I relayed this story to my mom.

"Do you think she's telling the truth?" she asked.

She knows you.

"I think so. It strikes me as a weirdly random and specific thing to make up," I answered.

A day or two later when I was dropping you off at school, I walked up to Mr. O to say hi.

"I hear you and Josie have Australian heritage in common," I said. "She told me you're part Australian and that you spent time there."

He gave me the blankest look imaginable.

"Noooo," he responded.

I looked down at you. "Girl, what's the deal?" I asked.

You smiled and shrugged.

Mr. O offered, "my father is from Nigeria."

He and I had a good laugh about it.

Your relationship with your brother continues to bring me great joy. The two of you are each other's best friend.  You look out for each other and play and giggle and conspire together.  And also fight.

The fights can get interesting.

The other night you and Zeke were arguing about something - the basis of the dispute was the inability of any of us to remember whose turn it was to sit next to me while watching a movie.

This is something that must be diligently tracked.  God forbid either of you should get one more moment of snuggle time with me than the other does.

I was exhausted and irritated by the entire argument, so I left the room and told the two of you to figure it out.  You and Zeke proceeded to scream furiously at each other at top volume.  It was so loud and awful-sounding that I half expected the police to knock on the door.

After five minutes, Zeke came and found me. He was crying.  I opened my arms and he crawled into them, despondent.

"What happened, honey?" I asked.

"Josie screamed at me that I have a terrible memory, and then she called me a fucking idiot," he sobbed.

Yikes. Damn, girl.

You came into the room a couple of minutes later, also crying and terribly upset.  I gathered you on the other side of me and the three of us sat there quietly for a minute.

"You guys need to make up," I said. "You need to get over this fight. Josie, you can't swear at Zeke and call him names like that.  You guys can't scream at each other like that.  Take a deep breath and let's calm down.  Can you do that?"

The answer was yes. You calmed down. You apologized to Zeke and gave him a hug.  We went into my room and snuggled up to watch Mythbusters (your favorite show).

I think seven is going to be an interesting year.

As ever, I consider it a great privilege and blessing to be your mother, and to usher you through childhood and into adulthood. You make me happy and proud. You're great company. You make me laugh and cry.

And you make me drink a little.  Let's be honest.

 Happy birthday, sweet baby girl. I love you to stars and back.

Mama

You're the soul of me (wonder number eight)

Dear Zekey,

Yesterday you turned eight years old.  You were with your dad this weekend, so I didn't get to wake you up with hugs and kisses, but I saw you at your birthday party and stole a couple of minutes to tell you how much I love you and to tell you the story of the day you were born.

dressed as a vampire at your Halloween-themed birthday party, whacking at the pinata

It seems a lifetime ago that I was at Kapiolani, laboring and waiting for you to make your appearance. And I guess it was - so much has happened since then.  Everything about my life has changed, and you have changed along with it.

You continue to remind me of your Uncle Sam as a little boy - thoughtful, sensitive, a tad self-righteous, exhibiting both left-brained and right-brained tendencies.  You ask interesting questions and force me to look at the world in a new way.

You continue to grow bigger and stronger, and to exhibit more and more of your dad's strength and athleticism.  You have developed a bit of an obsession with obtaining six-pack abs, which I find hilarious.  You excel at soccer and flag football and you crawl around the monkey bars with incredible dexterity and flexibility.  You jump off of high surfaces and bounce around and have more energy than I can comprehend.

One of the characteristics that I have noticed increasingly is your earnestness. You take people at face value and absorb the messages and lessons of your teachers with great seriousness. I see other kids your age who are already a little bit jaded, but you still have a certain innocence about you that I find so endearing.  If I utter a curse word, you scold me and insist that children shouldn't hear such things.

This year, when you started second grade, I would ask you how your day at school went and what you were learning, and you would tell me about the "character trait of the week."

"This week I'm learning about determination, Mama."

"And what does determination mean?"

"It means you keep trying at something and don't give up.  So I've been trying to practice determination."

So sweet.  So earnest.

And yet, you have an endless fascination with talking about butts and farts and penises and vaginas. You are increasingly curious about women, often figuring out how to google "boobs" and then looking on the internet at images you shouldn't be looking at.

This past year hasn't been easy for you and Josie.  I will always feel guilty about putting you through the trauma and forced changes of divorce, even though the divorce was necessary for everyone.  But through getting adjusted to splitting time between Daddy and me, and getting adjusted to new living situations, you have shown such remarkable grace and resiliency.  You remain loving and optimistic and able to see the good in people and situations.  You set an example that I try to emulate.

You remain a mama's boy, for which I am so grateful.  I know that we're getting closer to the age at which you will start to pull away from me and try to figure out how to seek your own path.  But for now, you still greet me with hugs and kisses, you still want to sit on me when we're watching a movie, you still want to lie in bed with me and snuggle me as close as you can.

Bedtime with you is one of my favorite rituals.  I put you and Josie in your bunks, and we talk and I sing or play soft music for you.  Every night, you ask me to rub your back.  So I will stand there in the dark, rubbing your back and singing to you, feeling you relax and hearing your breathing get slow and heavy.  And just before you drop off, you say, "I love you, Mama."

And I love you, my sweetest boy.  So, so much.

Love love love,

Mama

But all the magic I have known, I've had to make myself

My dearest Josephine,

This morning I woke up and went into your room and sat on the floor next to your bed.  I pushed your hair out of your face, leaned over, and kissed you near your temple, pausing to breathe in your delicious smell of sleep and shampoo.

"Josie," I whispered, kissing you again.  "Happy birthday, sweetie.  It's your birthday today."

You kept your eyes closed, but put your hand on my cheek.

I lay down on the bed and hugged you, big-spoon-little-spoon.

"Do you want me to tell you about the day you were born?"

You nodded, still with your eyes closed.  You put your hand over my hand and squeezed my fingers.

So I told you about going to the hospital early in the morning, and being there with Daddy and Mimi. About how wonderful it was to see you for the first time, and how you loved having your head scrubbed while the nurses gave you a bath. About how you loved sleeping with your head on my shoulder.

I heard Zeke stirring in the bunk above us.  He climbed down the ladder and wriggled into bed on the other side of you, putting his arm around you and giving you a kiss.

"I love you, Josie! Happy birthday!"

He really is the sweetest brother.

Your eyes popped open and you put your hands on the sides of his head, scruffling his hair up.

In your goofiest voice, you said, "hey there, little kangaroo!  You look like a kangaroo because your hair is sticking up like ears!"

The two of you cracked up.  You kept messing with his hair while he laughed.

"You're my scruffy little bird!" you said to him.

He laughed and laughed, and I laughed along with him.

Predictably, somebody tooted (not me) and you and Zeke rolled with laughter and kept goofing off.  I was lying there with my arm draped over both of you, and the three of us giggled and talked about what we wanted to do after school - bake a cake? have a special movie night so you can pick the movie and eat your beloved popcorn to your heart's content?  Both?

It was one of those moments when I kind of step outside of myself and look down at the scene to appreciate it more fully.

You are so gorgeous to me, and such a total ham, always making a joke and performing for an audience.  People tell me how much we look alike, but I don't really see it - you're so much prettier than I could ever hope to be.  And I love that you're always trying to make your friends giggle, posing for a camera that isn't there, rolling your eyes and shaking your booty and talking in funny voices and being silly.

Yes, you have a hair-trigger temper, and you vacillate between despairing that you can't do something and then quickly insisting that you are a total expert.  And yes, sometimes your utter fearlessness when it comes to climbing and jumping terrifies me - but not enough for me to stop you.  I want you to be bold and fearless.  And yes, sometimes you've got a smart mouth on you and you get up in my face - but even when I have to check your behavior, a part of me loves it that you're not a doormat.

Mostly, you're affectionate and exuberant and hilarious and fun.  Even though you keep getting taller and taller and your legs are impossibly long, you still crawl into my arms every morning when you wake up and wrap yourself around me for an extended morning hug.  You make me smile and laugh every day.

Happy 6th birthday, my love.

Mama