Teenager

Dear Bug,

I can absolutely not believe you are a teenager. A real, actual teenager.

I'm pretty sure I say that I can't believe you are whatever age you are each birthday, but this year I mean it more than ever.

I'll be honest. I've been dreading this age. 13 and all its accompaniments. Junior high, puberty, angst. It all just dredges up horrible memories of my own newly teenage self.

However, do I even dare say 'so far, so good'?

Because you are 13 are absolutely delightful. When I was 13, delightful was never a word used to describe me. Some of it may have to do from that Y chromosome you have, the one that gave me grief during your toddler age. I do think that most of it is just from you being you.

You are an amazing kid, boy, child, person.

You are funny, and thoughtful, and helpful. You are an amazing older brother, helping out with Duck all the time (in fact, you can get him down for his nap better than anyone.) You are incredibly driven. You made your own account for online summer math classes and have spent time each day studying algebra and independent and dependent variables.

You have yet to show any interest in girls, which is fine. Feel free to keep it that way for another 10 plus years.

You are really settling into yourself, your personality become more fully developed each day.

I also recognize that just as you were getting comfortable with yourself and your world, we uprooted you and moved you across the country, away from everything familiar. I know the timing couldn't have been worse. I apologize for that. I hope that you don't hold this against me forever. (So far, you don't seem to, but I can't help projecting my own feelings of guilt onto you. Sorry about that too.)

I often read of my friends struggling with their preteen and teenage boys, and I wonder how I got so lucky. I know that our struggles will not stay confined to me prodding you to make your bed and get your hair cut. But for now, I'll take what we have and enjoy it each day I can.

Love,
Mom

Two Candles

Even before Duck officially turned two over the weekend, he was already showing he was completely ready to be two.

He's talking up a storm and perfecting the ultimate temper tantrum.

He's also cuddly and so sweet it can almost break your heart, especially when he suddenly starts singing, "Let it go!" in his baby voice and twirling around the living room. 

As we celebrated his birthday, chasing balloons around the house and singing happy birthday about his fox cake (he stubbornly refused to blow out the candles), I was overwhelmed by how grateful I am for this beautiful boy.

The decision to add that third child to our family wasn't trivial. We were getting to the point where things were finally getting "easy," because everyone dressed themselves, went to the bathroom by themselves, and slept through the night. Both Hubster and I were in the thick of our training. But we knew our family wasn't complete.

Duck has added that completeness.

Getting Duck here wasn't trivial. Unexpectedly confronted by the possibility of infertility, the effects of residency plainly taking their toll on my body, we underwent multiple tests and fortunately only one round of medication. The pregnancy and the labor were difficult and trying. But we willingly faced each hurdle because we knew we could love more.

Duck has added that extra love.

Raising babies is never simple. We've had sleepless nights and sick days. We've given up the ability to eat at restaurants and go to movies (and some days, even the grocery store.) But we'd do it all again, because Duck is now a critical component to our family.

Duck has added balance and joy.

So for all that Duck has added to our lives, we celebrated by singing and eating cake, and taking our meals while sitting on the table.

Duck may have just added another year to his age, but for us, he's added so much more.

Monkey is Eight

Dear Monkey,

You are suddenly so much taller, so much smarter, just so much older at age 8.  This last year, you have grown several inches, but you've grown so much more than just in height.

You want to be with your friends much more, jumping at every chance to be with them. You don't want to watch Disney movies with me anymore, preferring Pokemon and Merlin on Netflix. You don't really want to read with me at night anymore - at least that's what you say, until I find you snuggled next to me on the couch.

Despite all this new independence you're demonstrating, for your birthday this year, you asked for "just a nice party with my family."

So we had a dinner with just us. A Minecraft cake (that melted a little in our hot, end of summer kitchen.) A wagon full of gifts. Silly string fights in the back yard.

The next day, I let you play hokey from school and spend a whole day with just me. It felt like such a luxury for both of us. For you, a whole day where you didn't feel the need to compete for conversation with your older brother or protect all your things from your younger brother. For me, a whole day getting to enjoy this new, older you. 

We went ice skating, and had the entire rink to ourselves. We played tag and had races and were just silly.

We went out to lunch at the fancy restaurant you had requested and I let you order a caffeinated soda. We ate monster-sized burgers and stole french fries off each other's plates. 

It was a wonderful way to celebrate turning 8.

I had the time to realize that even though, with each blink of my eyes, you are older and new and different, you are actually still the same Monkey. Just now, 8 years. And I'm just as luck to be your mom now as I ever have been.

Love,
Mom

Junior High Jitters

Dear Bug,

You started junior high last week.

I spent so much time worrying about this - most of the summer, last year, years before that.

As quickly as you are growing, I still see you as my small boy, as someone I need to protect and shelter at all cost. When I would think about you starting junior high, all I could see was your shyness, your reserve, your struggle with new people and environments.

Additionally, it was impossible for me not to project my own experiences with junior high onto my concerns for you. Junior high was a miserable time for me, filled with social awkwardness, bullying, and isolation. I eventually found my core group of friends, but those years severely shook my self confidence. Junior high was just pure misery and I wished more than anything that I could protect you from that.

Add to that a new school that has a student population more than seven times larger than your elementary school, the more rigorous academic demands, the multiple classrooms and teachers, and your first time riding a school bus,  I was just a puddle of anxiety as the first day of school approached.

We did our best to prepare you. We toured the school several times over the summer, letting you locate the library, the gym, the cafeteria, try opening lockers. We attended every open house and orientation available.

And then the first day of school arrived, and off you went.

There have been many, many occasions in my life where I have realized that I worry too much.

This was one of them.

Despite my very best attempts, you have made the transition from elementary student to junior high student with ease.

Junior high appears to suit you. You were ready to leave behind elementary school. The fact that you grew a couple inches over the summer doesn't hurt, either.

In fact, I feel like I'm watching you blossom into a new and amazing person right in front of me. So much of your potential has bubbled up to the surface and become apparent.

I need to stop worrying. You are going to be just fine.

Love,
Mom

20 Months

It's been several months since I've formally sat down and documented Duck's changes. Because that's what he does. He changes. On nearly a daily basis. Each day brings something new and leaves something else behind.

Already, we've left behind things that I love. The way he would smack his lips when he wanted something to eat. The way he held still for cuddles (instead of constantly trying to climb up me and sit on my head.) The way he clapped every time I finished singing him a song. And so many more little things that have already faded.

At 20 months, Duck...

Has figured out doors and door knobs. Not always quite tall enough to open them all, but can escape out the front door without difficulty.

Talks all the time. Favorite words are cheese, wa-wa (water), bike, walk, outside, daddy, and mama. And he says mama so crystal clear, I love it.

Won't say or even attempt to say either of his brothers' names. But adores them both so much.

Makes most animal sounds.

Loves books. Loves being read to, or reading to himself. Favorite books are Good Night Moon, Bear Snores On, Little Blue Truck, Very Hungry Caterpillar, and I Am A Bunny.

Makes a very loud and accurate siren sound anytime he sees anything remotely resembling a fire truck or a police car.

Loves swimming. He is always trying to get me to let go of him so he can swim by himself; no matter that the water is 3 feet deep and he can't actually swim.

Favorite foods are popcicles, apples, waffles (gluten free, obviously), watermelon, and handfuls of ranch dressing.

Will still let me rock him to sleep.

Will not be nice to the kittens.

Loves going on walks, especially in his stroller. He is still an excellent running partner.

Strongly dislikes brownies, potatoes, and eggs.

Is my blondest, busiest, noisiest, cuddliest baby ever.

Twelve

Dear Bug,

I've spent a long time being scared of you reaching adolescence. I just finally got the whole baby/toddler/little boy thing down - well, not down, but at least to a point where I didn't feel each day handed me a total blindside. So I get that part down and start to feel comfortable, and then you seem insistent on leaving it behind and dragging us into brand new territory.

But can I say that so far, I adore 12. I've had so many favorite ages: you as a cooing 6 month old. You as a chatty, inquisitive 4 year old, you as a voraciously learning 6 year old.

I'm going to add 12 to my list of favorites.

 

At 12, you are thoughtful.

You are always asking me if you can do anything to help. You come up and give me hugs when you can tell I've had a stressful day. You unload the dishwasher and play with Duck without (almost) a complaint.

At 12, you are humble.

You never brag.  At the end of the school year, you competed in a running club race. I couldn't be there to watch. When I picked you up that afternoon and asked how the race went, you replied, "Fine. I ran it in 7 minutes 40 seconds." That was it. No amount of prompting could elicit more details. I found out from one of the other moms that you had won the race. When I congratuled you, you just shrugged and gave me a sheepish smile. I found out you had been awarded a student excellence award from the school newsletter. You never said a thing.

You never ask for anything. When I tried to push you for what kind of birthday cake you wanted or what gifts you wanted, you just said you liked to be surprised and that you've always loved the things I've made for you.

At 12, you are more interesting than ever.

We are starting to share the same interests. We talk about Hunger Game and Harry Potter books. We watch Doctor Who together. We listen to the same music. I'm always worried that you'll see me sharing the same interests that you do as some lame attempt to be the "cool mom." But you don't seem to mind and maybe, just maybe, actually enjoy the time we get to spend together.

At 12, you are sarcastic and funny.

I have no idea where your snark comes from (*cough*). But it's definitely well developed.

At 12, you are handsome, and smart, and responsible...

Well, you've always been those things. I'm just so glad that you continue to be those things.

Yep, 12 is definitely one of my favorite ages.

Love,
Mom

Monkey, May 2014

Dear Monkey,

Sitting down at your spring parent teacher conference, I was reminded once again what a difficult situation you're in. It's a situation I can't relate to at all, but I so strongly empathize with it. 

You are the younger sibling to a brother that many thing comes easy to. You watch Bug excel academically with a fraction of the effort it takes you. As the oldest child growing up, both your dad and your mom set the standard, the example, and the expectations. You, as a second child, find yourself constantly in the shadow of the example and expectations set by your older brother.

Part of it, I take full responsibility for. At the end of preschool, your teacher recommended that you be held back a year. After all, you were only making the age cut off for kindergarten by a week.  I scoffed at her recommendation, sure that my bright, enthusiastic child would do just fine in kindergarten. It's not that you didn't. You knew how to listen, you loved all the activities, you made friends easily. But at that young age, a year difference is enormous. There are skills that you struggled slightly with, but putting you up to the standard set by children 11 months older that you made those struggles seem magnified.

As you struggled, I watched the frustration, on both our sides, grow. You grew increasingly discouraged, I grew increasing demanding.

Thankfully, we have an amazing school. I had conversations very early on with your teachers. We got you involved in small groups and one on one lessons to focus on areas where you struggle. As you gain more skills and confidence, I've watched your willingness and enthusiasm return.

One of the things I'm trying to focus on is valuing the things that come naturally to you. As a family, we tend to be very academically oriented, placing value on good grades, reading, math, and science. And even if you struggle, I will hold you to certain academic standards, making sure you get the support along the way to reach them. 

You have so many talents outside my normal comfort realm. You are an active, outdoorsy, physical child. You love to run, and climb, and rough and tumble. We're getting you enrolled in sports and plan on encouraging you and building up all the talents you have, celebrating everything that makes you amazing.

I hope you know how much I treasure you.  Every part of you, from the unsteady handwriting to the filthy shoes and grass-stained jeans. 

Love,
Mom

Dear Bug, May 2014

Dear Bug,

Spending all your childhood watching you grow and change didn't prepare me for how our relationship would grow and change.

When you were a toddler and a small boy, every day, multiple times a day, I'd hear, "Play with me, Mommy!"

And that's what we did, every moment we had. Blocks, Legos, puzzles, board games, Hot Wheels, stuffed animals, hopscotch, train tracks, dinosaurs. Countless rounds of the fishing game, the battery operated wheel whirring around with the plastic fish opening and closing their mouths with funny little clicks while we both aimed flimsy fishing poles into their mouths.

Having you approach your teenage years has changed that "Play with me, Mommy!" into "Leave me alone, Mom."

I do my best to not take it personally. I understand that you still love me. This is just the start of the time when you need a little more independence, a little more elbow room to become your own person. I do my best to make sure I'm not hugging you in front of your friends, that I'm not picking out all your clothes, that I'm giving you just a little of the space that you need.

Bug, self portrait (because he does not take "selfies.")

Hopefully, you understand why I still plant a kiss on your forehead (while you are still shorter than I am and it's easy for me to do it), why I still insist that you be involved in family activities, why I still ask to do things with you. I'm used to being your playmate, your friend, used to joining you on your adventures.

Watching you set out on adventures, such as junior high, without me is scary. For both of us, I think. I'm trying to approach these adventures with the same level of excitement as you are, instead of pining for Candyland on the living room floor.

So much of parenting surprises me. Going from your best friend, your playmate, to a strictly parental figure has been a tough transition.

But luckily, you are still willing to sign off of your Minecraft game that you play over Skype with your friends, and watch an episode of Doctor Who, or play a game of Clue, or read a few chapters of a novel. I worry that as time goes by, you won't want to do even these things with me. But worrying about it won't change anything. So I'll enjoy every second that you do spend with me.

And refrain from that hug in front of the school.

Love,
Mom

Monkey, Version 1.14

Dear Monkey,

The last couple months can be summarized by the two statements I hear from you the most.

"You are the meanest mommy ever!"

"Can I be your koala bear forever?"

There are moments of the days that I think we will never be friends again. When the littlest request on my end elicits screams and stomps and tongues being stuck out on your end. Where nothing calms you down and you think that everyone is trying to be mean to you on purpose. The last few months have seen a great deal of time spent in time out and a great deal of privileges revoked. Each time, it breaks my heart. Seeing you upset makes me upset. I know that you aren't trying to give me a hard time, but that you are having a hard time and I need to do a better job to recognize what is so difficult for you and how to respond to your needs better.

But even so, I love you too much to let you scream at me, call me mean and stupid, and slam doors. So, yes my darling, despite how much I just want us to have fun, when you act like that you will find that you are not allowed to play Mario Galaxy or Minecraft or stay up a little after bedtime.

But just as suddenly as these storms come blowing through our home, the sun shines. You usually bounce out of bed, happily declaring that you absolutely woke up on the right side of the bed. You play with Duck and ask to help. You volunteered to help Daddy with the laundry because then "it would be done faster." You grab at my legs and say you are my koala bear. (Even if Bug then corrects you and says that koalas aren't bears.)

You dance wildly, sing at the top of your lungs, ask for snuggles, build time machines out of boxes, wrestle with anyone in reach, get your heart broken over any unkind work, shrug off bruises and scratches.

We have good days and bad moments, but no matter what, the answer is always the same.

The answer is yes. You can be my koala bear forever.

Love,
Mom

Bug, Version 1.14

Dear Bug,

 

I know I say this every letter, but we continue to venture into uncharted territory with each passing day. As you rapidly approached adolescence, I find that so many of the skills and approaches that served me so well through your infancy and early childhood are no longer relevant, no longer helpful. You are so much more independent, so much more reserved. Tickling and cuddling and time outs are not longer applicable.

 

 

Sitting at the dinner table kitty corner from you, I often wonder where this long limbed person came from. There are glimpses of my baby there, but I'm having to look harder each day to see them.

 

Don't let my nostalgia for your babyhood mislead you in anyway that I'm not still wildly in love with the child you still are. You show such thoughtfulness, such dedication, such independence. I'm so proud of you.

 

This last year has seen a lot of changes. A year ago, you would still let me hug and kiss you at home, as long as it wasn't in front of people. Now, you shrug of my hugs. A year ago, you enjoyed sharing a room with your brother. Now, you are constantly asking when the basement will be done so you can have your own space. A year ago, we did much of your homework together. Now, you do everything on your own.

 

 

There are still many things that are the same. We still read together each night. This might be because I'm so insistent on it, but at least you are still willing to sit by me and listen to Harry Potter or Lemony Snickett. Your dad thinks it's only a matter of time before you refuse this, but I'm going to continue on with my dream that we will be reading books together until you move out. You still love to play games as a family.

 

You are much more observant that I give you credit for. You ask about stories on the news, you have me watch a video on child slave labor in the chocolate industry, you discussed Nelson Mandela with us at dinner. You want to join in your parents' conversations.

 

I'm trying very hard to treat you as the growing, maturing person you are. It's not that I want you to remain a baby, or even a small boy (well, a small part of me wants that). It's just that you're growing so very very fast. I look around for my little boy and instead there is you, past shoulder height, hair styled just so. And sometimes I'm not sure what to do.

 

So I'll start with the things that haven't changed. I'll just keep loving you.

 

I'll read to you, make you eat your vegetables and clean your room, embarrass you just enough and respect the boundaries you are setting. And every day, I'll keep telling you how proud I am to be your mother.

 

Love,

Mom

14 Months

At 14 months old, Duck...

Is able to get into most cabinets, necessitating more advanced child locks.
Has four teeth
Signs a few words (more, all done, milk, stop) and says a few (daddy, there)
Will not say mama
Sometimes sleeps through the nights. Other times, not so much
Dances anytime he hears music
Sucks his two fingers without any end in sight
Is starting to scribble on things
Does everything he can to keep up with his older brothers
Loves bath time, blueberries, Friday morning story time at the library, and sliding.
Dislikes bananas, getting dressed, and brushing his teeth.

He's still so small, but this yelling, dancing, mess making, ball throwing, absolutely charming boy is not my newborn anymore. We've entered toddlerhood and are holding on for what promises to be a wild ride.

Keep Marching, My Child

Dear Monkey,

The one thing that has become apparent as you continue on this path to growing up is that you march to the beat of your own drum. You always dance like no one is watching, even though you are perfectly aware that everyone is watching. You are creative and imaginative and not afraid of new things.

The only thing you ask me to buy at the grocery store is a cucumber and you name it Cucumber Justice and then eat the entire thing for a snack.

You spend whole Saturdays dressed as a ninja or a pirate or a cowboy.

You spend months at a time sleeping in a teepee in your bedroom.

You never want to play by the established rules, but rather turn everything from tag to Candy Land to Lego Heroica into your own version with new goals, new rules, new everything.

Sometimes it's hard being different, both for you the child and for me the parent.

I often just want you to do what everyone else is doing.  Why do you insist on wearing socks with your sandals, or goggles to the store, or shirt inside out?  Why won't you wear the clothes I laid out for you instead of making your own outfits?  Why can't we just walk normally down the sidewalk, instead of insisting that I have to go back because I didn't skip three times between each driveway?  When life, as it often does, gets busy and crowded, your different approach to things becomes frustrating, an extra step in an already packed schedule.

But I see how much you need to be appreciated for being different. How much you crave it. And I'm learning to appreciate that we will never play board games how other families play them and you will always be the kid wearing red socks to school and you will always be the one making funny faces in our family pictures.

 And I wouldn't want you to be any other way.

I want you to continue to dance like crazy in the back seat of the van when Owl City comes on.  I want you to continue to try crazy inventions with no preconceived notions of the outcome. I want you to continue to express yourself with no concern for how others view you. I want you to continue to live loud and happy and completely yourself.

As your mother, I will do my best not to let the world or my own adult, world weary views silence that drum beat inside of you. 

And you, my child, keep marching.

Love,
Mom