Archive for the ‘letters’ Tag
January 04 2012
Dearest Buzz,
You start a new school today. Because no one wanted to listen to me.
It’s not my choice. I would have preferred you stay at the school you’ve known, with your brother by your side, at least until the end of this, your first, school year. Your progress there has been amazing, surpassing my expectations. They taught you how to write your name, and beginning words. You know your letters and can count to 100, though you skip a lot along the way. It’s the little things that most your age have known how to do for awhile but you’ve struggled with. And now you’re learning. Not just learning, but loving.
In switching schools after you’ve just begun to feel comfortable, I’m afraid that will change.
I also know, however, how you’ve surprised me in the past. You manage to work in mysterious ways. You’ve taken actions in stride after I’ve already braced against the aftermath. You rise and you fight, even when your fear is palpable. I left you crying mercilessly on the very first day of school, I’m terrified I’m going to leave you the same again. It breaks my heart to do this to you twice.
But you are strong. And you are bright. And you’re going to do wonderful. I know change is hard to understand, but I’m trying to do what’s best for you, even when it’s not my favorite choice.
Although if you want to raise hell just for the first few days, you have my support. I’d kind of like to say I told you so.
With so much love,
Your Mom
November 10 2011
Dearest Jedi,
As I am writing this, you are proudly burping at the desk across from me. Every time, you ask delightedly, “Did you hear that?”. Every time I say, “Of course I did”. Because of course I did.
For your birthday today, along with a few other things, I bought you a book where the main premise had to do with farts. Super farts that could make you fly into the air.
This is you at 8. My son. My boy. Farting and burping.
But so much more. You a genius on the computer. What you know how to do honestly astounds me. You have surpassed my knowledge by leaps, and I’ve found myself asking you how to do things on a number of occasions. Your Grandma likes to say that maybe you’ll be the next Bill Gates. She may not be far off.
You are brilliant and beautiful and excited. Dramatic and loud. A torpedo of constant motion and conversation. And as much as you complain when your siblings invade your space, as impatient as you can be, I also see how you look out for them when you think no one is watching. You make sure Buzz is safe at school and you comfort Abby when she’s upset. You are a wonderful big brother.
I am so proud of you in so many ways. And as I finish writing this, as if right on cue, you exclaimed, “Now that I smell it, my farts really do smell bad”.
My farting, burping, smelly, amazing now 8 year old boy.
Happy Birthday.
Love,
Mom
October 13 2011
Dear Dog,
Maybe dear is too intimate a greeting here. You’re not my dog, after all. And even if you were, I’m not sure I’d reference you with such affection. Though you did follow me home, much to my chagrin. I’m just glad I didn’t have any kibble available, because I know I would have fed you and then you would have never left.
Because while I may talk a big game, I’m really a softie. Just ask my parents. They were left with a batch of strays I couldn’t help but offer a home when I moved out.
Which isn’t to say you’re not cute. You’re very cute. With your pointy black ears and enthusiastic tail, I want to scratch your scruffy belly. It’s just, you see, you’re a puppy with a lot of energy. Too much for me to handle right now, to be honest. Just the thought of you is exhausting. Though, admittedly, that isn’t a terrible feat with 3 kids who run circles around me. I could barely muster the gumption to take care of our cat, and he just slept all day.
This is what I’m asking of you, then. I know it’s not fun to be restrained. You want to run! And chase squirrels! And kids! Must tackle the kids! But I worry about you when you’re out there, alone. I mean, there are cars and the bad things that could happen make me want to look out for you. You damn dog.
So if you could just stay in your own yard. Or at least stop excitedly lunging for us at lightning speed from out of nowhere as we shuffle to the bus stop. You’re scaring the crap out of my daughter and making my already sucktastic mornings even more difficult. That much would be appreciated.
I hope we have an understanding,
The one with your eager dirty paw prints on her pants
July 25 2011
Dearest Abby,
Yesterday, you turned 3 years old. You had been waiting for this day for an eternity it seemed, singing Happy Birthday to yourself for months. I hope it lived up to the hype.
You are now a big girl. Not a baby, not even a toddler. You’ve crossed the threshold into preschool age.
This past year, you have surpassed all expectations. We carry on conversations, an honest back and forth, where your strong opinions are always known. You also make me laugh like no one else, your smile beams like the sun across a room. You love the iPhone and markers and that darn Curious George. You also enjoy chasing after your brothers. In fact, you follow Buzz everywhere you shouldn’t. I firmly believe you enjoy the thrill of getting in trouble, a harrowing sign of what’s to come, and you find yourself in plenty of it. Yet, you are my helper, my tail, my girl who wants to do it all.
And when your small hand hugs around my neck, your head resting on my shoulder as I inhale the strawberry scent of your curls, I think this. This is exactly how it should be.
My pretty girl. My silly girl. My Abby-mouse. You are the epitome of vibrant. Better than I could have ever imagined a daughter could be.
I love you, sweetheart. Always.
Happy Birthday.
July 18 2011
Dear Buzz’s speech therapists,
First of all, let me start off by saying how much I appreciate the work you’ve put into my son. I can tell how much he enjoys his sessions with you. He bounces a bit more heartily on speech class days. When we pull into the driveway, he practically jumps out of his carseat. Buzz can be a difficult child to manage, you don’t have to tell me twice, and I applaud your good-humored patience for not being related to him.
While he is only in your company for 45 minutes a week, I can sense the dedication and resolve to give him the help necessary to catch up to his peers. Which is really what we all want. When it comes down to it, I don’t want anything more than for him to be a normal 5 year old boy. It’s a simple goal that seems rather large some days.
That said, I believe your time together is paying off. Whether as a result of his weekly classes or more an advance in age is difficult to gauge, but nevertheless, your services have shown a definite improvement. While he is still nowhere near where he should be, he is speaking more clearly and in longer structured sentences. Just the other night, for example, as I was giving him a goodnight kiss as we do so sweetly at every bedtime, he roared across my cheek 5 words, strung together like a champ.
“Don’t EVER kiss me AGAIN.”
His proper use of inflection was notably remarkable.
Job well done.
Sincerely,
Buzz’s mom (who is going to continue kissing him whether he likes it or not)
