Letters to Jack: On Turning 9

My dear Jack,

There are moments in life when everything snaps into place. Yesterday, on a work meeting, I shared that it was your ninth birthday.

“Ohhhhhhhh, so he’s a Scorpio,” one of my colleagues said.

Before then, I could not have named your astrological sign. I’m not someone who buys into astrology or thinks much about it. It makes little sense that the exact position of planets and stars on someone’s birthday could influence their personality or destiny.

I may make an exception in your case.

Per Google, these attributes generally describe Scorpios:

• Strong-willed, enigmatic, mischievous, and independent (check)
• Has intensity and charisma that makes them un-ignorable (totally check)
• Smart, shrewd, super-intense (uh, check)
• Like extremes, challenges, danger and darkness (oh my gosh, check)

If astrology’s a thing, then you’re a card-carrying Scorpio. To this point, here’s some Scorpio-like situations from this past year:

• You were curious what would happen if you stuck my metal bookmark into the electrical outlet (thank goodness for alternating current).
• You woke up with a significant black eye and had no memory of how you got it.
• The after-school program suspended you for a day after you challenged a girl to prove her claim that girls were stronger than boys. She slugged you in the stomach, so you hit her back.
• The principal called me twice — the first because you taught your classmates the correct way to spell the F word (I’m a bit proud of this one) and the other because you educated the second grade on how sex works.

Parenting you is a constant adventure, my boy. You wake up every day with bright eyes, a pirate smile, and a roguish grin, and the rest of us just try to keep up.

The aforementioned black eye

Other highlights from this past year:

Halloween costume: Darth Vader. You’re planning to be him for the third year in a row. You love the bad guys (see “darkness” above).

Favorite book: You finished the first four Harry Potter books with Dad, and because the books get pretty dark from here, we’re taking a break. Instead, you’ve started reading Redwall together. You and I are making our way through the How to Train Your Dragon books. We recently watched the movies for the first time and I wept like a baby.

Best friends: Lincoln, Theo, and Grayson. We took the four of you to the local boardwalk over the weekend to celebrate your birthday. It was….loud, and at least one-quarter of your conversation focused on Taco Bell-induced diarrhea. You, my boy, went on all the scariest rides (see “extremes” and “danger”).

Favorite TV show: Star Wars Rebels

Extracurricular activities: At your request, we started gymnastics again in the spring, which lasted a few months, before you lost interest again. I recently signed you up for Scouts, so we’ll see if that sticks.

Favorite stuffy/animal: Still Foxy. Foxy forever. However, you’ve amassed quite the army of stuffies — to the point there’s only about one-third of the bed available for you to sleep, if that.

Favorite video game: Balloons TD Six (I don’t know what this is and I’m not looking it up). You also love to watch Charlie play.

Favorite slang: “Bruh.”

Hated word: Mommy. I recently referred to myself by that name, and you looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Never say that word again.”

Iconic forgotten item: We were three-quarters of the way to Palm Springs for Spring Break before we realized you forgot to wear shoes.

My dear boy, if the Scorpio in you brings out a wild nature, it also bestows upon you a passionate heart. You light up around people, and they do the same around you. Your superpower continues to be making friends with anyone, anywhere. Walking into your third-grade classroom on the first day of school, I heard audible gasps. “It’s Jack! Jack’s in our class!”

Though you stand as tall as my collarbone, you still climb onto the laps of those you love. Your limbs can no longer be contained. You give big, energetic hugs. You love graphic novels and silly jokes. You always strive to be first in line (especially at birthday parties for cake — that’s my guy!).

You showed deep courage and compassion when Baron, our beloved family cat, died a few weeks ago. He lived a long, wonderful life, and we were all heartbroken to see him go.

You witnessed Baron have that first seizure. You hadn’t left yet for school, so came running into the bedroom when I called out for Dad. I was so distracted and worried about getting Baron help that I didn’t take time to explain or help you process what you’d witnessed. It wasn’t until several days later that I realized how terrifying the experience must have been for you. On that day at school, your teacher found you with your head down on your desk. You couldn’t do any work, wouldn’t engage with your classmates. She knew something was wrong. You two had a talk, you told her what happened, and she asked what you needed in that moment. You asked to sit outside by yourself, quietly and alone, which she agreed was unlike you but seemed to help.

And, it became clear over the next 24 hours that Baron was at the end of his life, and we needed to take action so he wouldn’t suffer. On Saturday morning, we gathered you and your brother close on the couch, explained the decision we made, and let you know that someone would be coming by that afternoon to help us say goodbye to Baron peacefully.

We gave you and Charlie the choice whether to be there when it was time. When the vet arrived, you went to your room at first, but ultimately decided to be by Baron’s side. At the end, we were all with Baron, stroking his brown-black silky fur, and whispering our farewells through sobs and tears. It had been a rainy day, and a rainbow appeared in the sky as the vet’s car drove away. We ran outside to see it.

This was your first personal experience with death — you’d known Baron all of your life. As a baby, I used to lay you on top of him because he refused to move from his favorite nap spot: Your changing table.

At his passing, I was struck by the depth of your feelings and impressed with how you leaned into our family as we supported each other through it. The next few days were difficult — you sobbed through several night terrors with no memory of them in the morning — but you showed a level of compassion toward Baron and to us that I hadn’t quite seen before.

It’s a reminder of how much you’re growing, of the layers you’re developing. You’re not one to usually show vulnerability — heck, you barely share anything about your school day. But, in this situation, I got a glimpse of the deeper side of your heart.

As for my heart, you own it. Fully. At least once a day, I’m reminded how lucky I am that you’re in my life. Like your classmates in school, I find myself whispering, “It’s Jack. Can you believe it? Jack’s my son!“

And, I will always be your mommy (ha! had to do it).

Letters to Charlie: On Turning 13

My dearest Charlie — the teenager,

You’ll have to forgive me a moment. My heart rate immediately shot up, and I may need to find a paper bag to breathe into.

Today, my son, you woke up a TEENAGER.

The signs have all been there: the shiny hair, the slowly deepening voice, the fact that we almost stand eye to eye. And the moods….oh, the moods! So many moods!

I tell you it’s okay, that all of us experienced BIG emotions in our day. You roll your eyes and try to gaslight me about something else.

I kid, I kid (except maybe about the gaslighting). It’s thrilling to watch you navigate the person you’re becoming. For you, adolescence and adulthood are jumbled together in a candy dispenser, and each day it’s a mystery what that quarter is going to get us.

Here’s what I do know: As a 13-year-old, you’re sweet-hearted, loving, sensitive, anxious, shy, funny, musical, and smart — oh my goodness smart. You find this world fascinating. You ask phenomenally interesting questions, many of which I haven’t the faintest idea how to answer. In the car the other day, you asked, “How quickly can a falling human reach terminal velocity?” Well, thank goodness Dad was in the car because I have no idea what terminal velocity even is. The other night you taught us the Aztec numeral system — well, tried to teach me. Dad understood. Shout out to Dad once again, who was around when you read the word “fellatio” in a book and asked about it.

Speaking of which, you started sex ed in school last week. I know I’ve annoyed you with my questions about it, but I’m just so curious! One memory I have of sex ed in middle school is the teacher stopping a video right before a woman gave birth because it was too “graphic,” and all kids groaning in disappointment. Also, diagrams of anatomy, lots of them. Thankfully, sex ed in middle school seems to have evolved; the first lesson was on peer pressure and the second was on consent! Love this!

Still, I get the sense that you’re zoning out a bit. It makes sense; on the road to manhood, you’re at the starting line. When I was in 7th grade, I definitely remember being into boys, and I could tell you who was popular on any given day and why. That stuff doesn’t seem to matter to you (yet?), which is a bit of a blessing. Middle school politics can get messy.

Speaking of middle school, you’re learning an important lesson that smarts don’t necessarily equal good grades. Your grade in advanced math dropped to a D in part because you bombed a “notebook check,” an assignment in which you’re required to paste graded homework into a notebook. Stuffing the papers inside doesn’t count. And, yes, you may think this requirement is dumb, but adults get asked to do dumb things all the time by their bosses. As a reporter, my editor once sent me — alone — to a junkyard on a scorching hot Saturday to watch for people possibly stealing electronics in order to strip them for copper. I wasn’t supposed to approach them (made sense; I was a 23-year-old baby), so I just sat there in the dust for hours under the baking sun trying to decide if someone looked criminal and questioning my life choices.

But enough about me. Over the past year, you transitioned from our family’s screen time “chip” system to a chore/allowance system. You automatically get one hour of video game time a day, but we added chores to your week that also earn you some money. My favorite is that you make a meal-kit dinner for us once a week. At first, you were terrified of the stove and oven and couldn’t cut a thing. One 30-min meal took 90 to make. Dad and I hovered closely, making sure you didn’t slice off a finger or burn down the house. After only a few months, however, I can tell how much more confident you are in the kitchen, and your dinners are coming together more quickly. This is such a great life skill for you to develop.

One chore you refuse to do is change the litter box. I’m surprised at this, considering how obsessed you are with our cats, but I guess it makes sense to draw a line at poop. You truly, truly love them — greeting them first when you get home, making sure they have food, giving scratchies whenever they bellow. Sometimes you get a bit too up in their grill, and since both cats are very, very elderly (20 and 17), they can’t really run away.

Here are some other highlights from your 13th year:

Favorite Restaurants: Your birthday weekend featured two — La Bella Pizza and Breakfast Republic. You love BR’s pancake flight. Culinarily speaking, you’ve discovered benedicts this year and the gooey gloriousness of eggs over medium.

Best Vacations: Greece! You were the inspiration for our family trip last summer because of your love of Greek mythology. We took several tours, but you already knew so much. You also loved Spring Break in Palm Springs to celebrate Grandma Z’s 70th birthday. Nothing beats a week with access to a pool and spending time with your cousins.

The Parthenon!

Teaching our Athens tour guide a thing or two about Greek mythology.

Her, too.

Santorini

Best School Trip: Disneyland with the school choir. For a souvenir, you bought me a dispenser that makes Mickey ears out of soap. I was so touched that you thought of me, and I’m happy every time I use it. You brought Jack home a sword and nothing for Dad “because I know you don’t like tchotchkes.”

Worst Illness: As a 12-year-old, you were able to get the adult Covid booster this winter, and it knocked you on your ass. Sorry, kid.

Worst/Best Hike: Ho Chi Minh Trail. I forced our family out of the house one day to explore this famous San Diego hike. It ended up being far harder and more treacherous than I anticipated, requiring you to climb down steep rocks at one point with a rope. As someone afraid of heights, this was a significant challenge for you. But you kept moving forward and made it through. I was so proud of you.

Favorite Board Game: Puns of Anarchy. You are exceptionally good at this game. Your unexpected “punny” phrases trigger my asthma because I laugh so hard.

Favorite Video Games: You saved up your own money to buy Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom. Also, Minecraft is still popular in our house — you and Jack play together all the time.

Relationship with your Brother: NOT BAD. I feel like I have to write this in caps because so many of my letters to you over the years lament your awful treatment of each other. You’re still obsessed with fairness and not missing out on something the other “got.” And you can be smart asses to each other. But I see more friendship now that I ever have.

New Skill: Theater tech crew. You built sets and did the lights for your school’s two theater productions this year.

Favorite Movie: “Super Mario Bros.” Peeeeaches…… peeeaches….. peaches peaches peaches.

Future Career: Astrophysicist seems to be the goal these days. Gotta work on that math grade, bro.

Now that you’re 13, we’re not only entering a universe where you’re a teenager; you’re also getting a phone. Dad and I waffled on the right time. It seems most of your peers have one, but we weren’t quite ready to give you the keys to the kingdom. Of course, we’ll have parental protections in place — no social media, blocked web sites, no texts/calls from people who aren’t contacts, no phone in your room — but we’re no dummies. These tools mean little to a determined kid, especially one who’s used tech all his life and who’s surrounded by other kids who are the same way.

For now, you don’t seem too interested in that stuff — you were most excited about playing online Scrabble with me — but we gave you an in-depth talk about the Internet anyway: What you may stumble upon. What it means. How headlines are designed to make you click on them, and why. How and why using a phone changes your brain and makes it easier to avoid important human interaction. It’s a conversation that will, for sure, continue.

I can’t describe the rush of feeling when I added MY CHILD’s cell number into my phone. I flashed back to all the firsts — the first time I saw you, your first steps, the first day of school, etc. And now, you’re a teenager, with your first phone. It’s boggling, terrifying, exciting.

This morning, you reminded me of another first yet to come.

“Mom, in three years I’ll be driving!”

Now where did I put that paper bag?

Letters to Jack: On Turning 8

Dear Jack,

I experience a jarring, yet wonderous moment each time I pick you up from your after-school program. Parents congregate in the preschool room while teachers fetch our kids, so I get to spend several minutes watching the little tykes play with blocks, color, or listen to books being read.

Then you walk in, backpack slung over your shoulder like you’re in a John Hughes movie, and you look so GIANT.

“Did you grow again today?!” I sputter — half joking, half baffled about where my baby has gone.

You smirk, roll your eyes at your embarrassing mom, and walk out.

This is 8.

Recently, a colleague with a toddler asked whether I missed my children as babies. While the joys of those sweet early years are irreplaceable, I have to admit that having older kids is pretty great. Now that you’re 8, you can shower alone (when we force you in there), go to the bathroom at Target, and dress yourself, though we’re still perfecting shoe-tying. I’m pretty confident you could pour yourself a bowl of Cheerios if I managed to sleep in. These days, I’m woken up by a hungry cat more often than a child who needs me.

You’re even starting to help around the house! This year, you were assigned your first official chore — a weekly responsibility to transfer the continents of our HelloFresh box into the fridge. And, in order to earn screen time, you collect the laundry and start the wash, and replace the bags when someone takes the trash and recycling to the outside bins.

It helps that you remain a cuddle bug. You still like to crawl into my bed and wriggle onto my lap when we’re watching TV (although these days you’re all elbows and knees — ouch!). During dinner, you’ll smooch me or Dad as you return to the table from getting more water or a new book. You’re quick to talk to — and hug — anyone. And you always remember to do #7 on our “Get Ready for School” list: kiss your mama.

But you can also be really…intense with your affection. You’ll come out of nowhere and jump-hug me, despite my pleading that my old back can’t take it. You try to touch my face, even though you know it’s one of my pet peeves. You ever-so-slightly move your head while sitting on my lap to block my view, then look back with a gleam in your eye to see if I’ve noticed.

For these reasons, I joke that your character alignment is chaotic neutral (nice D&D reference, mom). You love a good thrill, whether it’s something spooky or dangerous. You test limits. You got in trouble for teaching your classmates how to spell the F word. ::facepalm::

Dad and I agree that we need to keep a very close eye on you when you’re a teenager.

Several months ago, you actually lost a best buddy because you couldn’t control your anger when he did something that bothered you. Instead of getting an adult to help, you decided to hurt him physically. My heart sank when I heard what happened and plummeted even further when I heard who was involved. Understandably, his mother (who was a new friend for me, too) wanted to keep you two apart, and neither of us have seen them since.

It was a hard lesson, for sure, and, thankfully, we haven’t faced anything like that since. You’ve cultivated a few close, sweet friendships. Even your relationship with your brother seems to be improving. You still can be awful human beings to each other, but the constant fighting has lessened, and sometimes you even seem to enjoy spending time together.

You leaned on each other a lot when we went to Greece this summer — a monumental, two-and-a-half week trip that I still can’t believe we did. Through long flights, weird sleep schedules, and stressful moments, you stayed close to one another. I even let you go off by yourselves for a bit at the water park in Crete!

Speaking of Crete, this is where you got drunk for the first time. Ugh, I know — I can’t believe I even wrote that. It was an accident, I SWEAR. Please don’t call CPS.

In Crete, it’s customary to provide guests with raki, a clear alcoholic beverage akin to ouzo. Although there was an obvious mini-pitcher of raki in the kitchen of our AirBnB, I did not hear when the owner (a lovely Grecian grandma type) told your Dad that a few water bottles in the fridge were also filled with raki. For some reason, these bottles were next to other water bottles that were filled with water.

You see where this is going.

I’m curious what you’ll remember from this experience. From my perspective, you asked for a drink of water right before bed, so I grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and filled up a glass.

Just before we turned out the lights, you took a giant gulp and immediately began coughing. I thought the water had gone down the wrong tube — nope! You managed to swallow before gasping, “What kind of water IS this???” I grabbed the glass and took a whiff.

Ohhhhhhhhh noooooooooo.

Your father wasn’t home — he was driving my bestie and her fam back to their hotel (we traveled to Greece around the same time and met up in a few places). So, I began Googling what to do if a child accidentally ingests the equivalent of a shot or more. Call Poison Control, Google says. I don’t know if Greece has Poison Control! Don’t let the child go to sleep or they could have a seizure and die. But it’s bed time!!!

I texted my bestie in a panic; she assured me you’d be fine. Charles got home and said the same — people have given their kids alcohol for centuries for all matter of reasons. If anything, he joked, you might wake up a bit hungover. I wanted to punch him.

Ten minutes later, you were star-fished on your bed asking why the room was spinning and wondering aloud why adults “do this.”

I checked on you every 10 minutes until 2:30 a.m. You slept deeply and woke up fine. My nerves still haven’t recovered.

Alcoholic adventures aside, here are other highlights from this past year:

Favorite stuffy: Foxy, always Foxy, although that guy is starting to look real rough.

Back-up stuffy: A Minecraft dragon you bought yourself and named Tom. (Tom roars if you squeeze him. If one of us accidentally triggers it, you quip, “Tom, stop being so enthusiastic.”)

Favorite franchise: Star Wars. You wear last year’s Darth Vader Halloween costume at least once a month, even though the pants come to your calves. You still love “Return of the Jedi.” You refuse to read any other stories at bed time.

Favorite animal: Foxes, always foxes. For your gingerbread house this year, you worked with Grandma B to design, construct and decorate a multi-story structure in the shape of a fox. It was impressive.

Favorite subject in school: You wrote “lunch” as the answer to this question on a class assignment, which we found hilarious, but I think it’s math. You keep asking me to quiz you on multiplication. You’re sharing funny riddles like, “What’s 1+1?” “Window!”

Awards: You won second place in a hula-hoop contest at a school fair. The fifth grader who beat you had so much fun playing with you that she gave you her candy prize.

Sports: None. You threw a tantrum every Saturday morning before your gymnastics class so we stopped taking you.

Other activities: You just started Lego League Jr. (Dad is the coach again!), so we’re hoping that sticks.

Illnesses: You got COVID from me, which I got on the trip back home from Greece. Thank goodness it was mild (shout out to vaccines).

Favorite food: Panda Express orange chicken

Favorite books: Anything Star Wars, Big Nate

Favorite video game: Forza Horizon 4

Times you leave your room at bedtime before you actually fall asleep: At least six

Dad and I often remark how different you and Charlie are. Charlie looks more like me, but carries many of Dad’s traits. You look like Dad’s twin, but have my gregarious, outgoing personality.

People just enjoy being around you, my boy. You’re a charmer, a trickster, a kid who loves to laugh and make others laugh. I’m excited to see how you grow and change over the next year and what great discoveries you make about this magical world.

Just to be on the safe side, though, I’m keeping all the liquor locked up.

Letters to Charlie: On Turning 12

Dear Charlie,

I have a vivid memory of you as a tiny toddler, sitting on the long part of our sofa with your stubby legs barely reaching the edge of the first cushion. One day, I marveled, you’ll be a tall young man who takes up this entire couch.

Well, that day has most definitely arrived. Each morning when I stumble into the living room, there you are, on that same sofa, inevitably reading, with arms and legs flung in all sorts of directions as the couch tries to contain you.

Today, you turn 12.

TWELVE.

Teenager minus one.

What?!

This has been an incredible year for you, my son, and an incredible year to be your mother. You took the big leap to middle school and are doing so well in your classes. You have a tight group of friends. And you seem to be embracing the unique, wonderful qualities that make you you.

I’ll start with choir, which has been so special for all of us. This time last year, your Dad and I were cautiously optimistic that you would find a fit with this group. However, you came home the first week of school absolutely hating it. The idea of singing in front of other people was just too much for your quiet, introverted heart. Through desperate tears, you begged us to switch you out. I contacted your counselor who said you’d need to quit honors math to make a schedule work. We refused to do this; you’d have to stick it out until next semester.

Gradually, mercifully, choir began to grow on you. Within a month of school starting, it was your favorite class, and has remained so. And with the support of an amazing teacher, you’ve simply flourished. In October, we were invited to your first mini performance in the school quad, where you PERFORMED A SOLO. Your Dad and I clutched each other like big, tearful goofballs, in absolute awe. You were so confident, so capable. So talented.

At the big holiday show in December, you recited a poem that YOU WROTE YOURSELF. In the spring show, you danced — with props.

What?!

I had a similar experience the night of your first school dance. I’d seen emails about it, but assumed it was the last place in the universe you’d want to be. The day before the dance, however, you asked if I’d bought your ticket yet. Um, excuse me? So, I did, bewilderedly, even though none of the boys from your friend group were going.

The morning of the dance, you said you were going to bring a book, just in case. Oh boy, I thought. That evening, I drove home from work just in time to see you off with Dad, who gave you a man purse satchel in which to carry your book.

I could hear the bass of the music from our house. I was on edge wondering how you were doing, imaging you in a corner all alone, reading your book, with your hands over your ears to block out the noise.

I arrived at the school 15 minutes early to pick you up. Jittery parents like me scoured the joint, trying to peak over walls and into crevices to see if they could get a glimpse of the action. The last song was “Careless Whisper” by George Michael, and my heart almost burst from the poetic passage of time listening to dozens of middle schoolers ironically shout-sing to a musical masterpiece from my youth.

The dance let out. You finally emerged. Walking beside two girls. The biggest smile on your face. I snuck a photo of you walking to my car because I always wanted to remember that look of sheer joy.

“That,” you told me, “was the best night of my life.”

When I think back on this year, I want to remember all that you’ve taught me. So many times I worried about how you’d feel and react in challenging situations, and you’ve taken so many instances in stride.

Thankfully, there are still times you need your mama. Like when you held my hand getting your Covid shots or when you snuggle up close during scary parts of movies (we just finished watching all eight Harry Potter movies together). I’m grateful you still let me hug you — although you’re now as tall as my cheek.

Here are some other highlights from your 12th year:

Favorite books: All of them? Dad just bought Kindles for you and Jack in preparation for a big family trip next month, and I haven’t seen much of you since.

Favorite video game: Skyrim, Splatoon 2

Bestie: Jet

Favorite board game: It has to be Cards Against Humanity: Family Edition, which we got for Christmas and makes us literally ROFL. Our family appreciates a good fart joke. Additionally, you still like chess a lot, and even beat your chess-pro teacher during summer camp!

Favorite movie: Sonic 2. We had an epic afternoon a few weeks ago when we watched OG Sonic at your cousin’s birthday party, then took him to see Sonic 2 with us afterward (our first in-movie-theater experience since Covid), followed by dinner at McDonalds.

Annual gingerbread house theme: You and Grandma B created a massive manor for our family, with a working drawbridge, garden, and turrets.

Best day ever: Our first trip to Disneyland since Covid. You and your brother opened the tickets on Christmas morning. I will never forget the look on your face when you realized that not only were we going, and but we were going on a school day.

Future career: You’ve been talking about becoming a vet, which would be a wonderful way to combine your love of animals with your scientific/mathematic/logical brain. You’ve grown to be so loving, protective and kind to our cats (yes, they are still alive), and they consider you one of their “safe” people. (Jack isn’t quite there yet.)

Most embarrassing parenting moment: This year, you had the amazing opportunity to go to Sixth Grade Camp, a right of passage for SoCal kids. During your pre-camp Covid test, however, you weren’t on the sign-up sheet. “I’m sure it’s fine and that his name just didn’t make it onto this list,” the teacher said airily. So, we dropped you off at school the next day with a suitcase and bedroll and heard nothing. Mid-week, the school and camp started posting dozens of photos; you were in none of them. I scrutinized every one, searching for the tiniest glimpse of a familiar head of hair or body part. Nothing.

Charles, I gasped to your father, what if he never made it on the bus, and his name wasn’t on the list so they didn’t think he was missing????

Dad thought you were fine, but offered to call the camp anyway. Yup, we were those parents. Of course you were there; Dad said the camp counselor delivered the confirmation with what could only be described as a verbal eyeroll.

Worst illness: Covid, which you brought home from Sixth Grade Camp. At first, I thought your deep, gravelly voice was the result of being in nature and screaming with your friends for a week, but a few hours off the bus, your eyes looked….off. You took a test, and, sure enough, it was positive immediately.

Off to your room you went with my iPad and a charger. We quarantined you for several days; you could only come out to use the bathroom and had to wear an N95 to do so. Thankfully, the illness was incredibly mild (bless you, vaccines), but you still missed a week of school. We also think you may have given it to Dad at the tail end of the infectious period. Jack and I remain Covid-free. Phew!

Relationship with your brother: Tumultuous, still. You can be giant jerks to one another, and you fight any time you’re not playing video games together or reading separately. For this letter, I asked you to describe Jack in one word. Your response: Annoying.

Earlier this month, I finished my MBA, a two-and-a-half year journey. Throughout the program, you were always there to give me an encouraging hug, congratulate me on turning in a big paper, tell me to keep going. When I submitted the final assignment of my final class, I turned to you, reading on the couch. We started screaming and jumping and hugging. I sobbed. Jack, who Dad was putting to bed, came running in, too, and we all danced in celebration in the living room.

Our lives are filled with so many beautiful moments like this. We argue, we disagree, and, yes, your eye-rolling at Dad and me is sometimes out of control. But we are a family — one that supports one another through homework and heartbreak, Covid and calamity.

There are more moments from this year that I could describe — all the times you made me laugh, asked an interesting question, shared some thoughtful insight. You are such a gift to this world, such a gift to me and your Dad. When I think about the incredible joy it is to be your mother, sometimes the only breathless, astounded response my heart can muster is, “What?!”

Happy 12th, my dear one.

Letters to Jack: On Turning 7

My dear, sweet boy,

It’s the morning after your 7th birthday and you’re not home. Nope — you’re off having the best time of your life at a solo sleepover with your cousin. Charlie had the same opportunity on his birthday.

Sadly, it will be a long while until the three of you can have a sleepover together — at least at our house. The last attempt a few weeks ago ended in disaster, with you and your brother getting into an all-out brawl over who “owned” ONE Nerf bullet. This was after about 20 hours of non-stop fighting, bickering, crying and screaming between just you two. Your poor cousin actually hid in another room a few times to avoid the maelstrom.

As a result, I confiscated all of your Nerf guns, threw them onto the donate pile in the garage, and ended the sleepover early.

I don’t mean to start this letter in a negative light, but this situation reflects the often tumultuous relationship you continue to have with your older brother. If a screen is not present to distract you, it’s easy for you to devolve into a psychological and physical battle over virtues of intelligence, skill, independence, property rights, consent and justice.

As your mom, I only ask for two photos a year: one on the first day of school, and another for our family holiday card. The first-day-of-school attempt was a DISASTER. You wanted to stand in front of Charlie, he didn’t want you to, and the result was several photos of you arguing and pushing. Everyone tells me I’ll look back on these photos and smile, but I’m still pissed.

Perhaps this is why the times that you and Charlie do get along feel extra sweet. There are moments when you tell him you love him before bed or leaving for school. Or you let your brother excel at a board game that you know he really wants to win. I especially love when you come across something you think your brother will find interesting or funny and you can’t wait to share it with him.

Earlier this year, you combined your savings to purchase pool noodles — not for playing in any kind of pool, but to smack each other with. Surprisingly, these cause fewer problems than the Nerf guns.

For first grade, you have one of Charlie’s former teachers. On the first day of school, you confidently strolled up to her and announced, “I’m Charles (last name’s) brother,” which sounded more like, “Chah-wuhls” and “bwotha” because we’re still working on pronouncing those Rs.

Your birthday party yesterday was a blast, though I was STRESSED OUT that so many people RSVPed ( over 50). It became clear when talking to the parents just how admired you are by your classmates. “Aiden talks about Jack all the time.” “Eric spent an hour making a five-page birthday card for Jack – I couldn’t believe it.” “Max says Jack is his best friend.” We got four requests for playdates!

You love being around people. Your Dad, Charlie and I always remark how quickly you find a friend, wherever we go. I’m thankful the world continues to open up post-quarantine so you can see more humans (that 5-12 vaccine can’t come soon enough, though!). You’ve been loving all the birthday parties this year, and somehow always manage to be second in line (behind the birthday kid) for cake and piñata. #mykid

You’re also more daring than Charlie was at his age (and even now). During a summer trip up the coast, we visited a boardwalk with rollercoasters, and you were all about it. Charlie and I sat on the sidelines while you and Dad went on a very high and very fast ride. You lived your best life that day.

Here are some other highlights:

• Favorite Stuffy: This continues to be Foxy, who you take everywhere you can.
  
• Newest skill: Swimming! Hallelujah! Throughout the year, I continued to have ENERY around your inability to swim, so much that your brother swam me aside one day at the pool and said, “Hey, mom. Chill out. He’ll do it when he’s ready.” Sure enough, you decided one day you could swim and off you went.
  
• My favorite of your new skills: Buckling yourself in the car. ::praise emoji::

• Favorite book: It’s hard to say. You like when we read to you at night, and you often have a book at dinner, but I don’t know yet if you love reading as much as the rest of us. You once asked me to read a book in “an ’80s accent,” which was the funniest thing I’d ever heard.
  
• Halloween costume: Darth Vader. It came in the mail last week and you’ve barely taken it off. You’ve worn it to breakfast, Grandma Z’s, and even your birthday party. Halloween is in a week, and I’m hoping the costume makes it.

• Weirdest diagnosis: Impetigo. You took off your mask after school one day and your mouth was covered in sores. Ack! I was afraid it was some weird Covid-mouth symptom, but your pediatrician immediately recognized it and put you on an antibiotic (thank you, telehealth). He also directed us to wash your face three times a day, which was hell on all of us.
  
• Musical endeavors: You asked to learn piano and guitar this year, but lost interest in both after a month. We love that you wanted to try, though!
  
• Bad habit: You hold in your pee until it’s Def Com 1. You also hate bathing; I wonder if these are related.
  

• Weird obsession: Freeways. You constantly ask how many freeways it will take to get somewhere and check on the freeway status during our trip.
  
• Favorite toy: (Not your Nerf guns anymore — ha!) Probably the light saber that came with your Darth Vader costume or the aforementioned pool noodles.
  
• Favorite movie: Star Wars, particularly Return of the Jedi.
  
• Best friends: Nathan, Grayson, Mukund
  
• Favorite board game: Taco, Cat, Goat, Cheese, Pizza (you’re terrible at Groundhog; me, Narwhal)
  

About you, Dad and I often say, “He’s such a joy.” You remain a child who likes to touch and be touched, to crawl onto my lap for a cuddle even though your long legs stick out in all directions. For a few months this year you refused to be kissed, and it was awful. I would sneak into your bedroom at night to kiss you on the cheek and inhale your soft skin. Creepy, I know.

But your love for me is undeniable. As I continue to slog through my MBA, there are times when I’m at the computer all day for work and at the same computer all night for class. At bed time one of these nights, you came over to say goodnight. You held my face and stared into my eyes.

“Oh,” you said, moving back. “I remember you don’t like people touching your face.”

“It’s okay,” I whispered.

You leaned in for the sweetest kiss, smiled back at me, then skipped off to bed.

I don’t know what I did to deserve such tenderness, but, boy, am I grateful. We absolutely love you, Jack. Here’s to another year of hugs, laughs, pool-noodle battles, playdates, and, of course, ’80s accents.

Letters to Charlie: On Turning 11

Dear Charlie,

One of the reasons I could never be a book critic — and why I’ve always sucked at arguments — is because I react to life with a lot of feeling, and can never quite seem to put those feelings into words.

I’m in this position now. How do I describe all of the complexities of you — my 11-year-old (gasp!) guy — at this stage in your life?

I was trying to think of some words this morning on the way back from the store with breakfast fixings. It’s Memorial Day weekend, and your cousin, Grayson, slept over after your birthday dinner with family last night. The dumb pandemic kept us apart for so long, so this time together — filled with laughter and shouting, good food and blissful chaos — felt particularly special. As the oldest cousin, you are the one they all look up to.

The words that came to mind were a mix of things, so I’ve decided to list them here — in no particular order — and just go with it.

Tall – You come up to my shoulder. You fit into some men’s clothing. When did this happen? This is not OK!

Smart – This week you take an assessment for an accelerated math program in middle school next year (middle school?? gasp!), and I know you’ll rock it. You’ve fallen in love with chess and are stoked to be going to chess camp this summer. You’re always reading, always; everywhere we go. The Golden Compass, Artemis Fowl, Harry Potter, Dragonlance, and Redwall series remain in rotation. You love thought puzzles, trivia, and “would you rathers.” You constantly ask questions. You designed an entire game of “Amazing Race” throughout our house for your grandmas.

Argumentative – You often challenge rules and requests, remembering that one time THREE YEARS AGO when I said the opposite or let something slide. “But, why not?” is a frequent response when I say no to something, followed by a litany of reasons why you think I’m wrong.

Loving – I always thought Jack would be the one to take care of me when I’m old and decrepit, but it might be you! You have the sweetest heart, and you’ve been particularly kind to me this year, always remembering to provide encouragement and give me a hug as I slog through my MBA program. Lots of “you can do it”s and “yay mom”s to help get me through. You always remember to hug me and say “I love you” before bed, or before you walk into school. You remember to tell your Grandmas how much you care for them and appreciate when you can see them.

You have a lot of heart for animals, too. The cats (yes, they’re still with us!) now allow you to pet them, even though they still run from Jack. You’ve decided you hate the Zoo because animals there are “kept in cages,” despite our efforts to explain the benefits and nuances of that truth.

Funny, Mischievous – Your laugh — those deep belly laughs — is one of the best sounds in the universe. You’ve watched a few stand-up comic routines with Dad, and some SNL episodes with me, and the sound of this laughter soars through our home. You’re developing Dad’s talent with puns. You went as “COVID” for Halloween (and even made the costume yourself). You love to tease me, calling my ’90s playlists and corny movies something the “ancients” liked.

Maturing – I’m stunned during those moments when you act far older than your 11 years. The other day, you came home from a movie night at Grandma’s and discovered we were watching “Rouge 1,” which had been on our family watch list for awhile. You asked to speak with me alone in the other room, and when we got there, you calmly, but shakily, explained that you felt hurt and angry that we were watching the movie without you. You used “I” statements! Well, I was floored and started crying because ARE YOU KIDDING ME!? Most adults have trouble recognizing — let alone verbalizing — triggers for their emotions.

You did something similar on a bike ride a few months back. You fell, and were upset. I tried to comfort you by saying that falls happen to everyone. “Mom,” you replied. “I know you are just trying to make me feel better, and thank you for that, but it doesn’t help.” Well, OK then!

Private, Homebody, Uninterested in Physical Activity – I grouped these because I think they’re interrelated. It remains a struggle to get you out of the house — especially when it comes to anything active. You want to be reading inside or playing video/board games inside or smacking your brother with pool noodles inside. You thrived during the two months of virtual school because you didn’t have to go anywhere.

Dad and I sometimes force you and Jack on walks, hikes, and bike rides — even just to eat dinner in the backyard — and it’s always grooooaaaaaaaan and whiiiiiinnnne and how much loooooooonger. I got you to run with me twice during the past year.

As a fifth grader, you had the option of getting a yard sign announcing your graduation. “No thanks,” you said. “I don’t want people knowing my business.” Um, are you sure you’re my kid??

Musical….Maybe? – You are so musical, Charlie — always singing and humming. You love EDM, and have even recommended some cool running mixes. Dad and I had unrealized hopes that you’d enjoy band this year (you picked the trombone because it had the “fewest number of buttons I need to press”). But, because of the pandemic, band practice was virtual this year, and it took place after formal school hours, when you were at the super-fun after-school program. You were never motivated to remember to log in, or you “forgot” your instrument at home on band days. You hated to practice. Your instructor wasn’t very engaged either, and actually left partway through the year. Dad and I should’ve been more on it, but we weren’t. When spring came around, we cut our losses, returned the rented trombone, and emailed the new instructor that you wouldn’t be signing in the rest of the year. Sigh.

When it came to picking an elective in middle school, you balked at band and orchestra, and initially rejected the idea of choir. This particularly pained Dad, who deeply feels the value of a music education (we were both choir geeks in high school; his won best in the country!). Dad struggled with whether to require you take a musical elective, but we both knew that would set you up for failure. Instead, you chose a general, non-music elective. After a few weeks, however, we noticed some cracks in your anti-choir façade, especially when we received an email from the school encouraging you to take a second look at the program. You learned that part of the course involved making your own music at a “digital workstation” and you were suddenly in!

I’m hopeful, but cautious. As mentioned, you can be a private person, and not a huge fan of getting up in front of people. Also, I’m worried that my BIG ENERGY around Broadway will discourage you from leaning in to musical theater (that’s what happened with “Hamilton”; I was just too extra about it when I thought you liked it and ultimately pushed you away). But choir people are awesome, so I’m hoping you’ll start to find some of your people in that group.

Sensitive – You’re like me — you feel things deeply and your emotions are always right on the surface. If you feel wronged, or if something isn’t fair or doesn’t go the way you pictured it, you can get overwhelmed. While home is always a safe place for this to happen, it sometimes occurs when you’re at school or with your friends. I know how challenging and frustrating this can be for you — especially since fellow 11-year-olds aren’t known for their emotional sensitivity.

I wish I could tell you what a gift this is — that emotional people experience the world in such a special way. We love fiercely, and live a life of many colors. But, that also means our brains can be prone to crushing self-doubt, anxiety, and depression, which can lead to all sorts of challenges. My goal as your mom is to teach you how to embrace this reality about yourself, but not let it control you.

Changing – You’re on the cusp of some big changes in your life. Already, your body is different and your voice is deepening. Your emotions swing. You often run into walls and stub your toes because it’s hard to keep track of your body in space. Dad and I need to be more cautious about what you’re looking at on the Internet, and what your friends are telling you about the world. Three boys at your birthday party already had phones (gasp!). (As an aside, I think you should get one in middle school, mainly for tracking purposes, but Dad is vehemently against it).

I remember middle school as a time of awkward transition, when I started hearing about drugs and sex and other adult things. It was tough, but I also remember the thrill of breaking away from my elementary school friend group, discovering who I was beginning to be as a person, and finding others like me.

I know you struggle with your identity. You feel self-conscious that you’re smart, love to read, don’t like sports, have big emotions. You’ve been called a nerd, and made to feel like the odd one out. I try to tell you that everyone feels like this — even as adults — but I know you won’t understand until you’ve lived more life. And that’s OK.

And finally,

Gratitude — This is a word for me, about you. It perfectly summarizes what I feel about being your mother. You are complex, wonderful, dazzling. You were the child who made me a mother and you remind me every day what a wonderful gift that is.

Happy 11th birthday, my dear boy. In seven short years, you’ll legally be an adult. While this is boggling and terrifying, I can already tell what a cool adult you’ll be.

Perhaps you’ll still want to hang around with us “ancients.” I truly hope you do.

Letters to Jack: On Turning 6

To my dear Jack,

I know I’m a few days late in writing this letter, but it’s 2020, so what does “time” mean anyway.

When I wrote Charlie’s birthday letter in May, we were in the throes of quarantine. Five months later, our life feels a little more settled, though maybe I’m just forgetting what before was like.

Take yesterday, for example. I made pancakes while you and Charlie played video games. I went to Target (alone!!) to return a light-up pumpkin whose eye burnt out. We took you for haircuts, which you complained about for days. We met Amy for our annual family photos (more complaining), and capped off the evening with a lovely dinner at a patio restaurant.

Yes, we wore masks, washed our hands, stayed outdoors, and kept our distance from others, but it just felt so ordinary.

Helping to restore this normalcy is your return to physical school. You and Charlie go half a day, then spend the remainder at the after-school program. I have full confidence in our school’s safety protocols, and wearing a mask all day doesn’t seem to much bother you or your brother.

Before the switch, you attended Zoom Kindergarten for six weeks, which was …incompatible with 5 and 6 year olds. It was tough for you to stay focused and motivated, even though your AMAZING teacher gave it her all (major props also to Grandma B, who helped Dad and me with virtual schooling). At one point, you told the teacher — and your entire class — that you thought the prior day’s instruction went on waaay to long.

I almost cried the first day you logged in; it was just unbelievable that you were attending Kindergarten over a screen.

You’re so much happier to be back at school. You come home full of stories about your class, how Nathan and Cole made you laugh, and what games you played on the playground (hooray for physical activity!).

As Charlie and you grow older, it’s becoming clear that he takes after your dad’s introversion and analytical brain, while you have my love for being among others. Your face brightens when in a group. You talk to everyone and make friends wherever you go. Quarantine has been tougher on you than your brother.

At six, you’re straddling the line between little kid and big kid. I remember this time with Charlie, too. Some moments, you seem so young, cherubic, and new. Other times, you talk like a teenager.

The night before your birthday, you lost 15 minutes from your bed time because you refused to wake up and get dressed (“But I’m tiiiiiiiiiired”), then threw a fit about what I made you for breakfast. If you’re too sleepy in the morning, I explained, that means you need more sleep at night. You can earn the time back tomorrow if we have a smoother morning.

The next day, Charlie and I crept into your room and woke you up by singing “Happy Birthday.” You groggily opened your eyes, realized what was happening, then threw off your blanket to reveal you were wearing school clothes. “Mom, I woke up in the middle of the night and got dressed so I could get those 15 minutes back!” Nice work, dude.

You and Charlie still fight, but it feels less frequent and more normal than when you were younger. You take after him a lot, as I’m sure most little siblings do. You emulate the way Charlie speaks, his physical affectations, even his likes and dislikes. Peeking through are your own special characteristics, though, which I look forward to seeing grow.

Jack, there’s no one better in the world to give presents to; you’re just as excited by a balloon as you are about a big Lego set. You make Dad and I laugh all the time. You tell me how pretty I am before I go to work. Often, we watch you move through the world, then say to one another, “He’s just…joy.”

And you’re still so loving. In fact, this was how I described you during a Zoom icebreaker with other Kindergarten parents. One day, you’ll decide you’re too big to snuggle with your mom, especially in public. Luckily, we’re not there yet. You often climb onto my lap when we’re watching TV, even though you barely fit. Yesterday at dinner, you found my lap again; I wrapped my arms around you and just swayed to the music while you chomped on a quesadilla.

Sometime during quarantine, you started crawling into our bed in the middle of the night. I know Dad isn’t a fan, but I love it. You’re so warm and snuggly, and I feel such strong maternal contentment knowing you’re next to me, safe and asleep.

At home, you randomly come to me for a hug or kiss, although sometimes you use affection as a delay tactic to eating dinner. “Jack, sit down and eat your salad.” “But I just want to huuuuuuuug you.”

At night, Dad and I must follow — in perfect order or we’ll have to start again — a bedtime routine you’ve created:

Kiss… Hug… Eskimo kiss… Eskimo hug… Jellyfish (the involves moving our hands like we’re at the disco?)… Turtle (we make forehead horns with our hands??)… Turtle Eskimo kiss… Turtle Eskimo jellyfish… and finally Fish (forehead shark fin with one hand, turtle horn with the other, wiggling???).

Kids are weird.

We’ve tried to make the most of this past year of quarantine. Right before the world shut down, we took a big family trip to Yosemite. We told you and Charlie not to look down at your books as we wound our way through the mountains. Near Wawona, you announced, shakily, “Mom, I think I have to go to the bathroom,” then proceeded to vomit all over yourself and the car seat. We turned off the road only to discover that we had NO WIPES OR NAPKINS and there was no place to buy anything until we got down to the Valley floor. So, that was a fun family adventure. (The rest of the trip was great.)

This summer, with a lack of options for what to do, we became a beach family. Dad bought a rad beach tent and cooler and we spent many weekends building sand castles and battling the waves. We forgot to put sunscreen around your eyes one trip and you came home looking like Uncle Fester.

Also, in my quarantine-fueled fear that you couldn’t swim yet, we spent way too much for eight “private” lessons through the school district. Because of COVID, however, the instructor couldn’t get in the pool, so I basically paid someone to unsuccessfully teach me how to keep you from sinking. With hope, the YMCA will open next year.

Here are some other highlights from your fifth year:

Career goal: After-school program teacher
Favorite song: “Old Town Road”
Favorite joke: “Why did the pig go into the kitchen?” “Because he felt like bacon!”
Favorite word: Literally

Halloween costume: Halloween is cancelled this year (thanks, COVID), but you’ll probably wear your Batman costume to school once again. That night, we’ll watch movies and eat candy.
Best friends: Grayson, Charlie

Bad habit: Sucking on the collar of your t-shirt, refusing to pee even though it’s obvious you’re desperate
Favorite hair-do: You occasionally ask me to comb your hair before school so you can look “handsome.”

Favorite toy: Anything Lego
Favorite video games: Lego StarWars, Minecraft Dungeons
Favorite movie: Incredibles, Frozen 2, The Grinch
Favorite TV show: Top Gear, the Mongolian Special (#dadshow)

Favorite book: Superhero comic books (you’re still obsessed with Batman)
Favorite restaurant: Panda Express
Favorite board games: Llamanoes, Uno, Cars and Trucks

For your birthday this year, we had two mini parties. The first was before you and Charlie went back to school, when we felt safer getting together with your cousins, aunt and uncle for an outdoor dinner. The second, on your actual birthday, was smaller, but just as special. Because of the pandemic, I’m not sure what we’re going to do for the holidays.

I wondered whether we should even take family photos this year. There is so much suffering in the world, and so many things have been put on hold in our lives. I joked about just sending out a photo of a dumpster fire. But, if 2020 has taught us anything, it’s the value of family — the one you’re born into and the one you make.

We’ve been blessed with both this year, just as the world has been blessed with you. The happiest of birthdays to you, my sweet boy. Welcome to six.

Letters to Charlie: On Turning Ten, In Quarantine

My dear, sweet boy,

This isn’t how I imagined your tenth birthday.

Back in February, before the world stopped, we thought this day would be filled with a disc-golf game for your friends, cheap pizza and soda, and almost certainly a game of 10-year-old tag in the park.

Instead, we are waking up on day 77 of California’s quarantine. You and your brother have been out of school since the middle of March. Your routine of teachers, friends, recess, and running around just gone.

I work at a hospital, so I barely saw you during the first several weeks of the coronavirus pandemic. Things are calmer now, but still busy, and it’s only through the grace, patience and fortitude of your father and Grandma B that you’ve continued to learn anything at all.

Luckily, you’re at an age where you still like to hang out with us, and you’ve never really enjoyed going outside anyway, so quarantine has been less traumatic for you than I imagine it’s been for other kids.

I’m grateful you have a sibling with whom you can share this time, but, hot damn, you two can get into it. I don’t blame you; being trapped in a small space with a 5-year-old for 77 days would make anyone loopy. Still, there are brief moments when I glimpse the foundation of a lifelong friendship. Then you go back to pummeling each other with our couch pillows.

In regards to your brother, you’re showing some impressive grown-up behavior. Perhaps it’s because you’re getting more mature; perhaps it’s the only way to survive quarantine with him. You’re at an age where you understand more of where the “adults” are coming from, but you can still relate to Jack on a kid level. Through rational talk, shifting his perspective, and even silly humor (he loves when you pretend to fall down), you’ve helped move him along in times of sheer obstinance.

Before quarantine, you and Jack were taking Saturday gymnastics, and the coaches were consistently impressed with your leadership and hard work on the mat. Without the structure of that class, finding physical activity for you has been tough (see earlier comment about not wanting to go outside). Walks are boring, bike rides are tough (both logistically, and, you know, hills), and god forbid you ever go running with me. We forced you and your brother on a 3-mile hike through a nature preserve last weekend and you said it was one of the worst days of your life. ::eye roll::

In late February, right before Evertything™, we went to Yosemite for a week. In hindsight, it was great practice for being stuck with one another, with not much to do. In between grumbling about being outside, you and your brother saw waterfalls, climbed rocks and trees, poked each other with sticks, and raced twigs in the river. Dad and I drank a lot on the balcony.

• 

At that time, fourth grade was going well. This is the year teachers focus on building kids’ independence, so Dad and I were more hands-off with your schoolwork. At our November parent-teacher conference, we heard expected feedback about your progress: Charles is incredibly bright, though he can lack focus and self-discipline. He also moves too quickly, especially when it comes to test questions and assignment directions. And, he continues to sneak-read books while he should be paying attention in class.

We’ve tried our best to keep you engaged with school during quarantine. Class over Zoom seems like torture for you; I’m sure it’s torture for your teachers, too. It’s just not the way kids learn! You do a pretty good job following your daily assignment sheet, but you sure don’t like when I edit your writing. Yesterday, we argued for several minutes about the use of “it’s” vs. “its,” as well as proper subject-verb agreement.

• 

Like always, we try to engage your brain in other ways. We’re making our way through National Geographic’s “Lost Treasures of Egypt” (history: check), we listened to a Radiolab about an octopus that protected her eggs for over four years (science: check), and Dad and you have dismantled your broken Nerf bow in an attempt to fix it (engineering: check). You’re also learning a lot from our dinner-table conversations about the interplay among federal, state and local governments (social studies: check).

STEM seems to be where your interests lie. In the fall, you participated in First Lego League, where you used robots to build houses (or something like that; truthfully, all that stuff is over my head). You were in the non-competitive team this year, which meant you got to practice skills like teamwork, and research, and presenting in front of an audience without squirming like a monkey. I hope this activity can continue; we still need to work on the monkey bit.

• 

Despite our best efforts, you’ve spent a lot of time in quarantine playing video games and watching Disney+. To extract you from the screen, we’ve played a ton of board games. You won at Monopoly once and now you’re hooked, even though that soul-crushing game makes Dad and me feel sad. Our family’s Marbles game is still a favorite here and at Grandma B’s house. You have insane luck against her; I think you’ve beaten Grandma over 110 times since you started keeping a tally last year.

Other highlights from your ninth year:

Halloween costume: We caved and let you wear the “Navy Seal Black Ops 6” outfit that you wanted last year. However, we removed the knives and grenades, and didn’t let you wear to school the skeleton mask that came with it. That’s called good parenting.

Favorite book: You’re deeply into the Redwall books by Brian Jacques, which Dad loved as a kid. Sometimes, he’ll read the books to you out loud, and he does the most amazing voices. I suck at them, so you don’t ask me to read much. These days, it’s hard to get you into other books — you like what you like and will read them over and over and over again.

Best friend: You said Cash without any hesitation. I wish you could see him.

Favorite TV show: Odd Squad.

Favorite music: EDM. Sometimes, we put it on in the dark and dance around with glow sticks. (PE: check)

Favorite celebrity: It’s still John Cena! I will never understand this. You and Jack both pretend you’re him when you wrestle. I don’t think you’ve ever even seen wrestling on TV.

Favorite food: Ice box cake. A classic.

Favorite sport: You told me it was “whistle” ball, which is this cheap toy that Grandma Z got us from the dollar store that makes a high-pitched screech when you throw it. We toss it around outside when I’m desperate to get you some physical activity. You have a really good arm.

Favorite clothing: Basketball shorts. At some point, I bought you shorts with — gasp! — buttons and a zipper and you absolutely refuse to wear them. Good, you can start doing your own laundry.

Hobby: Video games. All the video games. So many video games.

Favorite way to sleep: Door shut, surrounded by a fort of stuffed animals to block out every single glimmer of light in the universe. I can’t even properly check on you before I go to bed because you’re so hidden. Note to self: Keep an eye on this tactic when he’s a teenager.

My sweet boy, I wonder what you’ll remember about this time. I hope it’s long days spent with your family, laughter over Mom losing at board games, cuddles and back-scratchies while watching movies, a sense that you were safe and loved.

I know this isn’t the tenth birthday you thought it would be, but Dad and I will make it the best we can. We’ll throw some discs into the backyard basket that Dad set up before quarantine. Grandma Z will bring over a few boxes of your favorite pizza (meatball and onion from La Bella), and we’ll eat it with proper social distancing. And, of course, we’ll have ice-box cake (no blowing out candles, though).

Happy birthday to my double-digit boy. This is a nutty world we all live in, but it’s so much better with you in it.

Letters to Jack: On Turning 5

Oh, my sweet son.

I’m struggling with how to begin this letter because there’s so much I want to say, and yet so many things that can’t be put into words. This is my last “letter of frequency” to you boys; when Charlie turned five, I stopped writing regular, public posts out of respect for his burgeoning privacy. As I transitioned to only writing about him on each birthday, I still had my tiny guy at home to talk about with abundance.

And now here we are.

These letters were a commitment I made when you and your brother were born. Most every mother with older kiddos tells me how raising children is like an hour glass — fleeting and fragile. You blink and suddenly your children are grownups who rarely call. These letters were an attempt to capture — for me as well as you — the magic of our early years together. They were also a way for me share the experience of parenthood with friends and loved ones, who I could lean on for advice and support.

And while I will continue to write yearly letters (with your permission, of course), I can’t help but feel the sands somewhat slipping away.

Yet, along with this sense of loss is such pride and excitement at how you’re growing. You are at the crossroads of Little Kid and Big Kid, and it’s fascinating to see those two sides interact.

You began Transitional Kindergarten in August, and you’re in a TK-K class with Charlie’s wonderful former kindergarten teacher. While other kids cried to leave their parents on the first day, you sat happily on your appointed square — having made at least two new best friends already — and waved goodbye to Dad and me. A few weeks ago, your teacher took me aside to tell me how great you’re doing in school, and how much fun you seem to be having.

Tomorrow is Halloween, and my streak of “Jack”-themed costumes for you has come to an end (as a five-year-old, you now have opinions about such things). Gone are the days of lumberjacks, Jack and the Beanstalk, and Jack-Jack. This year is all about Batman, and only Batman.

Keeping track of you at the school Halloween carnival was a challenge. Most kids go out on the playground, in the deepening dusk. As it gets darker, parents struggle to follow their little ones, and I imagine from above we all look like scurrying ship tracks. The one saving grace was that your costume has a blinking Bat-Signal.

That night I realized how attracted you are to Big Kids, which makes sense given you have an older brother. At the carnival, you quickly found a few of your third-grade “buddies” and ran with them all night. In fact, I texted Dad at one point to say you all reminded me of a gang of T-Birds. I wasn’t sure if they necessarily wanted you tagging along, but you happily kept up with them.

To that end, you’ve also stopped wanting to read with me — or any adult for that matter — during Morning Read at school. Big Kids come in each morning to help your classmates with reading, and as soon as you see one (usually a Big Boy), your eyes light up. Sometimes Charlie’s class comes in to help, which is fun for me to see. The Big Kids seek you out, too, because they can tell how much you admire them.

You’re an extrovert, at least right now. We went to a lovely restaurant for dinner last Friday (one with a play area for kids where parents can drink craft beer), and your Dad and I watched in awe as you just collected friends, of all ages. When one kiddo had to sit down to eat, you simply sauntered up to his table and started chatting with the family.

You have such a bright light inside of you, my boy. You’re funny, smart, expressive, and sweet. It’s effortless to love you, and it’s no wonder people want to be around you.

While waiting for Charlie to finish his gymnastics class a few weekends ago, I pointed out a young girl twirling in the air on a hoop.

“Isn’t she pretty?” I asked.

You replied: “Mom, there’s only one girl here that I like.”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

Then, you tapped me on the shoulder and gave me the most honeyed smile.

You and your brother still fight. A lot. And in those times — after I’ve sent you to your rooms — I lament that I don’t have children who like each other. Yet, there are sweet times when you make each other laugh, when we can all play Chutes and Ladders without you screaming your faces off, and — like any good sibling pair — when you gang up on Dad and me. Everyone says you’ll be best friends in college and adulthood. Here’s hoping, although I should bill you both for all the dye I’m needing to cover up these gray hairs.

Screaming bloody murder continues to be your MO when things don’t go your way, so we’re still working on that. And at times, you struggle deeply with following our house rules, including not playing with toys on school mornings until you’re completely ready. The other day you shouted, “NO! I AM THE RULES,” when I said you couldn’t have ice cream cake for breakfast. (I’ll have to try that phrase at work.)

These are all par for the course at your age, and Dad and I have been through it once with Charlie, so we know there is another side. What I hope to remember from these days are the tender moments of early childhood. Like after the first day of school when you announced, “Now we can dance!,” after you finished your celebratory fro-yo. There we were, outside of a Golden Spoon, twirling to Roy Orbison’s “You Got It” on the sound system, while Charlie tried to look like he didn’t know us.

Or, in the middle of the night recently, when you crawled into bed next to me. You began to stir at 6 a.m., but I kept my eyes closed hoping you’d stay quiet for a little while longer. After a few moments, you leaned close to my ear, whispered I love you, then snuggled back into the covers against my chest.

My sweet, five-year-old boy. I know that time is fleeting, I know these moments only last an instant, but I want you to know — and I want myself to remember — how grateful I was for them, how I cherished them in the moment.

Happy birthday, my love. Now, please excuse me. I’m going to call my mother.

Letters to Jack: Nearing 5

Hey Jackers,

Summer is drawing to a close, and in a few weeks you will embark on a new adventure: Transitional Kindergarten! You’ll be attending the same school as Charlie, instead of the school with the Mandarin program. In short, there was a deadline to submit a transfer request — which I didn’t know you needed in the first place — and all the spots were already filled. Lame.

Part of me is relieved. I worried whether the program was a right fit in the first place. Plus, I don’t mind having only one drop-off and pick-up, and I know your school is a good one. I’m just hoping this won’t be a critical crossroad in your life. Will we look back and think, “Everything would’ve been better if he went to that other school!” Then I remember that you’re an able-bodied, white male born into the upper middle class (::insert wry commentary about American socioeconomics). Plus, you’re 4. You’ll be fine.

Because you’ll be in public school next year (thank you, CA), you were able to attend your new school’s summer camp with Charlie, run by the same teachers who operate the after-school program that you’ll both attend next year. It was thrilling to walk you in together the first day. You were just an infant in my arms when Charlie began this program, and now you’re a student there! Both you and Charlie were excited to be there with one another, and I felt assured that your big brother would help look after you. I was also excited for the teachers to get to know my lovable little Jackers.

For the most part, the summer program has been great, and you’ve been happy. You’ve come home smiling and filthy (always a marker of a good camp day).

Then, a few weeks ago, the main teacher gave me the look when I picked you up. “Noooooooooooo,” I whimpered, wondering what your brother had done this time. “It’s about Jack…..,” she replied. Jack, Whaaaaaa???? Yes, my sweet baby boy had been hitting other students and running away when the teachers called for him.

Hmmm. Well, everyone has bad days, I thought. We talked about the importance of keeping your hands to yourself and following your teachers’ directions. Then, last Wednesday happened. Main Teacher shared with me the following:

1. You scratched another child with scissors during craft time.
2. You drew on another child’s face with markers.
3. You keep trying to steal toys from camp and take them home with you.
4. Instead of running away from your teachers, you are now hiding from them. You’ll only come out when you can shout “boo” and scare them.

I’m feeling a bit mortified at this point — how must this teacher think I’m raising my children?! Then, you scream at me when I say it’s time to go. I ask you again to get your backpack, and you yell “NOOOOOOOO.”

Now, I’m getting pissed. I try to give you the look, but instead you shriek again, then run outside while yelling angry things about me.

One of the teachers says she will follow you, so I calmly collect your backpack and lunch and go outside. You are nowhere to be found, and neither is the teacher (I never actually found out where she went). I call your name. Nothing. I walk completely around the building. Nothing. I go back inside to see if you are in there. Nope.

I start counting down from 5, the universal parent signal for, “You best cut yo shit now.” I hear a guttural scream from inside one of the play structures and ask you to come with me, once again. We make eye contact, then you form your hand into the shape of a gun and mock shoot me.

Well, that was the last straw. I announced that you could no longer go to the next day’s much-anticipated field trip to an arcade.

Cue lots of screaming, crying, whining, yelling and bargaining (this was a new strategy). “Mom,” you said through sobs. “Give me a chance. You have to give me a chaaaaance.” I finally got you home and got food into your system; within 20 minutes, you were back to normal.

Grandma B (who graciously took you in the next day, which was amazing because I had no back-up plan) reminded me that your brain is still growing, and not growing evenly. We brainstormed some ideas to help you — including a sticker chart for good days at camp — and you had a productive day on Friday. How I wish you could still take naps (how I wish I could still take naps…).

You’re definitely going through some sort of developmental leap. Defiance and trickery aside, your brain is doing some interesting things (see above re: bargaining). Your vocabulary is growing. You’re speaking in more complex sentences. You can hop(ish) on one foot!

My goal this summer was to jump-start your reading. A friend gave me a few Bob Books Collections, and we’ve been reading a few every day after camp. You’ve already completed the beginner’s set, and, while I can’t call you an avid reader yet, you are reading!

Independence is coming a little more slowly. We’re still working on your refusal to pee in the morning. Now, an elaborate farce is required before you venture forth to the restroom: I hold all 18 million of your stuffed animals while sitting on your bed and I close my eyes (you always check). After you pee, you creep — not very silently — into the room and sit behind my back. Then you yell, “Open your eyes!” and I have to pretend that you’re still in the bathroom and wonder when you’ll be back. Whatever. It’s the quickest way forward right now.

The other day, I remarked how grateful I was that you could get out of the car by yourself while my hands were full. Cut to the sound of the car door slamming, followed by a shrill scream. You had closed the door on your hand, which I’m sure was karma’s reminder never to say anything like that out loud again. (You were fine after a few hugs and some ice.)

A few weeks ago you had your first sleepover with your cousin. At first you both insisted you’d sleep inside his one-person Batman sleeping bag (because why not), but it was too hot for that to be comfortable. You started the night next to one another on the floor, talking and giggling in the dark (Charlie complained several times that he couldn’t fall asleep in the next room). After about an hour — and several reminders from me to be quiet — your cousin hopped on the bed, which you were NOT OK with. An argument ensued and we eventually determined that you’d both sleep on the bed, head to foot. He ended up falling off the bed and settling in on the floor again, so all turned out fine.

I know this sleepover is the tip of the iceberg when it comes to all the fun times ahead of you — with your cousin, with your new school friends, with Dad and me. Sometimes, when I peek in at night and give you a final kiss before I go to bed, I’m struck by how big you are lying in bed. Wasn’t it just yesterday that you were a tiny peanut, curled up in a crib? Who’s this kid with such long, strong, beautiful legs?

There are so many things I love about you, and love about being your mom. You’re the only one who compliments me on my choice of necklace, or my painted toenails; you always notice the tiny details. I love how much fun you’re having telling jokes (“What’s brown and sticky? Poop.”). I love how you woke me up early one morning while Dad was away and asked if I could play Weird Al. I love how you give “moose kisses.”

And I love how we just spent a half hour playing cars in your room; you were naked, having soaked yourself with the hose earlier while we watered the plants. Your skin was warm, and you nestled into to me, using my round, motherly belly as a pillow. (Can you believe I felt grateful that it was there for you?)

Now, you and Charlie are beating the snot out of each other with foam lightsabers. Dinner is cooking in the crock pot and smells good. An evening summer breeze is blowing.

My dear boy, I am so grateful for you. I’m so grateful for this life.