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.
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).
Hour 23 