Dear
Brooks,
Last
month I compared changing your diaper to wrestling a greased pig and it turns
out that analogy is truer than I could have imagined. You have now assumed the ear-piercing squeals
often heard by piglets and we hear this atrocious sound every time you do not
get your way. I get it. If I had spent 30 minutes concocting a plan
to climb on top of the fireplace, and if right as I reached the precipice of
that fireplace, a strong giant came and picked me up and moved me across the
room against my will, I’d be pretty pissed too.
But we must discover some words to illustrate this displeasure because
my eardrums are bleeding.
Similarly,
you have taken to hitting. Usually when
we are getting a slight reprieve from the squeals. You did this a few months ago, and every time
you did, we’d say “no, Brooks, use soft hands” and it took three days, but
then, even when you were angry, you would lightly brush our arms with such a
gentle display of love and emotional control and I thought “WE TOTALLY KNOW
WHAT WE ARE DOING!”
Then. You moved to a new class at school, a class
where you started hanging around two boys who like to hit and we started all
over again. But I do understand the
hitting. If someone eight times larger
than me was trying to put me in a bathtub, when I absolutely without a doubt
wanted to do anything BUT take a bath, I would probably reach up and hit them
too. And squeal. I understand that hitting is the toddler’s
version of the F word. But you are a boy
who loves to play outside and I am a mother who will not send you to school
with dirt caked under your fingernails.
On
one of my most challenging parenting days, I removed you from trying to climb
up a glass bookshelf and you became more pissed than you’ve ever been before
and you hit me and I just looked at you, held out my arm and said “go on, get
it out”. And I sat there and let you hit
my arm repeatedly for probably 30 seconds or so in an attempt to help you get
all of that madness out of your system.
My point:
I
HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I AM DOING.
But
once that 30 seconds passed, you looked at me, sighed, walked over to me,
buried your head in my chest and started rubbing my arm softly – the same way
you do when we say “soft hands” – and I think it was your way of saying “I’m
sorry, Mama, I didn’t mean to take that out on you” and the rest of our evening
was lovely and peaceful.
Take
note, dear one, that while that method proved effective in this instance, I
will not continue to be your punching bag indefinitely. We’re working on other ways to express our
feelings you beautiful little complicated soul.
Another
new development of yours that I have to admit is not exactly heart-warming is
the way you say my name. When you first
spoke my name, it was like rainbows and angels were pouring out of my ears as
your voice rose and fell with the most adorable, innocent lilt as you sweetly sang
“maaama”. But as you have grown, you
have also become more demanding, and I believe you think I am your wench. Often you’ll be sitting in your high chair
and if I turn my back to you or step out of your sight for a moment or do
something other than pay attention to you for every second of every minute, you
arise with an incredibly bossy “MAMA!” as if you are saying “WENCH! Pay attention to ME! And while you’re at it, GET ME A BEER!” I do not like this new method of speaking
that you have adopted and anytime you want to bring back that little
cherub-voice of yours, it will be whole-heartedly welcomed.

Your
dad and I have gone through so many changes since you were born. We knew parenthood would change us, but it
was impossible to estimate to what degree.
Not only do we not have time to do the things we used to enjoy doing,
but on some level, we don’t even have the desire to do them anymore, and that
leaves us (mostly me) so confused and self-reflective. Sometimes I feel like I’m having an identity
crisis when I rush home from a work meeting to cook a delicious meal, when I
choose to use my free time perusing recipes, when taking a trip to the grocery
store alone feels like a vacation. To
say things have changed is an understatement.
While
working motherhood has been soul-crushingly difficult, I do think it is the
right path for us. Your transition to
your new school has been tough, but you are so happy, social, verbal and you
are learning so much. I really believe
it is a good place for you. And I am
enjoying the constant struggle to find balance.
The other day I made orange chicken, a new recipe I was trying, and your
dad said “this is restaurant-quality!” and I remember feeling so proud, so
accomplished, like it was the best thing I had ever done. And then a few days later, I presented at an
executive meeting, it went really well, and I walked out, high-fived my team
while thinking “that was SO MUCH BETTER than making orange chicken”. I think this working motherhood thing is good
for both of us. We have arrived. (But we will still reserve the right to
change course should things go astray.)
I'm going to tell you a story now and you may not like hearing
it because it's always strange to hear about someone your parents dated before
they were married to each other - as if it's impossible to imagine they had any
life at all before you were born. But I spent a good portion of my
twenties dating an asshole. Except at the time, I thought he was the most
miraculous boyfriend of all boyfriends, so when I found out that he was
actually a pathological liar leading a double life in which three other girls
also thought he was the most miraculous boyfriend of all boyfriends, it is true
to say that I was cut down at the knees. Gutted. Rocked to my core.
The whole thing played out like a Jerry Springer episode. (I hope
you never know who that is).
My entire view of the world changed as I could not comprehend
why someone would A) lie so much and B) create such complex, calculated lies
that required an immense amount of effort. I didn't get out of bed for
months. Not because I missed him - when I discovered the truth about him,
I quickly realized that the boy I thought I was dating never existed. It
was like he died. And I grieved that death and quickly moved on.
But what I couldn't wrap my head around was how I could live in a world
where someone would lie like that. For so long. Without me having
the slightest inclination.
I carried around a massive ball of anger wrapped in confusion
right up in the middle of my chest for years. A decade even. It got
smaller with time, less pungent, of course. But every time I saw any of
our mutual acquaintances (of which there were many as we went to high school
and college together) I was tormented by what had occurred. So confused
that he still had friends, that he looked like such a normal person, that he
didn't have an asshat tattoo in the middle of his forehead warning anyone he
came across, and every time I saw the face of a mutual friend, all of that
confusion came boiling to the surface again. I couldn't understand it
and only found solace in remembering what his face looked like when I
confronted him with the rumors - a look of absolute shock, as if even he too
couldn't believe he had been living his life in such a way for over a year, and
he only looked down and quietly said "I'm sorry". That was it.
No attempt at denial. No explanation. Just a tiny little
phrase that at times can mean so much, but right then it meant nothing.
I convinced myself he had some sort of mental disorder because
that was the only way I could wrap my brain around the utter absurdity of a
seemingly normal and nice person staring me in the face and lying every day.
Even worse, he was a social master, named Class Favorite in high school
and when apart I'd convince myself he was psychotic, but when we'd inevitably
run into each other, the fact that he could sit across the room and appear so
normal and sane made the grievance more impossible to understand. It would
be less confusing in life if jackholes actually looked like jackholes.
Discovering the truth about his life modified my own in ways I
never dreamt imaginable. It completely (temporarily) altered my sense of
trust in people, in myself. You'd think that as I grew up, as bigger,
more important issues came into my life, that I would LET. IT. GO. I
received an email from him, four years after the break-up, when I had just
sprinted home from Prague to see my parents because they had been in a horrific
accident, an event that preceded some of the toughest days of my life, and that
email said "hey, I heard your parents were in an accident, are they okay?
Did you hear that the Ben Folds is going back on tour?" And even then, four years later, when I was
dealing with something much bigger than a silly college break-up, the fact that
he addressed such a horrifically monumental event in my life with such a casual
flair caused all of that anger and confusion to resurface. Even then.
When I had much bigger things to deal with.
My point. The other day I was in a difficult meeting and I
knew the person sitting across the table from me wasn't being honest. Or
genuine. But because of the Asshat of 1998, I knew exactly how to handle
that situation. I knew to listen. Quietly. Not say a word. Asshats always work themselves into a corner if you give them enough
space. If I could go back to 1998 and tell myself one thing, it would be
"SHUT UP". And then, "pay attention". If you
look closely enough, people will show you who they are.
I walked out of that meeting giggling as I realized that The
Great Traumatic Heartache of 1998 had taught me how to handle the Asshats of
2012. And then I suddenly realized that for the first time in over a
decade, I thought of that situation without an ounce of anger, without an ounce
of confusion - there was nothing but peace and indifference. And
stillness.
That, my dear, is because of you. I still don't understand
why someone would lie to someone else's face for a year. But it doesn't
matter. I don't care. I don't need to understand the asshats, I
just need to be able to recognize them so I can guide my path away.
Because all that matters is you. You have shown me a love and a
purpose so great that those asshats now just bounce right off my shoulders,
starting with the biggest one of all. None of that matters. I
finally get that. You have utterly consumed my heart and my soul and
there simply isn't room for anything else. Thank you for helping me heal.
For helping me change. For helping
me grow. I hope when you come into
contact with asshats during your life that the healing part won't take you as
long. It is genetically possible that you may not be the best at
relinquishing grudges, so we may have to work on that.
I
have to admit that motherhood has forced some morbid thoughts into my brain as
I worry what would happen to you if something happened to us. Your dad and I just got back from a trip to
France where we attended a wedding – the longest and furthest away we’ve ever
been from you – and there was a part of me that thought it was completely
irresponsible of us to travel that far away together. Like we should take separate planes, separate
cars, and walk on different sides of the street just to ensure that one of us
will always be okay. I know this is
absurd. Absolutely, utterly absurd, but
those thoughts reside in my brain nonetheless.
When
we were on the plane, I started thinking of the things I wish for you in
life. There are many. But I will start here. I wish:
That you learn to
listen to your gut. That you learn to distinguish the asshats from the
glorious, magical people, and that you learn to do so quickly so that your heartaches
can be few.
That when you do cross
paths with an asshat, that you may release them from your life, peacefully,
quickly, that forgiveness may be quick to grace your heart so that you may not
waste any more time wallowing in the aftermath of an asshat instead of enjoying
the grace of the wonderful people in this world. (I promise you, without a
shadow of a doubt, that the glorious, magical people far outnumber the asshats,
so please don’t let those asshats ruin all your fun).
That you find a
passion. That you have the guts to tackle it.
That if you find
yourself in adulthood and you have not yet found your passion, that you will
keep searching for it.
That you will travel.
That you will travel in a way that makes you uncomfortable and scared,
uproarious and free. That you will push yourself, challenge yourself.
That you will immerse yourself in other cultures – that you will question
them, question your own. That you will dig deep into yourself and figure
out who you are, who you want to be. And that while all of this is
happening you will continue to call your mother.
That you will be
honest, kind, and sincere.
That when you mess up,
you will apologize. And mean it.
That when you make a
mistake, you will learn from it.
That if you are in a
spiral of "this is not how I wanted my life to go", you will step off
of the carousel and make a change. You are the only person in control of
your life - in control of your happiness. Until you have children of your
own it will be your greatest responsibility and your greatest treasure.
Fight for it. Protect it.
That if you ever wish
to get a tattoo, you will wait five years. If in five years that tattoo
still seems like a good idea, please be my guest. And then come over and
tell me all about it. (We will sit down and strategize how best to break
it to your father).
That you will take
life in moderation. That you will have a life, but fulfill your
responsibilities. That you will understand that life is not all work and
it is not all play. It is up to you to find the balance.
That when life knocks
you down, you will GET BACK UP. And then
call your mother.
That you will find
love, having never searched for it.
That you will take
risks. Calculated risks. When I say "risk", I don't mean
jumping off the roof wearing a superman cape or racing your car down the
freeway or getting a face tattoo. I mean trying something new, stepping
outside of your comfort zone, asking a girl out, eating escargot, trusting a
stranger, moving to a foreign land. Living life!
And finally, that you
will always call your mother. Did I
mention that already?
We
didn’t know how you would react when we got home from France. Part of me thought you might be mad at us or
try to play it cool. But when we got out
of the car, you stood there for a moment, with a look of shock on your face as
if you were trying to figure out if we were real or a mirage. And then you ran to me, I bent down to greet
you, and we sat there in the sweetest most serene embrace and if you could
bottle up that moment and share it with everyone, there would be no war. You just sat there, holding onto my shoulders
as I whispered into your ear “I love you, I missed you, I love you, I missed
you” and finally after a period of silence while we stayed in that hug, I said
“I won’t let go until you let go”.
I
mean that. Always.
Love,
Mama
PS
– As part of your growing independence, you now really enjoy feeding yourself
with a spoon, most especially, feeding yourself “goger”. (Which, by the way, you say with the
beautiful lilt that used to be reserved for the word “mama”). We have adopted a “don’t do for him what he
can do for himself” philosophy in this house and I have added “even it makes a
mess” at the end for your father. Thus,
the following occurs regularly. It is so
magical to see the sense of pride that comes over your face when you accomplish
a new task. Sometimes I think you know
just how amazing you are and I hope it's true.





PPS
– You also like to play a game where you jump out and try to scare us. You think you are hilarious. We think so, too.

PPPS – In addition to
squealing like a pig, you also eat like one.
You do not. stop. eating.

Letters to B - Archives