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Dearest Mr. Silas,

Oh, how I see myself in you.

Sometimes, I am thrilled to discover our shared traits. I can see you, the future you, as the life of the party, entranced with curiosity, bitten often and hard by bouts of creativity. I see you determined and independent. A natural leader. An over-achiever. A boy who gets things done.

Still, at other times, many other times, our shared temperament both fascinates and disturbs me. You are near delirious when you are happy. Focused and pensive when you are studying. When things aren’t going your way, however, when you can’t quite figure how to do something or we pull you off of the steel track of your agenda, when you are overtired or inconvenienced, you digress into the most impressive, unrelenting fits of rage.

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As I sit here reading The Blue Jay’s Dance by Louise Erdrich, I am reminded by a hollow thumping in my chest that my birth year—our birth year—my year at home is coming to a close. The fact that I am scratching out my ideas on the back of a “patient drug education” sheet is proof enough that my year did not end up as expected. But, what ever does? Our lives our rarely what we dream.

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We have had to retire Silas’s alien pajamas as his arms and legs are just too damn long. To commemorate this sad, untimely event, I have a written a short story in honor of Silas and his pajamas and his already formulating adventurous and mischievous ways.

I am putting a copy of this is his baby book along with all of his letters.

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I keep a journal of letters to my son that I began while I was pregnant. Admittedly, I didn’t write much from weeks 4 until the present because he is just now getting over that crying-all-the-time hump. But, here is an excerpt from today’s letter.

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