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.

It’s obvious that you try to do too much while you’re awake. Now crawling and exploring, standing and stepping, biting, waving, rolling your tongue, trying to stretch the sounds in your mouth into syllables and finally, convincingly taffy-pulling them into words.

You often forget relax. Even as a newborn, you were unstoppable, Herculean in your feats. Jogging and stretching, legs flailing uncontrollably. Much like a dog dreaming about a hunt, you were forever on safari despite the obstacle of your bedriddeness.

You are, by nature, a sensitive boy. I can speculate that you will fall in love deeply, feel your soul is bigger than your skin, suffer from attempts at perfectionism. How can I guide you, safely and proudly, from shore to emotional shore, through the peaks and valleys of your sensitivity without your feeling inadequate or crazy, without tangling yourself in a self-woven web of impossible expectation?

Perhaps, I am over thinking. Perhaps I am wrong about your temperament, your independence, your impulses, and your creativity. Perhaps all babies are this way: busy, willful, bursting with excitement. Then crashing with displeasure, deep diving into inconsolable shrills and screams.

You are, thus far, an amazing and miraculous creature.

I hope you think as much when you are two, twenty, fifty-seven, eighty-five.

I hope you will be able to strike a balance, carve out an even plane, soothe the howling of your feral ego.

I hope you love yourself as much as I do.

If so, there is nothing left to hope.

Still, despite the emotional hurdles, the year was a good year; a perfect year. A year to be thankful for.

I am sure in the next two months– the months before I must rise and dress and blow dry my hair and hurry you off to day care– I will be spending countless moments (hours?) reflecting on our year. On all the wonder and beauty of it.

We have, in this year, learned each other’s limits– giving each other space to grow– to weave our lives together. Yet, still be apart. So much like marriage. The year was as I had hoped. I found the space to write. To begin again. Thank you.

I would like to post some excerpts from the first letter that I ever wrote to you. I hope you don’t mind. Your father tells me that I have a disastrous need to share. That I leave nothing sacred. That I am something well beyond the ordinary open book. Sometimes it bothers him. Sometimes it gives him a reason to love me. I hope you are less bothered by and more in love with my “open book” policy.

Sunday, May 13th, 2007
10:26pm

Dearest Silas,

Today is Mother’s Day and I’m finally writing you your 1st letter. It’s getting late for me, so I’ll have to be in bed soon, but I wanted to start writing you. Your father is maniacally cleaning and improving the house– even now at 10:30! I think he wants all of his projects finished by the time you arrive.

So, now you are 18 weeks old. (I am 20 weeks pregnant & I have 20 weeks to go!) All of your organs and body parts are formed. You’re starting to grow hair and gain some weight. We think that you can hear us now & we’ve been playing you Beethoven and Cuban lullabies. We’ve also played you some Bach on the Cello by Yo Yo Ma. We’ve been reading you Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you see? even though that’s a silly book.

I keep your ultra-sound pictures in a little album by my bed and I look at them every night. You are so handsome! I might be wrong, but I think you have your father’s nose. (He just walked in the room and said to say “hi”!) You have a nicely shaped head. We were able to see your spine and brain and your little heart beating at incredible speeds. You moved around so much that the sonographer said that you are a feisty one! Your father said that’s because you are just like me. Feisty, huh?

I think I first felt you move about a month ago while we were listening to really loud live jazz in a little dive in Savannah. Of course, the flutter may just have been my wishful thinking. Now, periodically, I feel odd little jabs and crazy breakdancing moves. But, they are inconsistent. However, two nights ago, while your father and I were watching a long movie, I was certain I felt you practicing your soccer kicks or ballet swings or your anti-gravity spacewalking moves! I was very excited! I can’t wait to feel you more often.

Well, I better get to sleep. I have to wake up early and go to school. (ugh!) I’d say “sleep tight” but according to “the books” you do most of your carousing while I sleep. A little wild child!

I love you, Silas! Can’t wait to hug you & kiss you & meet you face-to-face.

We will have so much fun.

Love,
your mom

]]> http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/06/05/excerpts-from-the-1st-letter-to-my-son/feed/ 0 http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/04/23/silas-and-his-alien-pajamas/ http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/04/23/silas-and-his-alien-pajamas/#comments Wed, 23 Apr 2008 18:13:46 +0000 Administrator http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/04/23/silas-and-his-alien-pajamas/ 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.

Silas and his Alien Pajamas

There once was a boy named Silas who owned a pair of navy blue alien pajamas. He loved his pajamas because when he wore them he felt like he could travel to the moon.
And beyond.
And beyond that even.

One day, while Silas was wearing his pajamas, he heard a strange noise coming from behind the big pine tree in his backyard.

Of course, he went to investigate.

He gathered up his taggie blanket and all of his courage and crept behind the tree.
Quietly.
Like a mouse alien.

Behind the tree, eating a donut covered with pink icing and rainbow-colored sprinkles, was a yellow-green, three-horned, red-eyed, smiling alien.

“Hello,” said Silas rather loudly and bravely.

“Hello,” said the alien.

Only he didn’t really say “hello.” He said “Grrzaaabngfhhh.”

But, Silas, being a rather intelligent boy, knew exactly what he meant.

After offering Silas a bite of his donut– which Silas, knowing that his mother couldn’t see him behind the pine tree, happily accepted—the alien pointed to a space ship on Silas’s pajamas and then pointed to a real space ship hidden in the forsythia bushes.

“XvjccccDN’ llaavickxla,” said the alien. Which Silas knew to be an invitation to his planet.

“Okay,” said Silas “as long as I’m home for dinner.”

“Greiwo;frr Qwdnuo;wdb,” said the alien. And off they went.

In space, Silas and the alien floated around singing silly songs and clapping their hands. They filled their cheeks with alien ice cream and filled their ears with alien music.

The space ship traveled through stars the way that airplanes traveled through clouds. Silas looked out the window and saw everything that was light and magic.

“When will be at your planet,” asked Silas.

“Wnio. Frnweio. X’ml,” said the alien.

“Oh, that’s too late,” said Silas. “My mother will wonder where I am.”

“Nfweio;w,” asked the alien.

“Mother,” said Silas. “You don’t have a mother?!?”

“Cbuawi;l,” said the alien.

So, Silas explained to the alien that a mother was someone who kissed your cheeks a lot, and rubbed your hair, and made sure you ate healthy food. (So, don’t tell her about the donut and the ice cream, okay?) She told you funny stories before you went to bed and made crazy faces at you to make you laugh. She is someone who dances wild dances with you across the kitchen and sings silly songs. She swims with you in the summer and builds snowmen in the winter and helps you make cookies on special occasions with lots of extra chips.

“Cookies!” exclaimed the alien. And, he turned the ship back toward Earth.

So, that is how Silas ended up bringing an alien home for dinner.

Silas’s mother was surprised to see the alien, but she was happy too. She put on CD which the alien loaned her and declared it a special occasion. So, Silas and his mother and his father and his new alien friend sang silly songs, and danced wild dances, and made special cookies with lots of extra chips.

The End

Dear Silas,

You are SO amazing! Sometimes just thinking about how wonderful you are is too awesome, too powerful, that I almost don’t think I can handle it. We were in the Madonna Room at the Biltmore House the other week and I was overcome with tears trying to explain to Kerry the scene in The Passion of the Christ when Mary runs to help Jesus after he falls on the way to his execution. I can barely think of it now. I’m covered in goosebumps.

Just know that you are the greatest gift I’ve ever received.

Right now you are on the living room floor on the polka-dotted quilt that Joy Lowery made you. You are watching me intently– as if you know what I’m doing– as if you have a divine sense of wisdom. If I read you what I’m writing, you always laugh.

You’re rolling around and reaching for your soft blocks and your Happy Apple and chewing on our fingers. I just watched you roll from your back to your front for the first time and I’m actually crying. I’m afraid as you grow big, I’ll forget all these little moments and, of course, you will think that I’m a nostalgic, sentimental mess!

You just watched the cat leap up onto the table with a look on your face that seemed to say: “With only a little more perseverance, I could do that!”

The Happy Apple is by far your favorite toy. It was my toy when I was small and it makes the coolest, most Zen-like chime when you jostle it. We joke that it’s your religion because it quiets you when you cry. But, so does Wolf Blitzer on CNN and I don’t want to think oh him as your religion. So, maybe we need to reevaluate…

I do want to make sure you understand one thing: you are terribly brilliant! You’re so smart that sometimes I’m jealous! I’m trying not to place too many expectations on you, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you become legend. You are a baby beyond your time! And there you are, staring at me again, thinking: “With just a tad more perseverance, I could write like that! Look I can already roll over in every direction and pick up my apple and touch my toes!” You’re flipping back and forth with such ease! You are an Olympian! (Melisa promised to send me an article about the damage of too much praise, but I don’t think I’ll read it!) And there you are, trying to crawl!

The other day, your father and I took you on a picnic at Carl Sandburg. You eyed me with such disdain that I let you suck on an edamame pod, but I took it away because I was afraid you would actually eat it! So, we went to the little shop under Sandburg’s house– where I decided to buy you a bleating, long-eared goat for your 6 month birthday in March– and a ranger came up to you all smiles and laughter. You were face-out in the Baby Bjorn and I was sure you would laugh back at the man, but instead, out popped your bottom lip and you started to scream! I was a little embarrassed because I felt sorry for the man, but your dad handled the situation. He explained that you were starting to exhibit a little stranger anxiety. Then, before walking smartly away, added “He’s really advanced!”

So, you see, we’re both so proud of you we can hardly contain ourselves!

Don’t let it go to your head, okay?

Lots of Love, Mom

PS- Yesterday, I played you like an electric guitar because “Paradise City” came on the radio. I’m sorry. Please don’t be ashamed…