letter – my ft.notes

Dear Senior:

Hey, bud. I’ve been putting this off, as I do. You’re still a senior…for a few more days. But you’ll be a college freshman soon. Maybe I couldn’t wrap this up because I still can’t believe we’re here. Because I well up when I try to write this out. Because I think we’re all underestimating just how much your little brother is going to miss you. You understand this procrastination. We’re both always too optimistic that there’s plenty of time to say and do and experience all of the things.
But we are here. Now.

You have always had an epic presence. You’re a walking miracle. You were a ginormous baby with these gargantuan feet. Your rivers of wisdom and proclivity for giggles demand more space. You’re brimming with this self-proclaimed main-character energy, without an ounce of ego.

Now, we’re at that intersection of place and time where I heard we’d be shadows passing in hallways. I see you in the mornings, before 7am, to give you to-go breakfast and a hug on your way out of the door. After school, there’s work and the gym and you have to see about a girl, so I see you 14 hours later when you come in. We’ve boomeranged. When you walk through the door, I see glimpses of the way you used to come at me full speed when you were little and I had to brace myself to catch you. You always stop (Hey, Momma!) and give me the fiercest squeeze. I believe you’re actually pumped to see me. That’s your way. You’re never breezing through. There’s a hug and intention in your every coming and going. There aren’t enough moments though. (Is this a kindness from the universe, gently, progressively preparing me for the quiet chasm to come?)

You’re going to leave a muffled hush because there’s nothing still about you. From your loud outfits, those goofy-awesome sweaters from the Tik Tok shop and baggy pants and the way you own it all without apology, to your Ozzie voice-overs and wild hair and kitchen choreography and declarations of You have to hear this song right this second at max volume.

You fill a room, but you always leave space for everyone’s feelings. You ask: how was your day? You mean it. You want and expect an answer. And you know–without anyone speaking a word–when someone’s scale is tipped in the way they’d rather it didn’t. This sixth-sense is rare air. But the way you use it is even more beautiful. Your intuition is ready with a hug or a prayer or a song or a story that sets the scale straight…straightaway.

The way you encourage the chef at hibachi, the way you accept anything anyone is passing out…a flyer, an invitation, stickers, the way you validate any soul in your sphere. Just to say I see you. I acknowledge you. Your presence matters. And you’re easy with your I love yous, whether you holler it downstairs, flash it in sign language or share the crispiest bits of a casserole. You, in true Tucker fashion, take your brother everywhere–to the movies, to anime events, to thrift vinyl. You’re his counsel on clothes, girls and mom & dad. You’re his favorite human.

Your art is honest and raw and unapologetic, my favorite things about you. I like to keep a clean house; we all know it. But you took over the room over, converting it to your studio. And I was content to let your corner of chaos stay messy and vulnerable and precious. The pencil shavings, color scrambles and half-finished canvases, this miss-matched mayhem where you painted through your own identity.

You despise snakes (nope-ropes, fear-spears, danger-noodles), you loathe bad drivers. But, most of all, you’re really not keen on small talk. Your teacher gave you the Inquisitive Intellect award this year. I know why. You ask us pointed questions at dinner: If you could only do one job every day for the rest of your life, what would make you the happiest? What’s the soundtrack of your life? What place on the earth is the most you? You push and you ask and you interrogate, yet your faith keeps you anchored. Your clarity can be alarming, unsettling. When I needed to make one of the biggest decisions of my career, you asked me: do you ever go back and read the notes you take in church? I took your advice, my kid, my teenager, and found the answer in black and white. Simply take the next best step. Just do the ordinary in faith.

It gut-punched me last night when I was reading through your final AP art portfolio (that you would not let me read until after you had submitted it)…how big you think and wonder and dream. How much you know. How, in a million ways, you don’t need me the same anymore. And, an avalanche of aches was swallowed up in an ocean of pride without measure. Exactly as it should be.

It’s an alien familiarity, an ambivalent dance. I wonder at you, your brain, your questions, your humor. I thank God that he let us keep you for a little minute. Bless. What a little, fleeting, miraculous minute. I worry nonstop. Yet…I’m not anxious. Because I know you. I know your heart. And I’ll keep praying for the Light to guide your feet. Follow the truth, stay in the Way, and chase what fills you up.

Thank you for always keeping us laughing, talking, thinking, dancing, listening to new music, trying different things. We love how you see the world and how you show up in it, all in with a full heart and open mind.

Even though I gave you all I had, I promise, I know you wish you were taller–like your dad.

But—to me—you are a giant.

A birthday letter to Tucker

Dear Tucker,

Twelve years ago, right now, I was trying to find our fit—two new puzzle pieces turning until we finally slid into place. Your head cozied into the crook of my right elbow and my left hand steadied a flailing foot. I was paddling through a soup of emotions, all rational thinking had drained from me. But I remember wondering at your perfect teeny foot, comparing it to the size of my thumb, not sure how or why God was trusting me with this precious life, divinely woven, warm in my arms.

They could smell my inadequate instinct, I was sure. They’d never let me leave with you. But. They did. And 12 whole years have slipped by since.

Tuck Trek

And, still, I’m wondering over you. I wonder at your feet, your now man-sized, perfect feet, which were longer than mine a long time ago. I wonder at your wicked-smart brain, the one that denominates the common core math that I can’t riddle through, the one that re-imagines entire worlds brick by Lego brick, the one that considers the frailest eyelash or armor plate shape in a pencil sketch.

I wonder at your old soul. The way you hold eye contact, both direct and comfortably, with everyone you meet. The way you always invite someone to open up with thoughtful questions. Your emotional barometer in any room or field. And you may not always be the best of the best on the baseball team, but you never forget to thank your coaches or the umps at the end of every game. We know. We notice.

You’re careful with your words. But you welcome any thrill with reckless expectancy.

Music moves you, an electric conduit, and you’re never still. You’re always singing, dancing, building or moving. Unless you’re reading. I love your love for books—paper books, not digital ones, and the way you devour them in one sitting. You want me to read them, too, so we can talk characters, story arcs, the best parts. Like me, you re-read your favorites because they become old friends.

Your memory is country-miles long, just a little longer than your self-doubt. Everything is personal. Your faith runs deep, like your dad’s, always-on, a constant current coursing through you. You don’t question it. It’s a steady pulse as sure as your heartbeat. And your prayers have a way of startling me into the present.

Tucker baptized

One minute, you’re answering me with first-class sass, challenging me with your intense eye contact and your own ideas about what’s right. In the next minute, you’re being the best big brother I’ve ever known, always including your little sibling, your shadow, bringing him along on your adventures.

beach patrol — Another Disney Digression

You always ask me about my day. You ask things point blank. You ask mature questions about full-grown subject matter with alarming easiness. And, good grief, you’re twelve. Just steps away from a teenager.

Though everyone tells you that the days are long, but the years are short, everyone tells you not to blink, everyone tells you that each passing year flies faster than the last, you don’t get it until you live it. You don’t get it until your baby is eye-to-eye with you, and you wonder at his strength and heart, as he’s teaching you something you never knew. You don’t get it until life shakes you awake to remind you how fleeting and fragile and temporary it all is.

So, 12, let’s do this next year. Let’s ride all the thrill rides we can with our hands up and our screams free. I hope we talk books and movies and lyrics. I hope you keep the questions coming. I hope the puzzle pieces slip into place.

Sometimes, I can hardly believe you’re ours–at least for a little while. I can’t wait to see where your faith leads your amazing brain. And those perfect feet.

Tucker 12

A letter to my boys

To my boys:

I may cry tomorrow. Who am I kidding? I’m crying right now.

Tomorrow means another new school year. And this year, both of you will wear official uniforms.

It’s not your fault I’m crying. It’s those collared shirts, dagnabbit. Because they make you look so sure and ready and grown. And that makes me proud and tickled and teary.

We’ll need routine tomorrow and I don’t wear routine well. I’ll be down to minutes, rushing me, rushing you, sighing and apologizing for it. And Tucker—you’ll just smile and say, “That’s okay, Mommy.” And Case—I’ll do one small something, inside-out your socks for you, and you’ll say, “You’re the best Mommy ever.”

We’ll drop you off tomorrow, with fresh supplies and the shiny smiles of a new start. We’ll chat with your teachers and hug you and hug you again. We’ll walk away from the classroom door and the tears that I hope I’ll hold until that moment will topple and spill. And Jeff will rub my back and say, “Oh, Wife” (even though he’s been expecting this).

I know it’s a beginning but, to me, that moment thuds like an ending. I worry that I’m missing too much, that I’ve let another whole year slip away, that maybe I’ve failed you too many times. It’s an ambivalent dance; I can physically feel time racing. And I’m wonderstruck at the amazing little people you are.

This moment will happen tomorrow and next year’s tomorrow. But I know tomorrow will begin another amazing year. So this is what I wish for you.

I hope you always walk into learning with the starry-eyed eagerness that brought you to today. I hope you read all the books you can touch. Devour them. Sip them. Share them. Read them again.

If it’s numbers you love, use them. Master them. I know that I’m awfully clumsy with them, but Dad can help. Or we can always call Pop.

Tuck—you can have all the paper and pencils you want. Draw whenever you can (just not when your teacher is talking). When your teacher is talking, listen with your eyes first, then your ears. Remember that there’s just one her and a lot of yous, so be gentle.

Case—I know I’ve spent hours, maybe months, telling you not to touch everything in reach. I hope I haven’t crippled your curiosity. Keep curious. Ask every question. When you’re allowed to explore, take your time. I promise to try and rush you less.

You’re sharing the year with a lot of kids. You won’t agree with each other all the time. But you can almost always find one piece of common ground with almost anyone—even if it’s as small as having the same favorite color, the same tooth fairy fee or the same disgust for peas. Find that one thing.

Eat your fruits and veggies first. But don’t let the lunch bell ring before you’ve had your treat.

Tucker—I get on to you for being a bossy sprocket, for parenting your little brother and antagonizing and swatting at him when you think I’m not looking. But, you should know, he sees you as his fierce protector, his comfort, his best bud who always gets an extra sticker or toy just for him. And so do I. You may meet other kids who need that kind of partner, kids who need a louder voice.

Case—your silly has no limit. From food-flinging to ear-ringing, I’ve never seen someone entertain so well with a single fork. You’re our live wire with a contagious sparkle. And you’re not happy until everyone else is. This year will be no different. I hope, one day, you understand what a gift that is.

I hope you two keep an open mind and open ears. But stay locked to what you know is right in your gut.

Ugly words are never cool or powerful or right.

You (still) will not get any new techie toys this year. And you will live.

I hope you pitch a thousand sillies—but never at anyone else’s expense.

It won’t be perfect, this year. There will be messes and oopses and flubs. But we’ll look for the good, the helpers, the magic.

Because you’re still 7 and 4. I want you to laugh the length of 7 and 4. Run the width of them. I want you to create, stretch, get dirty—and take your shoes off before you come inside. I want you to have the time, the year of your lives.

And, tomorrow, when you lug in those brand new book bags, I hope you also carry in the precious assurance that you are wonderfully, wonderfully made. And that your Daddy and I love you more than you’ll ever know.