Wearing It Well: A Birthday Letter to My Devoted Son

 

Originally, your birthday was a Friday, and a decidedly lucky one for me...Because of how badly I needed you to be you; to come and be such a surprising part of the shaping of my soul.

I wrote last week, on the birthday of your sister, how crazy it is that we learn parenting by parenting and that seems backwards somehow. And I wish I could say that since you were my second, I had some things figured out by the time you arrived.

I didn't.

And yet.

Surprise!

Do you remember this hat? The one in the picture where you are barely two having breakfast. You wore it all that summer and for a few summers after, if I remember it right. That was the year you were obsessed with throwing stones in the water, and yourself too, flying all out, or all in, face first and fearless.

There was nothing still, or orderly, or quiet, or tidy with you at two (or ever, really). And you wore that old floppy hat everywhere.

And then. You're a Papa. And it's not the same hat or hats in the picture, but, honestly, is it just me or is there something strongly similar? Something being passed along.

Whatever, the thing is, you are as fearlessly patient with others as you always were with yourself, something I badly needed to learn from you. You are stronger and far more competent than you know you are. You don't know it yet, anyways. You will.

And a faithful friend in the darkest times. I think you know that already though.

And you wear it well, all of it.

And your mother sits in the humility of somehow having been graced with being bestowed with such a son.

We await your arrival to the cottage. Soon.

There are lots of stones about.

And some hats.

And some rest.

Happy birthday, son of mine.