Letter to my son

Dearest E ~

What a morning we had, my little tumbler. You were all stretching arms and grabbing hands and racing legs. You took out the nightlight in the hall, your guide to the big bed in the darkness of morning. It snapped off at its base, the metal plugs twisted beyond recovery. You stole your mommy's hairgel and emptied the bottle in your playtent, styling the fur of Mr. Woflie the handpuppet and adding extra shine to the sofa cushions. You drove your pre-caffeinated parents to distraction, to the edge of despair, and all before 8am.

Why? We bellowed. What is it you want? Attention, you answered. But isn't that something we've taught you to say, assuming it's at the root of all your acting up? Now we can't be certain if that's what you're after or what you've been taught to answer when we ask you, what do you want from us? 

It's simple enough to see what you want, my sweet, brilliant, bounding boy. You want a runway, a playground, a secret nook. The sound of crashing behind you, the thrill of the snatch, the safety of the hiding place, the pleasure of squeezing until a clear puddle oozes out before your very eyes, the cold, slippery feel of it spreading on plastic, on fur. The power and wonder of it all.

And we ask why because we're really wishing you hadn't. We bellow at you because we're angry with ourselves for not having hidden or protected those items in the first place, to avoid the destruction and mess and ire and argh.

As we stumbled out of the house, boots and bags and spirits dragging, it occurred to me that my annoyance with the morning -- with myself, with you, with the familiar pattern of these scenes  -- was ricocheting between us, that every weary step I took away from you and toward the van was the equivalent of announcing how tired I am of your company. That I may as well tell you I didn't want you around.

I am so sorry for that. It is beyond careless. It is beyond the damage of a broken nightlight and a few slicked-up throw pillows. I can always buy more hairgel. What passes between us is far more precious. What you feel matters more to me than anything you can put your hands on.

I have so much to learn, my little man, and you will surely teach me more than I can ever hope to teach you.

Your loving mother,
J.