Tuesday, August 15, 2017

To the one always tucked under my wing...

Dear Chicken,

I wrote yesterday about how I almost forgot that we'd changed your nickname here. Someone asked me shortly afterward what it means, "Chicken". Most people probably think it's some reference to you physically somehow, but it isn't that at all. It has to do with the fact that since you were the tiniest little baby, you've been a tucker. A burrower. Fairly often nestled under my arm, up near my ribs. Even now, you still do it. When you're really tired or sick or frustrated with the world, you'll still draw your legs up under both you and me, and get fully tucked in.

Under my wing.

I'm the Chicken Mama. I just might stay that way forever, and I'd be okay with that.

It's your ninth birthday. Nine years since you showed up that stormy August afternoon. The air was heavy and damp, the barometric pressure helping you along in the way that it seems to. You were, at the time, the earliest of my babies. Knowing that you were so early, knowing that you were a boy, knowing all the problems your brother had down at sea level with its abundance of oxygen, I worried. I was afraid that you'd have an even rougher time than he had.

And then you came. Itty bitty with those tiny little legs, but breathing well without any help. I didn't really breathe that sigh of relief for a few hours, always thinking the nurse was going to come and take you away to the NICU. But you stayed. Nestled and tucked.

You were a feisty baby, wanting to crawl and walk and run and jump as soon as you were able. I think you were barely two years old the first time I found you on top of the refrigerator. You haven't ever stopped climbing since...until this summer when you broke your arm. Two places, not one, because you are an overachiever.

For your birthday today, you got to go back to school. Happy birthday? I know it isn't exactly what you had in mind for today, or for any birthday really. Especially this time around.

I thought you'd be home this year. The stacks of curriculum materials remind me of it constantly. I know you thought you'd be home this year too. We all did, until an opportunity arose and we jumped at the chance. And maybe it works and maybe it doesn't, but we know that there are always options if we need them.

I know that you're nervous about going back because that last time went so badly. I know. I'm scared too. I want to swoop in and tuck you under my wing and fly away from all the things that scare us both. But I can't. It's my job to nudge you, to nudge myself right along with you, to do the things that are scary sometimes.


Of course, as I am writing this, you are at lunch recess, probably playing with all the friends you've already made. As I am writing this, your fears and worries are probably fading away into the midday breeze. I am confident that you will be okay. I am.

And I'm confident because you are okay. You're so very different than you were the last time you were in that space. You're not just a few years older, but you're more aware, you're more observant, you're more empathetic to others. You've got a toolbox full of skills you didn't have back then, and only a few of them have anything at all to do with school.

I know you're going to be okay, but I'm going to miss having you around all the time too.

This year I've watched you grow up so much in so many ways. When Dad went to the scout store to pick up your new uniform shirt, he called me and asked how long you were going to stay in. I asked you. Your immediate response, "Eagle". And you just might do it too. Watching your brother finish his, you know what an accomplishment it would be and how much hard work is involved....but hard work is basically your favorite thing anyway.

You're always the one offering to help with projects around the house. With cleaning. With dinner. You even offer to help with the things no one else wants to, the things they all run away from. You aren't afraid to get dirty or sweaty, blisters are badges of honor in your world. While some of your siblings are content to stay inside where the wifi is, you're out in the yard seeing how deep that hole can get before the day's end.

You amaze me sometimes with how your mind works, so different from my own. It seems like any time I'd present you with a new concept in math, you'd sit with it for a few seconds, then come up with some way to solve it I'd never imagined. You don't just think outside of the box, you deconstruct the box and use it for scaffolding to build something more amazing. I can't even explain half of the things your brain can comprehend so quickly...you just have a way of figuring things out. Solving problems. Seeing it all differently.

It's refreshing. And humbling for me, as both your parent and teacher, because you're constantly making me question what I think I know, making me realize just how little is certain and how much is possible.

In much the same way it has worked for your brother, your love of math has translated to a deep love of music. Never fall out of love with it, never. I know that we'll have to work a little harder to get your hands on all those instruments now that you're back in school full time, but we have our own mini symphony at home. The piano is always open for business here. And you can do choir now too, jazz hands included.

I'm so proud of you that I could burst sometimes, and I was never more proud of you than I was this morning walking into school.

I asked you if you were okay. You said no.

I asked you if you were nervous, your eyes filling with tears you managed to fight back. You said yes.

Then you grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the door.

You did it. 

Like I wrote just yesterday, being brave isn't about not being scared. It's about being afraid and doing the things that scare us anyway.

You're still the bravest person I've ever known.

I love you.

Happy birthday, sweetheart.

Love you more first,
Chicken Mama

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