You came into the world on a hot summer day, and you were easy and tiny and so very beautiful, snuggled tight in my arms. And it did not take you long to find my face with those eyes that I knew would remain large and brown. You snuggled into my chest, skin pressed against skin, and I knew this one would be a special bond, just like the one I had with the ones who had come before.
We took you home, and your daddy had to leave immediately for a youth camp. You were only two days old, and I felt a little anxious at being left behind with a newborn and two others, but a good friend of ours came over and tended to your brothers while I slept a bit with you beside me, and then, when you slept longer than I needed to, I spent some quality time with your brothers, tried to show them that life wouldn’t change all that very much, even though it would. And in the nights, when you woke with hunger on your mind, I would feed you, lying in bed, wrapped around your warmth.
Year after year, I have watched you.
I watched you turn one. You still didn’t have any teeth, and I worried that it was because of a head injury you’d gotten in a church nursery (we still don’t really know what happened), when I spent a whole night by your bedside at a children’s hospital, until your daddy sent me home to see your brothers, because I missed them, and, as soon as I drove away, I missed you, too. But the pediatrician said, no, the lack of teeth was not because of your head injury, and your teeth would come in on their own time table, and they did, at 15 months, when you got eight of them at once and there were days of crying hysterically because it hurt so badly. I watched you grow that year—grow and grow and grow, and I watched you explore your world with a fearlessness that made me marvel and also, just a little, worry, because I knew that I would not be able to to keep you safe forever. You had your own ideas about how the world should taste and feel.
At two, when you still hadn’t spoken anything other than simple words—and you hardly ever even did that, because all you needed to do was point at something and make a little noise and your oldest brother would interpret what it was you wanted, so you never had any cause to speak, I worried that you would fall behind and never discover the beauty of words. So we got you enrolled in some speech lessons, and once those words were unlocked, you never stopped talking, vying for a place in the constant conversations that happened in our lives, and it pained me to see how deflated you’d get when it seemed like no one was listening (even though a mama always hears). Finally, we had to tell your brothers to let you have a few words in all the margins, and they did, of course, because they’re good brothers, and you turned brave in your speech, where you had been wary before.
Your third year, you were keeping up with your brothers on the playground and kicking a soccer ball with as much precision and skill as they had, because you’ve always been gifted in all the physical things. You’d slide down the stairs head-first, and you’d hang upside down on the monkey bars and you’d swing so high I thought for sure you would turn those chains over their steel bar and fall off, but you never did. You just giggled in glee at the feel of flying.
When you turned four, you learned how to read, and every day I got to hold you on my lap and teach you those words that would soon become second nature to you. And even though you didn’t like it, exactly, you knew that it was only for about ten minutes and after that you’d be able to play. You were so mature, so responsible, that we’d let you play outside in the front yard, with your bothers and without us, because you knew about the rules, like staying in the front yard and watching out for cars and never going into another person’s yard or house. I could even leave you for your quiet time without any supervision, because you always stayed where you were told and did all the hard things with a gusto that was inspiring. You’d read books and draw amazing pieces of art, and I remember how excited you would be to show me that impressive fox you sketched in a notebook. You’ve always been good at everything.
This last year, I sent you off to kindergarten with a face full of tears, because even though you fall in the middle of a tribe of boys, you’re still my baby, the one I carried and held and snuggled, and I couldn’t believe you were in school, already. I couldn’t bear that you would leave our home for seven hours every day, and I couldn’t help but feel sad that I would not have you with me all the time anymore. I knew there would be a hole when you left home, just like there was a hole when your brothers left. I could only think about (I know it was silly) what it would feel like when the three of you left home for good. But, over the course of the year, I read all the stories you wrote in your “differentiated learning,” and I kept every one, because I knew they would be treasures for later years, to gather around and remember.
You have such personality and spunk and persistence. This year you even got an award for that persistence, and even though we didn’t tell you, because we don’t want you to rely on awards for who you become, your persistence really is remarkable. It is this that will carry you through all the rest of your days.
In your persisting in this first year of kindergarten, do you know what you have taught us? At the beginning of last year, I lost my job, and we were in a pretty scary situation, because we didn’t know what we would do for jobs, and a little child—you—led us. You showed us that we could do whatever it was that we could dream up to do, because that’s just the kind of person you are.
You have shown us our salvation, the strength of our hearts, the courage that we carry at all times but sometimes forget—because you do what needs to be done even if it terrifies you. You keep going, even when the odds are downright impossible. You do what needs doing. You don’t turn aside. You put your hand to something, and you finish it until it’s to your standard, something you can be proud of—and in all of this, you have taught us how we can overcome. You have taught us how to keep going, how to persevere, how to do all the hard things, because in your trying, you have done the hard things, too. In your trying, we saw your bravery, and we became brave, too.
In a way, you saved us. When we thought about giving up, there were all your bothers. There was you, the boy who kept trying no matter how difficult it was, no matter how far you were knocked down, no matter what came up against you. You are in inspiration to everyone whose life touches yours. You are a wonder. You are a marvel.
I am so glad I get to be your mama, Hosea Jude. So very glad. Happy sixth birthday. I love you
