Birthday letter to Daniel, Age 6!
Feb. 16, 2014 - Colorado Spring, CO
Dear Little Bear,
Welcome to age 6!
The months since your half-birthday letter have flown by! We are
pretty well settled in now, adjusted to the altitude and the climate.
The autumn was short, and soon into it you developed a great fondness
for playing in snow. You and father bear have played like peers,
sledding and building a snow man.
Father Bear has settled in to
his new job, where he provides counseling and serves as the alternate
program manager for the Alcohol and Drug Treatment Program at Peterson
and is doing massage on the side. As for me, I closed my private
practice in NC and then once we finished the move to Colorado, I
underwent a miserable Medicaid audit. Since then, I have joined the
board of Autism/Aspergers Connections and taken on several volunteer
responsibilities at your school. I have been most grateful to be able
to focus on helping you with what you need. I hope to find a job here
too, but your schedule keeps us both quite busy, and the benefits are
worth it.
You are thriving at Academy ACL. You're doing well
academically and have terrific friends! For several weeks you've been
telling us how much you love Lydia, your "girlfriend," about whom you
are charmingly serious! You presented her with a plastic ring and a big
hug at your birthday party.
You've grown a great deal taller (46 inches now), and in addition to
having had your tonsils and adenoids removed, you've also said goodbye
to your four front teeth and the last inch or two of baby fat.
Your passions, interests, and explorations continue to evolve
frequently, but of late they seem to include math, astronomy, languages
(specifically French, German, and American Sign Language), and ice
skating. According to the skating teachers, you're really quite
talented! You've fallen in love with Curious George and loved singing
songs such as Firework and The Boys 'Round Here, learned in an
after-school singing class. Pretend play has also continued to evolve
for you.
After you were asleep last night, Father Bear commented on how you seem
to really enjoy your life in a way you never did before. It seems like
things that used to be so hard for you really aren't anymore, and you
seem happier. I agree with him that you enjoy your life a great deal
more, and many things are becoming easier. Many things are still quite
difficult for you and in some ways that's a good thing. You're
developing those all-important perseverance muscles, and a growth
mindset way of being in the world. More than any achievement or
outcome, it makes me proud when I see you giving your all in the face of
a challenge.
In the 8 whole days since you turned 6 you have
completely adjusted to it. Now you are excited about the fact that you
have two loose teeth and are enjoying your birthday gifts. You live in
the moment and for the next milestone.
This morning, as I
sneak my phone out to take a few notes for your birthday letter, you
have climbed into bed with me and are either asleep, or as I so often
do, you are feigning sleep. We both know the clock is ticking and soon
the day will begin. You will be dressed and fed and off to school, and I
will be on about my day.
The air is cold; the ground is
covered in snow, and the day ahead is full. No one would blame either
of us for stealing a few more minutes to enjoy the still of the
darkness, the comforting heavy blankets, and the peace in this silence
for just a little longer. But I think you're only aware of cherishing
the remaining quiet before the day ahead. I feel like I'm actively
cherishing the few sweet moments left before you decide that you're too
old to snuggle in with Ma & Pa Bear for a stolen morning nap.
It has not yet occurred to you that moments like this one aren't going
to be available forever. You haven't fully, consciously realized the
implications of what growing up means. That someday you will give Lydia
(or someone) a real ring, that you will move away, that you will fly.
To you, this moment is just stolen from the busy day ahead.
Soon there will be sleep overs and club meetings and more and more play
dates your parents don't attend. And though I've always known in theory
that those things would come, I know that more and more concretely as
you stretch and flap your wings. More and more often you tell me I'm
not needed and that I can leave when I take you to school or you walk
off with a friend or to an appointment. Those are bittersweet moments.
It gives me joy - to see your burgeoning independence, as well as a
mixture of joy and sorrow, that your parents are no longer the center of
your universe.
Last year I prayed that for just a little while
more that you would let me hold you. Thank-you for having done that,
and thanks for all these stolen moments too, but you're ready to start
working out your wings and we are as ready as parents can really be for
you to do that. So this year, I invite you to stretch and grow, take
risks and be brave enough to try. Trust that failure is safe and that
we are here to catch you when you fall. Explore this wonderful world
with your eyes, heart, and mind wide open, and trust that it IS
wonderful! Keep exploring the whole range of yourself: athleticism and
musicality, solemnity and exuberance, sense of humor and soulfulness;
and trust that you ARE wonderful! It's clear to us that you are limited
only by your willingness to try and by your imagination and your
dreams. Dream big this year, and try. Manifest. Initiate. Fly!
Love, Mother Bear
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Sunday, January 12, 2014
August 12, 2013 - Half-Birthday Letter
August 12, 2013 - Half-Birthday Letter
Dear Little Bear, (I'll explain that in a bit),
According to my annual tradition of writing you birthday letters, I should not be writing to you again for another six months. That is absolutely bizarre. I don't think I can handle leaving it till then. Too much more is happening and will happen before your next birthday. Since you turned "Five Almost Six" last February, more has changed in your life and in our families shared life than most families experience in many years combined. Most grownups aren't forced through as much change as you have been forced through in these last six months in a single decade.
Last birthday, I began to pray a new prayer for you. I prayed that you would embrace the adventures that were on the way for all of us: that you would brave that which frightened you, tackle that which challenged you, revel in that which delighted you, and that for just a little while more, that you would let me hold you. I am blown away by how consistently, to the best of your ability, and more than anyone could reasonably have hoped, you have done that. You are doing that. All of it. But I am as overwhelmed with grief for you as I am with gratitude to you as I look back on all that you have had to face, and in so little time.
Father Bear (I'll explain that too) was gone for Air Force training for some of May and most of June. In those same months you were in a social skills group in Chapel Hill. June 5th, your tonsils and adenoids were removed and you began a much more intensive exploration of solid foods. That was hard on your body and there were many medical appointments and even visits to the emergency room. Amid all this your school year ended with your beloved Ms. Diane, and not too much later, your time ended at Pasitos Felices, the preschool you attended since you were 13 months old. We took a trip to South Carolina during which you were the ringbearer in uncle chips and aunt Catherine's wedding. June 29 through July 5 you were forced to undergo a harrowing, cross-country road trip in which you experienced both unparalleled boredom and unparalleled anxiety. We moved into a small apartment, quite different from the giant house we previously inhabited. Grandma and grandpa came to visit and we had a fantastic week filled with amazing Colorado Springs adventures. You did a bit of swimming in our apartment complex pool.
Your coping strategies seem to me to be a desperate attempt to revert to earlier in your childhood, to cling to that which is familiar and predictable, and often, to simply escape from the overwhelming chaos in which you have been forced to live. These have included frequent recitation of your favorite books (Pete the Cat), singing songs and chanting chants from the potty training DVD left over from when you were much younger, acting like a monkey (pretending to be Curious George) and pretending that you are Little Bear. You routinely insist on being called "Little Bear," "Bigger Little Bear," and "George" these days. You have decided and steadfastly maintain that I am now to be called "Mother Bear" and the man you once called "Papa" is now "Father Bear." You are also singing tons of science songs, sometimes insisting on giving concerts that last for way too long. You have been watching Way. Too. Many. Videos. You have made a few new friends along this recent journey, though, including Jack, Anderson, David, and a boy at the pool whose name I've forgotten but whom you really like.
Given so much change, it seems entirely unreasonable that in the midst of all of this your father and I have actually increased our behavioral expectations for you. We've tried to support you in helping you comply with expectations by giving you a picture schedule at home, but that can only do so much, and it's still been an entirely harrowing ordeal.
If there's any message I truly wish that I could adequately convey to you it's that I'm sorry. I'm not so much sorry for anything we've done (except for a few instances in which we snapped at you in moments of frustration). But I'm sorry you've had to experience so much change and discomfort all at once. I'm sorry you have had virtually no routine because we've been unable to give you any.
Today, that all changed but even that change is filled for you, and I admit for me, with anxiety. Excitement, yes. But so much anxiety. You met your new kindergarten teacher... excuse me, Division I teacher on Friday. Because your new teacher is amazing, despite all the stress of these recent months and in spite of the vow you've maintained since Ms. Diane told you you'd have to go on to kindergarten in the fall, (that you would not go to kindergarten and that you would never like another teacher), you like her! Words cannot express my gratitude and relief for this fact.
You were fantastic this morning as I dropped you off for your first day of school. You enjoyed a chat with an 8th grader named D.J., who says he has even more identities and names than you do. Your teacher said that a couple of times you started to wander off in the wrong direction, away from the class, e.g., you started to try to leave when the half-day kids did. At another point or two the whole class was headed in one direction and you started off in another. You say your favorite kids are Emma Leigh and Emma Grace, who played hide and seek with you at recess. You also like Carson and Jude. Your teacher said you sat off by yourself a few times but that other kids scooted over and sat by you so you weren't alone. I think they thought you wouldn't want to be alone but I asked you about this and you said you had wanted to be alone, but that it was ok that the other kids joined you. I'm glad it was okay with you that the other kids joined you, and so very grateful that they didn't want you to be alone. This was a great day, and I am confident that despite the enormity of changes still ahead, that today was the first day of the many that will make up a great year.
Onward!
Dear Little Bear, (I'll explain that in a bit),
According to my annual tradition of writing you birthday letters, I should not be writing to you again for another six months. That is absolutely bizarre. I don't think I can handle leaving it till then. Too much more is happening and will happen before your next birthday. Since you turned "Five Almost Six" last February, more has changed in your life and in our families shared life than most families experience in many years combined. Most grownups aren't forced through as much change as you have been forced through in these last six months in a single decade.
Last birthday, I began to pray a new prayer for you. I prayed that you would embrace the adventures that were on the way for all of us: that you would brave that which frightened you, tackle that which challenged you, revel in that which delighted you, and that for just a little while more, that you would let me hold you. I am blown away by how consistently, to the best of your ability, and more than anyone could reasonably have hoped, you have done that. You are doing that. All of it. But I am as overwhelmed with grief for you as I am with gratitude to you as I look back on all that you have had to face, and in so little time.
Father Bear (I'll explain that too) was gone for Air Force training for some of May and most of June. In those same months you were in a social skills group in Chapel Hill. June 5th, your tonsils and adenoids were removed and you began a much more intensive exploration of solid foods. That was hard on your body and there were many medical appointments and even visits to the emergency room. Amid all this your school year ended with your beloved Ms. Diane, and not too much later, your time ended at Pasitos Felices, the preschool you attended since you were 13 months old. We took a trip to South Carolina during which you were the ringbearer in uncle chips and aunt Catherine's wedding. June 29 through July 5 you were forced to undergo a harrowing, cross-country road trip in which you experienced both unparalleled boredom and unparalleled anxiety. We moved into a small apartment, quite different from the giant house we previously inhabited. Grandma and grandpa came to visit and we had a fantastic week filled with amazing Colorado Springs adventures. You did a bit of swimming in our apartment complex pool.
Your coping strategies seem to me to be a desperate attempt to revert to earlier in your childhood, to cling to that which is familiar and predictable, and often, to simply escape from the overwhelming chaos in which you have been forced to live. These have included frequent recitation of your favorite books (Pete the Cat), singing songs and chanting chants from the potty training DVD left over from when you were much younger, acting like a monkey (pretending to be Curious George) and pretending that you are Little Bear. You routinely insist on being called "Little Bear," "Bigger Little Bear," and "George" these days. You have decided and steadfastly maintain that I am now to be called "Mother Bear" and the man you once called "Papa" is now "Father Bear." You are also singing tons of science songs, sometimes insisting on giving concerts that last for way too long. You have been watching Way. Too. Many. Videos. You have made a few new friends along this recent journey, though, including Jack, Anderson, David, and a boy at the pool whose name I've forgotten but whom you really like.
Given so much change, it seems entirely unreasonable that in the midst of all of this your father and I have actually increased our behavioral expectations for you. We've tried to support you in helping you comply with expectations by giving you a picture schedule at home, but that can only do so much, and it's still been an entirely harrowing ordeal.
If there's any message I truly wish that I could adequately convey to you it's that I'm sorry. I'm not so much sorry for anything we've done (except for a few instances in which we snapped at you in moments of frustration). But I'm sorry you've had to experience so much change and discomfort all at once. I'm sorry you have had virtually no routine because we've been unable to give you any.
Today, that all changed but even that change is filled for you, and I admit for me, with anxiety. Excitement, yes. But so much anxiety. You met your new kindergarten teacher... excuse me, Division I teacher on Friday. Because your new teacher is amazing, despite all the stress of these recent months and in spite of the vow you've maintained since Ms. Diane told you you'd have to go on to kindergarten in the fall, (that you would not go to kindergarten and that you would never like another teacher), you like her! Words cannot express my gratitude and relief for this fact.
You were fantastic this morning as I dropped you off for your first day of school. You enjoyed a chat with an 8th grader named D.J., who says he has even more identities and names than you do. Your teacher said that a couple of times you started to wander off in the wrong direction, away from the class, e.g., you started to try to leave when the half-day kids did. At another point or two the whole class was headed in one direction and you started off in another. You say your favorite kids are Emma Leigh and Emma Grace, who played hide and seek with you at recess. You also like Carson and Jude. Your teacher said you sat off by yourself a few times but that other kids scooted over and sat by you so you weren't alone. I think they thought you wouldn't want to be alone but I asked you about this and you said you had wanted to be alone, but that it was ok that the other kids joined you. I'm glad it was okay with you that the other kids joined you, and so very grateful that they didn't want you to be alone. This was a great day, and I am confident that despite the enormity of changes still ahead, that today was the first day of the many that will make up a great year.
Onward!
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