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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