First of all, I’m sorry. Sorry for the bangs. That clump of brown hair that thrusts itself against your forehead like a shellacked fortress. It took me years to train my bangs into the emblem of the 70’s: feathered wings– with the help of a comb that I carried in my back pocket from grades 6 through 8. Who knows, maybe you’ll bring back the trend.
And I’m sorry that you seem to have inherited the Grinch gene. You are a moody one, much like your Dadicus. You’ve mastered the art of frowning and sulking. From the beginning, you seemed to make your presence known by reminding us that the course of true love never did run smooth.
The day we brought you home from the hospital, you stopped breathing. You started turning blue in my arms. Thankfully, you jolted yourself back into the living world–with a little shaking from yours truly.
At your one week check-up, we relayed this to the pediatrician. He looked at Mom and me and said, “He stopped breathing and you didn’t bring him to the emergency room?” Feeling chastised, we both searched for some lame excuse. “Well, he started up again,” I offered.
And so it’s been for these nine years. You have been such a source of life in our hearts, but never typical in your approach. You are kind, sensitive, loving, and honest. And you can throw a fit like no other.
As you move into a new phase of your life, as your limbs no longer resemble those of a young boy, as you are on track to be taller than me by middle school, I thought it appropriate to give you a glimpse into some of your life thus far. There are so many stories–too many for a single blog post. And because it’s you, I can’t be all cutesy–all snips and snails and puppy dog tails. I want to embrace the many sides of you in words, which is quite challenging, but here goes.
As a baby and a toddler you were the conductor of many a freak-out. In infancy, you cried fiercely. As a toddler, you could throw a tantrum worthy of selling tickets. We consulted books (Brazelton’s Touchpoints/ The Super Nanny/ I’m Okay, You’re a Brat/ Magic 1,2,3); we asked fellow
survivors parents; we took any advice from your daycare teachers, neighbors, friends and strangers.
At around age four, the timeout in your room was no longer a viable option. It seemed like we had tried everything but duct tape. Ohh, we thought about it, but never tried it.
One day at work, a friend shared advice as to how they handled their son as a toddler: her husband reversed the lock on the door knob to their son’s room. “So, instead of him being able to lock us out, we could lock him in!” Eureka! We had found our answer.
However, Mom was very much against Operation Alcatraz. “Well, I don’t know how to contain him when he throws a fit, and I don’t want to hurt him,” I pleaded. “We’ve tried everything else-I’m giving it a go.”
The next day, I bought a brand new door knob set, and after school, I set about building your new cell. And as life would have it, you wandered into your room, curious as to what I was doing. I offered no explanation, just asked you to hold a screw, hand me a tool. Soon, you ambled into your closet, where you started to play with various things. Then you discovered your memory drawer in an old dresser where I started storing memorabilia for each of us. For the next half hour, as I unscrewed and fastened, you paraded out of your closet with photos, and artwork, and blankies, and keepsakes. You wondered at your framed footprints, you squeezed your head into your old beach hat… Before long, Owen joined in, and the two of you had more fun sorting through your lives.
As I finished replacing the knob–with the lock on the front of the door–you had created a pile of stuff around my tools. Looking down at the items, I was reminded of all the joy and love and hope your life had brought us. Mom came home to find you sitting in my lap, naming all your friends in a picture from pre-school, Owen in the background singing and sorting through his own memory draw. It was one of the tenderest moments of our lives.
But then, she spied the reason we were all gathered in your room. She shot me a look and tears sprung to her eyes. “I cannot believe you are really doing this!” she said angrily. “I’m at the end of my rope,” I replied. “And who knows, we may never even need to use it,” I mused.
The next day was a Friday. Mom had decided to pick you up from daycare so I could get moving on some landscaping projects. As I tilled in the garden on that late spring afternoon, I kept thinking back to the day before. I marvelled at all the experiences we had already created together. It was such a weirdly pleasant event, being in your room as both jailer and guide, and a reminder that we are all working hard at building this enigmatic thing called “a family.”
I was roused from my thoughts when I saw Mom’s car careen into the driveway. Right away, I knew something was wrong.
As she jumped out of the driver’s side, I could hear screaming cries from the back seat. “He’s going right up to his room! Right up!” she called to me from the driveway. You flailed, as mom wrestled you into her arms and inside the house.
Well, I just had to laugh. How’s that for irony? Mom was the first one to use the new system, and the very next day, no less.
I walked in and stood at the bottom of the stairs. There was Mom sitting on the floor in the hallway outside your room. And you? You were safely in your room crying, yelling and throwing books. And the new door knob was securely locked from the outside.
Thankfully, we didn’t have to use the lock often. It was more comforting just to know it was an option. Yet, as much as we have had to learn to adapt to your personality, we have reaped the benefits of your charm, your wit, your loving side. I honestly think that one of the reasons you’ve had to adjust your temper is because you feel things so deeply. You absorb the world in ways that others do not. You have a sense of empathy, an awareness of all that goes on around you.
I’ll give you an example. When you were a toddler, I taught in Ghana for part of the summer. I was gone quite awhile and you did the funniest thing. You found an old pair of eyeglasses with the lenses popped out and you put them on. Mom said you wore them for much of the time I was away. It was as if a part of me was with you in my absence. When I returned, you slowly found no need to wear them. Your other pair of glasses was now safely home. That’s how deeply you care.
Everything can’t fit in a drawer filled with memories, Hayden, but I wish you could remember so many aspects of your childhood. Here are just a few:
You are a lover of LEGOs.
At bed time, you rotate which stuffed animal to bring to bed with you.
You dance like no one’s watching.
You’ve proudly appointed yourself class clown.
You’ve earned the nickname “Hot Dog” in Little League, and had the thrill of hearing your teammates chant it as you hit a home run this season.
You insist that Mom and I both kiss you goodnight.
You love it when I snuggle you.
When I am about to leave your room at bedtime, I whisper in your ear: “I love you Stinky Face.” (From one of our favorite baby books)
Sometimes, when you and I get REALLY mad at each other, we just start cracking up laughing.
You are the luckiest one in the house–winning raffles and carnival games like it’s your job.
You’ve discovered Harry Potter. You proudly play your recorder for anyone who’ll listen. You’ve never met a carb you didn’t like. You’re loud–REALLY LOUD!
And we love you. Through it all, we love you.
Looking forward to sharing more of this ride with you.