3x3 = 9 (a square)

Dear Jack,

On April 3rd you turned nine years old.

Facts: "Beethoven wrote nine symphonies, and a cat is said to have nine lives.

A polygon with nine angles and nine sides is called a nonagon.

In French the word "neuf" means both "nine" and "new." In German, the words for "nine" and "new" are "neun" and "neu", and in Spanish, "nueve" and "nuevo". As you count and reach nine, you know you are about to make a new start."*

And so here we are, starting over again. This has always been our way, you and I--you're a kid, seeing the world every day for the first time, and I'm a novice mother cutting a path for both of us, always moving forward with good intentions but no plan. Truth: I don't know what I'm doing.

You are the only one of my three children who routinely brings me to my knees--to pray, to scream, to rest, to see the world as you do. I have cried more tears over you than I've cried for any other person, ever. Tears of frustration, fear, rage, exhaustion, joy, hilarity. If I could gather all the tears together, we'd be swept away in the ocean we've created.

What I am about to say perhaps won't mean much to you, but the year you turned nine is also the year we lost a truly unique voice in this world. Maurice Sendak passed away earlier this week. I knew him only through his books, and primarily through just one: Where The Wild Things Are. I would argue that this deceptively simple picture book is his seminal work.

I don't remember reading the book as a child, though the odds are very good that I did. What I DO remember is picking it up when you were three or four and reading it with new eyes. Imagine being the mother of a willful, intelligent, expressive, mischievous little boy, a boy so resplendent in his boyness that you hardly know how to contain him. A wild boy, equally overwhelmed by joy and anger. Now imagine opening this slender book with monsters on the cover and finding *your* son, wearing a wolf suit and chasing a little white dog with a fork. It doesn't matter that the child in the book is called "Max." What matters is that he's the feral king of all the wild things--but his mother loves him enough to keep his dinner warm. It's you. And me. And I want you to know, that though I cannot always pretend to understand you, you can always come home.

You have turned into a voracious reader, reading so many books this year that I believe we've both lost count. You love to learn, and your teachers love you for it. Your last report card was straight As, and your homeroom teacher has suggested you move ahead in math an entire year. I am forever grateful to these educators, both for keeping you busy and for appreciating the kind of kid you are.

And what kind of kid is that? The only answer to the question is this: you are an inquisitive, obnoxious, demanding, funny, stubborn, emotional, sensitive pain in the you-know-what. You speak with authority on everything, whether or not you understand it. And the talking! You are always talking, which I think is really just spillover from your incredibly active, imaginative brain. I sometimes tease that you should stop talking because the room is running out of oxygen, but it never stops you. In fact, you delight in telling people that you're capable of sucking the air out of a space with noise. It may be your super power.

You've decided you want to do great things when you grow up. Your dream job is to be a Lego engineer, and I hope with all I'm worth that you get to do it. You are still the best builder in the family, and I'm impressed at how your creations are always perfectly symmetrical and meticulously planned. Sadly, I can barely build a square with Legos, so your architectural powers will always mystify me. Whatever this skill is, you clearly didn't get it from me. My brain doesn't work that way. So, when you get a chance, thank your father.

Nine years, can you believe it? When did you get so tall and freckled? How is it possible that you can ride a bike and use a pocket knife and spend a week at camp this summer without your parents?

While I was writing this, I looked up "the number nine" on Google, and I found a picture of a Swedish stamp. On the stamp there are nine cubes arranged in a triangle surrounding a small white star. The cubes look like a staircase set in a never-ending loop, and they appear to hang in space three dimensionally. The whole thing reminds me of M.C. Escher--and the caption says:

"The nine cubes on this Swedish stamp make an 'impossible figure'. This arrangement cannot exist in the real world."

It's strange, but that's exactly how I feel. You are an impossible figure. I mean, I knew someday I'd have children, but I never imagined that the first one would be *you*--and sometimes it all seems like an elaborate dream. This arrangement cannot possibly exist in the real world.

Love you the most,
Mom

(*Facts about the number nine and Swedish cube stamp taken from here: http://richardphillips.org.uk/number/Num9.htm )

Seven Days A Week

Dear Finnegan,

On May 2nd, you turned seven years old. To celebrate, you lost BOTH of your front teeth. The tooth fairy, who is obviously a forgetful drunk, failed to bring you any money for a couple of days. You were so bummed that I almost broke the unspoken vow of parenthood ("Let them believe in magic.") and confessed that the forgetful drunkard is really me. Instead you got $3 for that tooth and I felt like a dork for a few minutes. (I FORGOT. I'M SORRY. (Also, I don't drink. I'm just an airhead.))

Anyway, it's been seven years since the doctor dragged you into the world arse first, and in that time you've become no less stubborn. Baby Hardhead has become Big Boy Hardhead, seemingly overnight. When you dig in your heels, you REALLY dig in. It's a good thing that you're relatively easy going.

You're still oddly graceful when moving, but God help you if you come to a standstill. If a thing can be accidentally dropped, spilled, stained, crushed, torn or broken, you'll take care of it post haste. Then your bottom lip will thrust forward like a rock plateau jutting out over a canyon, and you'll burst into horrified, heartbroken keening. Your dying sea cow routine, while not any cuter, has certainly gotten more polished in the last year.

You're in first grade now, and as far as I can tell, you think of homework as the Third Greatest Injustice In The World (the first two Great Injustices being: Jack, and his refusal to stop calling you "Finnegan" when you have sworn to answer only to "Finn," and the fact that you aren't old enough to use the computer lab at the library). You and I have spent many an evening together during which you cry and I roll my eyes because of homework. You understand it, but as far as I can tell, you're still secretly hoping I will lose my mind and do it for you. Because it's booooring and it's haaard and you wanted to go to the paaaark! I'd just like to say that I've been to school and I will do your homework and projects for you exactly never. As your little brother likes to point out, I'm "mean."

You're still fighting crime and rooting for the underdog as Justice Beaver (Remember: Justice Beaver wants equal treatment for ALL the beavers), which as I pointed out last year is your super hero identity. You are always measuring, counting, weighing, searching and trying to quantify what and how many and when. Skylar went to the zoo while you were at school? It's not fair! Isaac has a Nintendo DSi? It's not fair! Jack was born first? It's NOT FAIR! Like your Aunt Jacqui, you will someday leave this world kicking and screaming, and someone will have to inscribe "ITS NOT FAIR" on your tombstone.

This obsession with equality plays out in interesting ways. You are, depending on the situation, either: the nicest, kindest, most generous, adorable person who has ever walked the earth or--the jerkiest, most jealous, whiny, mean-spirited baby brat under the sun.
Your quest for fairness means treating everyone as you want to be treated, but then railing like a hysterical caged animal when things don't go your way.

You make breakfast for Skylar every morning, because Jack won't do it and you hate it when Skylar gets upset. You share everything you have, even when there isn't enough to go around.

On the other hand, you were ungrateful
enough at your sixth birthday party that I threatened to donate all your gifts to charity if the green-eyed monster showed so much as an eyelash this year (he did not).

On the other, other hand, you had your tonsils removed this morning, and despite being frightened and in pain, you still found it in your heart to share the contents of your hospital gift bag with your healthy, pain-free brothers this afternoon because "they didn't get anything."

Speaking of the tonsil surgery, let's just say I'm glad THAT'S over. You broke my heart, small boy in a big hospital bed, especially when you got really scared and asked me to take you home. That was my cue to snatch you up outta that bed and take you out to IHOP for pancakes while wearing disguises like escaped convicts (mustache for you, blonde wig for me). But instead, I took a deep breath and held it so I wouldn't cry in front of you, and as soon as they wheeled you out I went to the bathroom to cry alone.

Poor, sweet Finn. I'm sorry. I know it hurt and we'd never have agreed to it if we didn't think it was for the best. I told you you could have any Lego set you wanted if you'd just calm down. Don't cry, little one! Please, my heart can't take it! I swear to you, I'd have thrown myself down for surgery if it would have helped. Thank goodness it's behind us.

Happy 7th birthday, Finn. May seven be better than either one of us can imagine.

Love,
Mom