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 )