When I awoke this morning, I just wanted to go and give you a big hug, wrap my arms around you and tell you how much I love you, how much I appreciate your carefree spirit, your adventurous nature, your individuality. We butt heads, you and I, like two big-horned rams, each coming at the other with our own ideals. Why can't they mesh, I wonder? Can they? Will they?And if you had been here, I'd definitely have charged into your room and said, "Happy Birthday!" to you. Maybe even breakfast in bed. Maybe not.
But instead, I went on with my busy morning, rushing around, hoping not to be late or forget something. And when I had a moment, I called you, but there was no answer.
When you called me back, I was so happy to hear your voice. And when you wondered if we had plans for tonight, I wanted to tell you that we had plans for you, to entice you back home for the weekend so that I could relieve my mother-guilt of not being with her eldest son on his eighteenth birthday. And yes, we did have plans, but they weren't birthday plans. And now I feel terrible. I should have had birthday plans for you.
So what can I do, my son who is officially an adult but still so much my boy, to commemorate this day, the first day of a new phase of your life? What could I possibly do to mark this occasion well, give it the attention it deserves?
There isn't anything, really, I'm afraid. My attempts would be inadequate.
Tonight, as we sat in Leslie's garden, I missed you so much I could have cried, but, out of fear of embarrassment, I told the tears to mind their own business, to leave me alone. I don't think I've ever been away from any of the other kids on their birthdays. Why does that bother me so much? I was so convinced that I should be with you today that when I saw that tall teenaged boy wander into Leslie's yard, and when I heard someone shout out to him--he shared your name, I was sure it was you, against all logic. And when I realized that it wasn't you, that it couldn't possibly be, I felt something akin to homesickness. All I wanted was to hear your laugh, to see you swing the younger kids by their arms or play hide-and-seek with the big kids. I wanted to hear you play Ben Folds and The Beatles and Muse on Martin and Leslie's new Baldwin, hear you sing along with Tosca's eclectic playlist. And only part of it was that I was worried that you were spending your birthday alone at camp, the rest of the staff gone for the weekend, home with their families or hanging out with their friends. The other part was me.
I really missed you.
I really miss you.
There's so much I wish I could change about our story, you know? I think I could have been a much better mom if I'd just have known that you would be alright. You have no idea how much advice you get as a mother, and most of it is a bunch of bull. People who have their heads full of their own ideals seem to think they have the best answers for you, for your parenting and your child. Why didn't I just listen to us? Wouldn't it have been so much better to shut off those voices and trust you and me?
Maybe it's not too late. Can we start again? Can you believe me when I say I'm proud of who you are, of who you've been, who you're becoming? How about if we set aside the blame and set free the love? I mean, what's the worst that could happen?
Tomorrow morning, you'll run a 5K, and I'll be there to see you. And you won't believe the hug I'm preparing.
Happy eighteenth, Houdin. Let's move forward.
Love,
Mom
