To My Morrison On Your Fourth Birthday...
A fog drapes over the city, housing it in thick heat. My running is erratic as I push through a near stagnant crowd. I’m panting and panicked I left you in your car seat. I wake up mid-run, never knowing if I actually did or not. It’s a dream I’ve had countless times this past year. Sweaty, I stumble around for my phone, check your camera, and lay back down like a splintered brick. Is it a nightmare or the perfect way to sum up year four?
So much of parenting up until this point has been playing house, in a sense. Maybe faking it, maybe making it, with you, my perfect accessory. But, this year you became a person. A person whose feelings I can relieve on a good day or hurt on a bad day. It’s a pressure that bruises like a fall. And, I’m falling a lot.
In middle school, I was voted Most Interesting. My friends and I laughed all through lunch. What a strange superlative to receive at age thirteen. How could I be that interesting? Most Goofy would have made more sense (at that same lunch I was offering to put flavors from all our meals together in a cup and drink it). Or even Most Dramatic (I shouted through the loud speaker during morning announcements when I received my period for the first time, marking my official transition to womanhood - ha). But, Most Interesting? What did that even mean? Twenty-three years later I think of it differently, because ‘interesting’ is actually the exact word I’d use to describe you, my son.
What’s so fascinating about that word is the way it fluctuates in and out of normal. The idea of being normal and being interesting are not mutually exclusive, but the variations are endless. Of course, the act of striving to be or act normal is archaic and potentially dangerous. So, for this letter’s sake, let’s think of normal as average. Average is wonderful. Average is healthy. Average is saying the right things at the right time. It’s running the bases when asked. It’s getting as many eggs at an egg hunt as you can find because those are the rules. It’s going down the big, tubular slide because it looks fun. It’s hugging people hello and goodbye because that’s what you’ve been taught. Average is wonderful.
But, then there’s interesting.
Interesting is standing still on home base, trying to avoid the applause you know will come if you run them all. So deeply tuned in to the future outcomes of your actions. Three bases behind but three steps ahead. Interesting is not understanding why everyone needs so many eggs at the egg hunt. Who cares? Not being motivated by prizes or winning, but rather by why we’re doing what we’re doing - does it even make sense? Interesting is not knowing enough about what’s in the slide and the process of going down it to commit. How can you be expected to make a decision like that with so many unknown variables? Interesting is avoiding a hug because the moment doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel sincere. It feels like a performance. Interesting is iridescent.
You have never been a performer. You loathe excessive attention. There’s no “on demand-ing” with you. This has been challenging for me as all I do is perform. It’s how I was raised. And, this age of parenting seems to be all about showing off what our kids can do on demand. Look how athletic they are. Look how gifted they are. Look, look, look. These outward performances help us parents feel like we’re doing something right, because so much of the job can feel like we’re failing and flailing. The problem is not that you’re anything less than your peers, it’s that you don’t perform in front of them, or anyone. You’re the most remarkable when no one is around except me, your brother, and dad.
But, the real problem is that I thought this was a problem. I spent this year fearful no one would ever know that mystical version of you, and, in turn, spent 365 days trying to normalize normalizing you. Trying to fit you in when you really wanted so far out. Trying to check off all the boxes of a boy your age with squares that were octagons and check marks that didn’t fit. Wondering out loud to other moms why sometimes things felt so different - then feeling guilty for doing so, as if I was betraying you. Feeling other people’s judgments as I corrected your behavior. The firmness in my voice, the tension radiating my body. I wanted you to show well - to show everyone the boy we got to experience when you were comfortable at home. But, the process felt shameful. The manic melody of “do it like everyone else” had been sung too many times.
Then, at the end of the year, I received a letter from your PK-3 teacher waxing poetic about what a star you are (embarrassed she thought I didn’t already know). How all the teachers are fighting over who gets to have you in their class next year. But, most importantly, about how interesting of a kid you are. And, I think just knowing that someone else got it, that someone else saw you - it changed everything. Now, I don’t care about average or normal or performing. And, I’ll never be able to apologize enough for getting caught up in the racket. I’m so sickly proud of the very specific person you are. I say it every year, but its meaning is so much heavier now. You are truly transcendental.
As for me? I talk to myself all the time. Sometimes I catch you listening, and a handful of those times you ask who I’m talking to. I never know how to answer that question. The truth is, I’m talking to six other versions of myself in my head, all of us trying to make sense of our life. I can’t help but think of all the milestones I’m missing while making sure you and your brother reach yours. But, I can assure you at least one of those six voices remains utterly privileged and grateful to be home with you both.
Extended family dynamics continue to be confusing from every angle. Double standards have been so blatantly unapologetic. Lines keep being drawn, erased, then redrawn. What’s up feels down, and everything I’ve known to be right is wrong. Wrong is right. I just have to learn by now; it’s been this way for as long as I’ve known it to be.
The world is on fire. Literally and figuratively. I continue taking you to the marches, to the petition signings, but am starting to feel grounded in knowing the biggest impact I can make is by raising you and your bother to care.
I’ve never felt less interesting. I certainly wouldn’t receive that title in 2023’s yearbook. Monotony has become my personality. I feel the density of my age - trapped in the lagoon of time between 36 and 40. Not really considered middle aged, but definitely not considered young. I’m running out of years with weights on my feet. What I wouldn’t give to feel interesting again.
I hope that starts soon.
The last two hours of our day involve you and your brother running around the house together, scheming. You’ve made him your teacher’s assistant, your construction assistant, your shark diving assistant, your train engineer, your sous chef, and my personal favorite, the entire percussionist section of your orchestra. But, every night when I put him to sleep, you run to tell me how excited you are to “start our alone time.” Like clockwork, we snuggle on your bed as you beg to watch the video of Gustavo Dudamel conducting Leonard Bernstein’s Mambo. For two and a half minutes we find complete bliss in the routine.
I hope that never ends.
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