He’s 18 today.

Dear Bird,

You are 18 today. EIGHTEEN. 

It is a strange phenomenon that you grow and age while I retain my youthful glow, eternally stuck in decades far younger than my chronological years. I see in you glimpses of the boy you were, and when you were little I tucked away memories of your particular quirks and outlook and told myself to remember those to see how they manifested as you grew up. Your sass, stubbornness, and charm have unwaveringly tracked with each stage of development. You’ve always been smarter than the average bear and view the world with a lens that lends itself to valuing differences above fitting into predetermined molds. I am envious of your confidence. You are more insightful than I ever was, and your healthy skepticism will protect you. Your aura lights a fire around you, your spirit sizzles, your fierceness radiates, yet beneath it all are a tenderness and vulnerability that few people see. You are deep and private and strong, and filled with wonder.

I marveled when I met you as you gripped my pinkie with your wrinkly pink hand that late night when the clock chimes were just shy of ringing us to a new day. And I marvel now as I watch you casually saunter into the world as a confident young man who knows his worth and is driven by justice above all. Dressed to impress, too. You have always easily walked through the doors of new experiences with nary a shadow of unsurety. You embrace new experiences, and your curiosity has been insatiable since you were a toddler asking “Was dat?” 9000 times a day. Your questions have gotten deeper, and I admit my ability to answer them has gotten weaker. Your brain capacity is far beyond mine, your jocular wit a hallmark of your charm, and your smile…oh, your cheeky smile. I joke that I should have made money off your face all these years. You are a handsome devil, son, devilish grin and all.

Time is a sneaky thing that serves as both beast and beauty, bandit and guardian. 

For your whole life, I’ve taken random photos of snippets in time to capture who we were then. In later years you’ll pore over those images and laugh about our furniture, our outfits, and see a few special pieces that will have been passed down. You’ll see youthful versions of me and Dad, though we’ve always been old in your eyes. That’s the nature of things. I want those photos to show what we were in our element, in our own home, just simply being. Toys strewn about, baby fussing, laundry piled, Matchbox cars underfoot. The trappings of those younger years have evolved to earpods, PS4 remote controls, boat-size sneakers, and lacrosse equipment. The laundry remains constant. In this family, we have tried to lead with joy, something you know was lacking in my own childhood. Silliness has made way for sarcasm, and the joys of trading barbs and inappropriate jokes with teenagers is a milestone I had not anticipated. I know you think I’m not funny, but we both know you actually know I’m hilarious. “It’s the laughter we will remember when we remember the way we were.”

I reflect on the last 18 years and am grateful we got to this place in one piece. As you are the apple to my tree, you know it was an unpaved path with scraggly bits of gravel underfoot. But we navigated it together, and we’re lucky to be able to yell in frustration yet still share so much love. You and I both feel things keenly, and when it comes to our constitution, we are a venn diagram that overlaps in almost a full circle (and we share an astrological sign for what it’s worth). As I look at your room, I see a disaster. But I also see piles of books, racks of shoes, cases of colored pencils and markers, bags of thrift store bargains, and a tidy display of things that bring you joy (the only tidy spot in your room!). 

Happy 18th Birthday to my baby Bird! I love you to the moon and back again.

When you were two-days old we had to feed you with a syringe. Mac Daddy remarked that it looked like we were feeding a baby bird, and the nickname Bird has stuck all these years. The metaphors are endless, and I know how you hate my cheesy puns. But allow me this, one last moment to marvel as you lift your wings to leave our nest and soar.  

Love,

Mom