My son has been alive for 1000 days.
One. Thousand.
In honor of this milestone, I have decided to write him 1000 words.
Dear Nugget:
It has been 250 days—one-quarter of your life—since March 13, 2020, when the governor of Louisiana closed schools for a month, and your father and I decided to move to Birmingham to ride out the storm there. You got so much extra time with your grandparents, aunt, uncle, and cousins… (and also your parents and sister). Your days with your oldest cousin yielded a blossoming verbal vocabulary that everyone was so proud of, as your words had come in reluctantly… just like your arrival into this world (past our due date) and your appreciation of solid food and your teeth and your desire to walk.
You take things in your own time. You go at your own pace. It is maddening, exhausting, and beautiful.
A friend posted that something we didn’t know about our own parents when we were kids is that they were figuring this all out, too. I am learning how to be a parent and partner every day, and you expect that I have the answers and reasons and agenda already figured out. I am trying.
From the moment I found out that I was pregnant, I prayed for you to be viable. When we learned that you were not only viable but healthy, I prayed for you to be curious and kind. For more than 1000 days, I have prayed for you to be curious and kind. I want you to be so many other things, but those two words summarize my deepest dreams for you.
I hope you listen to teachers and scientists. I hope you will recognize rhetoric from politicians and priests and parents. I hope that your first memories are not colored with the dread and uncertainty that every adult around you has felt for the past 250 days; I hope that they are vibrant and bold moments of picnics in parks and by the River, of learning to ride your balance bike, of porch parties.
I hope we have hidden our anxiety from you, because you give us enough anxiety!
I told a group of colleagues yesterday that one of my greatest achievements during the pandemic has been keeping a two year old alive. They clapped for me, and I blushed.
In the nine weeks that I was on paid leave to care for you during the pandemic, I told my friends that I was in an abusive relationship. “He hits me, he kicks me, he withholds affection, he controls how I spend my days, he expects me to do all of his laundry and cleaning and cooking… and I love him too much to leave him.” You can try my patience, and you have made me a more patient and caring person. I will probably be grateful one day.
Everyone says that their first weeks with a newborn are a blur, and they are. You were a pretty good sleeper from the beginning, and you were silent and compliant until well past your first birthday. Much to what I had not planned, you were not the best breastfeeder: yours wasn’t nipple confusion; it was nipple convenience, and a bottle was far more reliable than my breasts.
You were a very sweet, docile baby. No one could understand how I had such a good baby. I couldn’t understand how I had such a good baby. I joked that I feared for what was karmically in my future, like you might knock up half of your middle school.
… Then at around 15 months, you learned how to destroy things, and you basically haven’t stopped.
When people ask me to describe you, I say “joyful.” Even though you have become defiant in the past 250 days, you remain joyful. Which is why you’re still alive, 1000 days later.
You don’t nap at school like you should, and you don’t listen at home like you should. You, like your mama, are your teachers’ favorite. I think it’s because you have already learned how to (dis)please people.
My first memories of you were terrifying. We both almost died in childbirth, a story I’m sure you will eventually hear and want to immediately unhear, the way that I rarely want to tell it. The doctor handed you to me, and I was so scared. But we did it, because we are warriors. You thrived, and I learned how to. I watched you be healthy, and it motivated me to follow suit.
You got to have two birthday parties with lots of people at them. You are unlikely to get to celebrate your third birthday that way because we believe in germ theory. You got to spend two Mardi Gras Days on the parade route. All three of your half birthday parties have been attended by the same people; they are our bubble, although we didn’t know that word until this year. They’re the family we chose for ourselves and for you, and I am reminded daily of how well we chose.
In your first 1000 days, we flew to London, New York City, North and South Carolinas, Florida, Austin. You were an incredibly easy baby to fly with. You’ve been to one wedding, no funerals. You’ve met all of your living great grandparents, of which you are blessed enough to have three.
I imagined that you would know your great grandparents by now, that you would have core memories of them. I grieve this loss, among so many others, big and small.
You are a fabulous person to take an adventure with. You love playgrounds; all forms of things that go, especially emergency vehicles; and books. You understand that we wear masks and don’t get to ride busses or streetcars because we love our neighbors. You are an exceptional eater and sleeper.
I love watching you discover the world. I love answering your questions. I love being your guide; I know I’ve been a good one. I will love when you develop empathy.
I will always love you.
Stay curious and kind.
Mama
