A Love Letter to My Son on His 27th Birthday

Twenty-seven! How did that happen? Your birthday presents another opportunity for me to be reflective, to call back memories of another time, when the future was ahead and I was checking off all the boxes (career, husband, home, children). You were a gift. Sort of a happy surprise. And you are here now, celebrating 27 years of YOU! Happy Birthday!

Early memories point me to the lullabies that I sang to you to get you to go to sleep. "A Child's Gift of Lullabies" can still bring me to tears. And then there were the Spot & Petey years, which seemed to last forever. Those "telling stories" of the adventures of your beloved stuffed animals are a sweet reflection. While I don't remember the stories that well, I do remember how we populated them with so many characters. Jack Frost, Easter Bunny, Santa Claus . . . I owe you an apology for suggesting that Leprechaun would lick you if you didn't fall asleep. But hey, I was desperate! Forgive me?

It wasn't long before you moved into your Tools & Weapons phase. You had quite a collection of Cool Tools, which made Christmas shopping relatively easy for Santa that year. As for the weapons, your sisters remember well (and with some disdain) how you had a plastic basket full of toy guns. I recall specifically the wooden "rifle" that your dad carved for you. It accompanied your Davy Crockett coonskin cap on many a journey. I find it interesting that you are now the owner of a real gun. I think you are in possession of your dad's coonskin cap? You should wear it when you go hunting!

Ah, and after a brief love affair with "Howwy Pottah," you segued first into what I call the "Hair Gel Years" and then into your heavy metal phase. A true test of parenthood is being able to tolerate the AC/DC onslaught. I tried to steer you in another direction, taking you to concerts by Neil Young, The Who, and Tom Petty. I think I succeeded in influencing your musical tastes. You and I like a lot of the same music, don't we?

High school was a rough go. You tried to hide your sadness, and I regret that I did not grasp how deep it was. I guess we were both in denial. I will be forever grateful for baseball! It provided much joy during those difficult years. The sound of bat making contact with ball will always take me back to those years, cheering your skill, your speed, your knowledge of the game. You were my Catcher in the Heart.

And then college. I will never forget the day that I dropped you off at UVM and walked away alone one last time. Your dad never got to experience those rites of passage, those emotional separations of parent and child, those endings and beginnings. But you found yourself while there, and you rocked it! I dropped off a child, and you returned a man.

Post-college, you exhibited the courage and sense of adventure that has ever since defined you. Less than a week after your graduation, you drove across the country by yourself to begin an internship in California. One of the highlights of my life was the road trip you and I embarked on when I flew out to visit you. Me, old enough to be your grandmother! Two weeks on the roads of Northern California, replete with baseball, breweries, wineries, National Parks, and coastline. It is one of my fondest memories.

When you were little, you used to reach your arms up to me and plead, "Huggies!" I would pick you up, and you would nuzzle into my neck. I would dance us around a bit until you indicated that you were satisfied, and I would let you down again. Until the next time. Around that time, I remember Mary H giving me a magazine article she'd come across titled "The Last Time." Basically, it posited that, as parents, we make note of the "first times" (first time sitting up, first time walking, first words, first day of preschool, etc.), but we don't take note of the last times. This is mostly because we don't know it's the last time when it happens. When was the last time that you asked me to pick you up and give you a hug? I don't know. I didn't make note of it. And I suppose this is a good thing, because if we knew it was the last time, we would be confronted with something that would seem like an insurmountable loss.

Sam, you are a good man. You are full of so much love and generosity. You are capable of great successes, and you are custom built for home and family. I know you are an old soul and that it seems to take so long to get to where you want to be. But you'll get there. My birthday wish for you is that you take good care of yourself, both physically and emotionally. I understand the sadness that you carry inside, and I cannot promise that it will ever go away. But you will also have great joy in your life if you stay on the same path that you are on now. I promise.

Happy Birthday, boy of mine. I hope this letter picks you up and hugs you!

Love always, Mom