Reconnected

Dear Lucas,

We celebrated your birthday in April and shortly after celebrated Amos’ 1st Angel birthday. I thought you would be so confused, but you really weren’t. You confirmed with me, “We are remembering him more today?” Yes, baby. Yes. You knew that I was sad, but you could tell that most of all, I  didn’t want you to forget Amos. I know this because you say his name often. You talk about him as if he’s just in the next room. You have this childlike innocence and unwaivering faith that strengthens mine. There is no doubt in your mind that you will get to see Amos and Feeny one day; they’re somewhere waiting for you. I love you for that. You remind me to be strong in my faith and to trust in God’s promises.

Your sweetness and need for close physical touch brought me back to seeing how much you still need to be my baby, too. At first, it started as you hanging all over me ALL THE TIME. This drove me bananas. Once I  realized how often I  was prying you off of me, I  recognized how much you needed that touch to be grounded and to feel loved. I  had to see that you weren’t just trying to be obnoxious and clingy, but you needed me. When Everett was born, you kind of became more of Dad’s sidekick and responsibility while I    took care of Everett. Every little thing you did that was wrong drove me over the edge because (hi, postpartum hormones and lack of sleep) I  suddenly expected so much more from you as the older child that I didn’t give you the grace you deserved as still being such a toddler/little boy. I  see Everett now almost 3 and can’t imagine how much of an upset that must have been for you, and I feel so guilty that I didn’t see you for how little you were then. Part of the disconnect that happened between us then was the loss of a lot of physical connection. Of course, I  still hugged and kissed you, but gone were the days of rocking you or snuggling with you very often. Dad became your go-to.

But, after Amos died, that changed. Your intense empathy brought you to my side like a magnet. You always wanted to be held or hugged or carried. And you are huge, kid. Like, you are so tall, and I’m so short, and I was so frustrated every time you tried to climb on my back whenever I   crouched down to pick something up that I’d yell at you because it HURT when you climbed up. It wasn’t until months later that I realized why you were doing it. I    recently read an article that said most kids need a minimum of 4 hugs a day to feel connected, 8 hugs to grow emotionally. You’re like a 12 hugs a day kind of kid. Ever since I    figured that out, I’ve seen a drastic difference in your emotional control and your mood. Drastic. I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out. I  so easily get touched out. I    spend all day taking care of someone else that by the time you come home, I just want a nap and to be left alone, and that’s not fair to you. So, I’ve tried to be more consistent with Everett’s naps and take time to disengage so that when you get home, I  can engage with you in a calmer, more loving way.

I  also found that you really need absolute focus (read zero distractions or numbing agents) when school starts back up to take on the emotional toll that school brings. I took away all screens and weekday playdates for the rest of August after a HUGELY EPIC public meltdown at the neighborhood pool after the first week of school. This is the meltdown where you refused to get out of the pool, and I had to jump in fully clothed to escort you out and home, you screaming all the way. You get beyond dramatic and dark when you’re that upset. Telling me that you must belong in another family, that we don’t love you, that you wish you would just disappear. It terrifies me. You feel SO BIG with every emotion. Your joy EXPLODES like fireworks, makes your entire body thrum with energy. But your sadness is just as intense. You feel desolate and act as if you are completely devastated (and I  do not use that word lightly because I know what true devastation feels like). When you get hurt- emotionally or physically, your reaction is NOT within normal recognition of what level of pain you’re experiencing. A stubbed toe sounds the same as a lost limb. You get beyond overwhelmed with anger at yourself for not having control and anger at me for making you feel this way and sadness at feeling SO unloved when you’re confronted with your poor choices and actions. You scream-sob at me, “I’M A BAD BOYYYY.” Even though I’ve never said that to you. I always have to remind you, to rewrite your internal script, “Lucas, you are not a bad boy. You are a good boy, and I love you. Today, though, you made bad choices. You will make better choices next time.” And when you tell me, “YOU DON’T LIKE MEEE.” I    have to, again, rewrite that internal script, “Lucas, I   love you, but I  do not like the way you are behaving.” You’re also TERRIBLE at losing. If you’re not spectacular at something IMMEDIATELY you cry and give up. If you lose? Same thing. Before Everett was born, I feel like you really had a handle on emotional regulation. I’m not sure where I fell short on helping you maintain that, but I’m sorry it’s been such a struggle. I’m doing my best. You’re doing your best with what you know. We’re trying. We’ve been through a lot.

When I took away screens, I knew it was going to be really hard for you. You use tv as a numbing agent when you’re overwhelmed or tired. You plop yourself down and veg out in front of Netflix. I’m so busy with everything else that I   made the mistake of letting you. It kept you out of my hair while I  was trying to catch up on work or do laundry or make dinner. It kept you away, which meant you weren’t getting the attention or connection you needed. It didn’t force you to feel bored and look for new things to do or ways to play. We’re about two weeks into no screen time, and you’re a different kid. When you come home, you engage with me in conversation. You hug me. You don’t even ask anymore if you can watch tv. You haven’t tried to sneak anything. You haven’t hid with a tablet. (The second day, you exploded much like the day you folded in on yourself like a dying star at the pool, but since then you’ve been fine.) You’re a super social kid. Going to school isn’t hard for you. You learn easily. You engage and focus well. You make friends without issue. You have that wonderfully dangerous habit (like your mama) of loving hard and loving fast. The new kid you met today on the bus isn’t just your new friend; he’s your third best friend. But all that emotion and control you regulate at school comes undone at the seams when you step through our door. I have to keep reminding myself that’s how I  should want you to feel: safe enough to act your worst, knowing no matter what that we will love you as if you’re at your best. But it’s hard when I  get left with the messiest part of you at the time of day when I’m at my messiest, too.

On a side note, you’re killing it with reading, kid. I’m so beyond proud of how well you can read. You get frustrated and don’t want to try because you’re not perfect, but I’m working on growing your tenacity. Your writing is getting better too. We’re working on the mechanics more than anything, because you’re pretty amazing at spelling big words with the sounds you know, and you’re great at spelling shorter words correctly without batting an eye. You also have a propensity for math, just like your dad. He’s going to have to take that homework help over eventually, though. Momma isn’t as strong in math as Daddy is.

I always thought that women were being dramatic when they’d say they’d walk through fire for their kids. Now, I know they weren’t being dramatic enough. The physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional pain we go through to be mothers. You’re constantly showing me where I fall short and how blind I can be to the world, to the way things are, to who I  am and should be because you are so incredibly loving, open minded, inquisitive, thoughtful, and kind. Are you a bit of a turd to your brother sometimes? Absolutely. You’re not a saint. But you have this incredible gift for peaceful focus when it comes to art and singing and dancing. You can be so incredibly thoughtful and caring and gentle with your brother. Even in the midst of your emotional breakdown at the pool, as we walked home, you stopped sobbing long enough to ask me with a tone that suggested you’d just thought of this/just remembered to ask, “Oh, Mom? Can I bring my teacher some flowers?” You’re desperate to get “on white” on the behavior chart (damn that stupid thing- it gives you more anxiety than it does self-regulation, and I  know we don’t use this word because it’s a very strong word, but I   HATE how much of your self-worth gets tied up in it) and your teacher told you that you have to be, “really nice,” to get “on white”. So you thought to yourself, “Getting my teacher flowers would be a really nice thing to do! She would love that.” Kindness as a way of self-fulfilling goals? Sure, but the intention of kindness was there. You’re also very helpful at home, doing what I ask you to do 85% of the time, 100% of the time with multiple reminders.

I just am so proud of who you are and who you’re growing to be. You look so much older now at almost 6 1/2. The baby in your looks is completely gone. Your bigger teeth are pushing the little ones through and out (none have fallen out completely yet- SO close), and the baby ones look so small and awkward in your mouth now. Your eyes, your gorgeous blue-grey eyes, are still hidden behind completely unfairly long and thick eyelashes. Your limbs have gotten so long that we’re approaching size 7 pants in length but never in girth. You have freckles that have trailed down your chest and across your back like tiny scattered stars. You have flecks of freckles across your nose and cheeks that you can really only see if you look really closely. You’re such a beautiful, beautiful boy. I used to sob and hold you and tell you just that: that I couldn’t believe how beautiful you were. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was that I  got to grow you and birth you and that I get to be your mother.  I’m sorry if I  lost focus on that for a while.

Loving all my boys (your dad included) is the biggest privilege of my life, and it’s the biggest Lucas-sized emotion I  have. So, when we finally had Everett after a lot of trying and failing and an anxiety-filled unpredictable pregnancy, or when I lost Amos after making it to the second trimester and feeling like we were safe, only to have the rug pulled out from under us, the strain on my emotional and mental state left such a big emptiness to find my way across or a barrier for me to overcome that I  disconnected from everything else. So, thank you, buddy, for always being there to sidle up to me and want a hug or to hold my hand. I   needed that connection more than I knew. Now, I    know you need it, too.

I    love you so much, buddy. I    hope we get that internal script permanently revised before you become a teenager. Lord, help us. I hope you start to feel more connected and loved and sure of who you are and how loved you are.

Love,

Momma