Preparing to Launch

A letter to my son

This week, I’m letting inspiration bring me to the page. Like many here on this platform, I have been following

Marc Typo

as he writes weekly letters to his infant son, Myles. Reading these letters, my eyes fill and my heart moves. I marvel at what Marc is weaving together for his son. What a treasure to hand over to a child. Reflecting on this prompted me to select ritual as this week’s word from My Alphabet Atlas for the Year Ahead. I’m taking a page from Marc’s book and picking up the pen for my son, Nate. The boy who made me a mom.

Dear Nathan¹,

Yesterday we sat shoulder to shoulder, looking at your phone, as you showed me the onslaught of emails flooding your inbox from potential colleges. Colleges that are trying to get you to notice them. We did this as we were waiting for your turn to get your hair cut. I glanced up at you, and all I could see through the long strands of hair brushing close to the tops of your eyes was your 4-year-old face. I still see that boy looking back at me sometimes. The baby face vanished as I watched your 6 ft 3’ frame stand up from the seat and walk over to the barber chair. Leaving me to wonder, how did I not notice us get here? How many times have your dark locks been clipped and buzzed, with me sitting by distracted and numb to the fact that these days are dwindling? Yesterday, though, I was not distracted. The moment was not lost on me. Perhaps it was the conversation we had while we waited- about colleges, about senior year course selection. I was not going to let this pocket of time; this slice of togetherness, get snipped to the floor only to be swept away with the strands of your clippings.

You know your story. But let me tell you how the story of you became the landmark of love on my heart. You came into this world 7 weeks early and I was terrified. Terrified of being a mom of a preemie. Until the first time I held you, when it was safe to do so. The NICU nurses taught me about kangaroo care. And you taught me how a heart could multiply in size. And how, from that day forward, my heart would forever live outside my body. Once your skin was placed directly on my heart, the terror dissolved. And I knew. I knew you would be the greatest lesson of my life.

Where you spent your first 4 weeks of life - in the NICU. Believe it or not, Big Nate was once a tiny dude.

Your birth certificate lists your name as Nathan - but everyone calls you Nate. And with a name like Nate, naturally you have innate gifts.

Merriam-Webster defines innate as:

existing in, belonging to, or determined by factors present in an individual from birth

From the beginning, you were gentle. Some call you a gentle giant. Some call you an old soul. I call you amazing.

From the beginning, you were content. Hardly ever did you fuss. And you captivated us. Sprawled on the carpet at 43 Inverness Road, we would just sit and marvel at you. Laying on your back, your chubby infant legs would kick out - back and forth - over and over. The speed of your kicks would pick up so that your squishy body would be scooting around the rug. All while laying down. The only thing propelling you were your legs. Back and forth. Kick. Kick. Kick. And if a toy caught your eye but was out of reach, you found something else to satisfy you. A smile from Nana, mom’s voice, a sock you pulled off your foot. From the start, you knew how to self sooth. This is a skill many lack. I still struggle with it. You came out of the womb knowing how be chill.

I used to call you my turtle. Because you always took your time. Milestones were missed so recommendations were made to take you for testing. When you were three years old, a neurologist at Boston Children’s Hospital looked Dad and me square in the eyes and said, “Your son will not play contact sports.” Labels were placed on you. Seeds of expectations (limitations) planted in our ears by renowned doctors. None of them ever defined you. None of them ever deterred you.

Look at you now:

So often I think about writing a letter to that doctor. An update on Big Nate. Look at him, Doc. Crashing the boards. Oh, and he takes the tip at the start of every game. How’s that for contact?

In preschool your teachers would remark to us that at circle time, you would be reclined, laying back and seemingly daydreaming. Yet when posed with a question as to what was being discussed, you always had the answer. You looked like you weren’t paying attention. But you were paying attention - deeply. In your way. Gently. Comfortably.

At family birthday parties, before you knew how to read, you used to love to open the cards for the birthday guy or gal and “read” the card. Improvising, you would narrate an elaborate well wish for the person of honor. Each card you tore open, a new expression of love came from your sweet mouth. This became your role in the family. Warming hearts came naturally to you - an innate trait the family cherished.

A physical therapist who worked with you throughout your preschool and early elementary years left us a note in your backpack containing one simple sentence, “Nathan’s attitude is a gift.”

To this day, that gift keeps on giving.

I notice. I notice how you are almost always the first one to offer a pat on the back to a teammate - whether the preceding play was in their favor or not. I notice how you notice if your younger sister needs some cheering up or words of encouragement. You have always been her biggest protector. And her favorite playmate. In elementary school, you used to come home with library books selected for her, not you. So that you could read to her. You didn’t care what your friends thought about you checking out Peppa Pig books. You knew your sister would love it, so you did it.

We’ve had our share of time in the hospital - you and me. In your young life you’ve managed to have five surgeries, two of them emergencies due to post-op bleeding. A bleeding condition that to this day, medical professionals can’t quite figure out. The one condition that remains unequivocally true - you are an exemplar patient. Calm and considerate. You roll with the punches. You always get back up.

You know where you are from. Family matters to you.

This poem prompted a teacher to email me - to tell me how moved she was by this piece written by you.

My heart contains so many keepsake moments spent with you, Nate. At the top of the list is one from this past June. I scored tickets to the Ed Sheeran concert and intended on taking your 9-year-old sister. She was unenthused. “Eh, not really feeling it, Mom,” she told me. You piped right up. “Oh, I’ll go with you!” At first, I thought this was your way of protecting your mom. Not wanting me to be disappointed. Then I looked in your eyes and saw genuine interest. You were all in!

The weather was perfect. We had great seats. And you did not once hold back in dancing and singing with your mom at that concert.

During the chorus for Overpass Graffiti (which wasn’t even one of my favorite Sheeran songs) I don’t think you noticed, but I had some tears fall. Tears of gratitude. I was struck with an overwhelming sense of, THIS. THIS MOMENT. An urgency to cement it into my mind. As you and I swayed in unison with the crowd, the chorus of the song bellowed straight into my heart:

I will always love you for what it's worth
We'll never fade like graffiti on the overpass
And I know time may change the way you think of us
But I'll remember the way we were, you were the first full stop
Love that will never leave
Baby, you will never be lost on me

Nate - that night will never be lost on me. The fact that you wanted to be in the crowd with your mom at 16 years old. That you stood with me, swaying and belting the words to songs with me. The half hour we spent (at midnight!) eating a box of Crumbles cookies before driving back home. The words “we should do this more often” that you lobbed at me right as I pulled into the driveway at 1:00 AM. I will remember all of it. None of it will be lost on me.

The memory of this concert - a keepsake I will always treasure

Nate - you. YOU were the first full stop love that will never leave me. And even when you do leave. Whether it’s college or something else -whatever is next; even when/even though time keeps marching on insisting on changing “us”, I will always see that four-year-old boy when I look at you. I will always love you for what it’s worth. My sweet turtle.

And so, I let go to hold on. I step back to stay close. 

I’ll watch you launch. And none of it will be lost on me. 

REFLECT:

• Do you have any bittersweet moments on the horizon for you or your family?

• Have you ever been knocked wide awake to life in the middle of a live performance? Has a song’s lyrics ever made direct contact with your heart?

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Before I sign off, I want to extend a huge, heartfelt extra dose of THANK YOU to two readers,

Liz I

and

Kezia Calvert

for upgrading to paid subscriptions this week. I came to this space not knowing if I would ever have the courage to turn that pay option on and the fact that you are willing to support me in this way, it means the world to me. I will continue to post my weekly newsletter to all subscribers on Fridays. Wednesdays are the days I will check in with paid subscribers and will share something a little less polished perhaps but also a bit riskier/more vulnerable/things and pieces I am working on. There may be poetry, there may be audio, there may be video and polls too. We’ll see where it goes but I would love to have you join in.

These words of support from

Kezia Calvert

brought me such joy - more than I can even convey here. Thanks, Kezia

1. I asked Nate for his permission to post this letter here on the platform. “Sure, mom. Go for it.” - said with his classic smile and easy natured tone. This kid. Big Nate. Big heart.