My dear, sweet Monster,
How did this happen? You’re growing up far too fast for my liking. Somehow you’ve turned 12 years old. I must have blinked and your 11th year passed by.
This past year has been very hard for you. You started a new school this year, not just a new school because you’re a great big 6th grader, but a new school because we refuse to let you attend a terrible school where you would have no chance of fitting in. It’s been hard at this new school, they have weird rules and dress codes – we’ve had to pour so much money into your uniform. And poor thing, you have to take Spanish (which you hate, and tell anyone who asks how displeased you are with it) and tuck your shirt in. You’re a trooper though. You’re doing so well in your classes, and even seem to be getting a huge kick out of some of the greatest subjects in the world (not that I have strong opinions) like science and social studies. You play it off as being too cool for school, but I know deep down inside, you’re seriously enjoying all the new knowledge that’s offered to you. Even though I drive you to school every morning, you’re forced to huff the long walk home, sometimes wearing ridiculous amounts of clothing and carrying a backpack the size of a small orphan. But you always manage a breathless smile when you walk through the door. Bless you. Also, I think you look so handsome in your uniform now that you’re a little taller and you can fit into the trousers better.
Am I embarrassing you yet? No? Okay.
With your 12th year of life ticking by, you seemed to change your opinion of encroaching puberty as often as the days changed. Sometimes you were fascinated by what will happen, asking endless questions with differing depths of curiosity. Other days you were so squicked by the idea of body hair you would probe me on how difficult it might be for a boy to shave his armpits. I guess that’s a part of being a boy, coming to accept body hair. All I know is that with girls, we have to accept that the razor is a constant companion, lest afro-pits become our new nickname.
But, my dear boy, at 12 you seem somewhat safe from the slathering jowls of the puberty monster. Your voice remains as clear and high pitched as it was last year, which makes me swoon with motherly emotions whenever I catch you on the phone. While you’re starting to experience the unkindness of oil imbalance on your face, your skin is still soft like a baby’s butt and your leg hair is still blessedly blond. The one triumph over the onset of puberty has been the discovery of an awesome deodorant that you felt alright with wearing. Let’s just say that, like Mommy here, you hate gels. Oh, good news, we can still pass you off as 10 at the buffets. Shh!
Now that you’re blushing, let’s move on.
Soon I’ll take you to the doctor’s office for a wellness check and we’ll find out how much you’ve grown and how normal you still are – I’m betting you’re an inch or so taller and that you’re still quite normal. Just a guess.
Last year we were joyful over how your cough had seemed to disappear and with it your allergy symptoms. I think I should have knocked on wood because we’re back to square one and it looks like you’re going to need something more hardcore. Hopefully no shots, because like me, you can’t stand needles. Again, we’ll see what the great big Asthma Man has to say. We’ll cross our fingers, hm?
Finally, to the most important thing of all. The biggest growth that you’ve had this year hasn’t been physical. Somewhere along the line, something in your brain must have matured because you suddenly started recognizing when you were in a rotten mood. You’ve had a great score of apologizing, to me at least, whenever you’ve been mean or grumpy or cranky. You storm off to your room with your dinner or your water bottle or something else, huffing and puffing like a crotchety little wolf. After 30 minutes you slink into the living room for a hug and an apology – “sorry I was cranky” or, even cuter, “sorry I was being a jerk”. Son, you know how to make your Mommy melt, because I get gooey and my heart just bursts with love for you. You are truly a remarkable little man and I am so proud to call you mine.
I feel like you’ve made such an advancement, because you actually listen to us when we tell you things. Sometimes you forget it – like Saturday when you forgot it was Easter on Sunday, even though we had just had a conversation about that – but I feel like you’re storing away what we’re telling you, keeping it tucked inside until you need it most. Store away, m’boy, we have a lot of wisdom to impart on you.
Let’s see. This past summer you spent with Daddy while I was at work. Quite the reverse from the year before! I was unemployed, sadly, once school started, but that meant I got to pick you up from school. Lucky boy. This past Halloween we didn’t do the standard dress up and trick-or-treat gig. Instead we grabbed some burgers, watched a movie and ate the candy we bought for trick-or-treaters. This was the first sign the end of your childhood was approaching, by the way.
You indulged us at Christmas, by writing the customary letter to Santa and helping decorate the tree. I wonder how long you’ll keep up the guise of believing? However long, there will always be a present from Santa lurking under the tree. This year, Christmas was good. We got a PS3 from my side of the family and an XBox 360 from Daddy’s side. You’ve been glued to the XBox 360 ever since, but you still manage to take the time to enact valiant battles in your bedroom while wrapped in blankets and wearing your t-shirt for a hat. A big part of me wishes that you would never grow up, because I will miss my shirtless warrior.
This year, on your birthday, Daddy was out of town again. Although it was a sad moment, you had a great time at Beavis’ house where you ate steak and played games and saw farm animals. You got some sweet loot, but I’m guessing your two favourite things were the giant Nerf gun your Aunt got you and the Bakugan’s your Grammy got you. Just a guess. I’m sorry to report, you didn’t earn any new curse words this year. Thanks to an unfortunate event where you abused the power of Picochat and cursed Daddy into oblivion – all in good nature, of course – you’ll have to wait to get access to the arsenal of dirty language you surely want to use. Although, I’m sure you use them all the time at school – be careful, teachers have ears everywhere.
Since Easter just passed, I’ll comment on yet further proof that you’re getting older. This year, rather than going through the laborious process of dyeing eggs just to get to the deviled eggs at the end, you voted to skip the dyeing process all together. Turns out you only endured the torture of colouring on eggs for the yummy snack that came after. Thank you, though, for your help in making the hard boiled eggs. Always ace in the kitchen, you are.
Every day you are growing into the man you will one day be. For every thing that ages you, there are a million things that remind me of the little boy who used to snuggle up to me to watch Spongebob, the little boy who never wore a shirt to eat Fudge Rounds. My sweet, sweet Monster you prove yourself to be more like me every day. Sometimes it’s easy to forget you are not a child of my flesh, just one borne of my heart. So like me and so obviously like Daddy, you are truly our child. And son? You are so truly, deeply loved by us both. When you’re older and you’re looking back on all these letters, the one thing that you will hopefully understand as the universal truth is that you are and have always been loved, my dear one.
Always, your Mommy will love you.
**Insert pictures here… when I manage to find picture editing software**
Love,
Mommy
