Open Letter to Jack

Dear Jack, Jack-Attack, John Padraic, and on some occasions, Cletus~

There are things parents want to make sure to impart to their children. Some are universal; others are a bit more particular to their faith, culture, or family. Some will sound vaguely familiar (since I have nagged incessantly about them); others may not make sense until some later date.

First, practice doesn't make perfect...it makes permanent. Whether the French horn or making eye contact, the only way to be perfect is to practice perfection. You don't need to have been reared in the Sand Castle to know that "perfect" is alluring and just isn't always in the cards. The fact that I have re-calibrated my ideas about Perfect, Acceptable, Borderline Tolerable, and Blatantly Unsat (for you non-military folks, that's a more satisfying thing to spit out than "unsatisfactory") does not mean that Ideals are not worth striving to achieve. Perfect is pretty irrelevant when it comes to folding laundry, cooking a grilled cheese sandwich, hiking a trail, or -- clearly -- making a bed. That's not to say that you shouldn't pay attention and do your best, but it's good to focus on the things that matter. On the other hand, Perfect is pretty important when it comes to matching socks, rendering an apology, spelling tests, engineering a bridge or skyscraper, and math. Partial credit is for ninnies. The point of this paragraph (and I'm getting to it) is to make sure to select those areas where you really want excellence and go for it, rather than becoming discouraged that every effort doesn't elicit an A+.

Second, you won the genetic jackpot. You emerged, and as Dad would note without his witness, cried briefly, and set forth to explore the planet. You were blessed with curiosity, a fine intellect, a highly-developed ability to identify the ironies in your environment, and pluck. Oh, and eyebrows that arch when skeptical and blue eyes that twinkle when amused. You "won" some minor challenges, too. 4 elementary schools. ADHD. Ass-burgers Syndrome. Winsome ears (after your two romps with plastics...since your mother hasn't yet found a "convenient" time to make it three). Orthodontia. Eyeglasses. A family that alternatively persecutes and reveres you. But the balance sheet for you is enviable. The cold cruel fact is that you will achieve exactly and totally what you set your mind (and align your behavior) to do. It won't be easy, but you have the raw materials to create your own reality. You need only glance around our dinner table to reset your attitude: You haven't got it bad, not by a long shot.

Third, manners are important. One of my biggest regrets is that you haven't had the intense attention from adults in shaping your automatic responses to social situations. Butt-patties (i.e., Asperger's) or not, these are rules that govern our society and whether they come naturally or have to be memorized and practiced (see first point above), they are important. As is oft' noted, when one uses good manners, those who don't know any better won't notice -- but those who know better will notice. This means more than a napkin on your lap and not sharing the vision of one's half-masticated chow with one's meal partners. This means holding the door open for others. This means not interrupting. This means standing up when someone stops by one's table (in a restaurant or such). This means making sure that people who don't know one another are introduced. This means apologizing with aplomb. This means using language appropriate to the venue. This means not repeating things you overhear outside the family. This means, when in doubt, let others go first. This means, when in doubt, watch and mimic. Especially when it comes to bread plates.

In the style of my beloved mentor-I-never-met, Erma Bombeck:

I always loved you best.

You've always been eager. Beginning at 26 weeks gestation when you sought an early curtain call.

You were my best effort at being an "Earth momma". Yep, I had a midwife. To my shock, when you chose to appear, the midwife's name was John Rose. Not Rose. A male midwife. Other than being a militant breast-feeder (and filling two huge recycling barrels each week now), that's the full extent of my "Earth momma" so relish it.

You were the boy the test-manufacturer had in mind when creating the item "leaves a trail of destruction in his wake". (This is a real, honest-to-God psychological testing question).

You were spaghetti sauce all over your cheeks. Before Lucy's birth, with her XX chromosomes, you looked the most of all the boys like me...if you doubt it, check out the photographic evidence. * Castle-followers, see separate post *

You were the preschooler who entered a room with his hands in a "T-rex snatching-the-velociraptor-to-snarf-it-in-one-bite pose" -- and we didn't bat an eyelash because we had a bigger preschooler mid-tantrum.

You were the third-grader who knew more about Roman and Greek history than most (meaning approximately 99.7% of) university graduates.

You were the fourth-grader who got to go to Sacramento and the fifth-grader who got to go to San Francisco. On school field trips. Involving airplane tickets. That we paid for. The same parents who are vascillating about an eighth-grade East Coast field trip. When you speak of us, speak of us well -- at least our former selves who shelled out when you were young.

You were the sixth-grader that we pushed the "I-believe" button and allowed to select your own middle school. (Following Christmas 2006, when you Ruined Winter Break with the agony of writing five essays).

On that note, I hope for you that writing becomes an extension of speaking. Find your paper-bound voice and scholastic endeavors will not impede the fun you ought to enjoy in a hopefully-long academic career.

You were piano. Then violin. Then clarinet. We beg of you -- stick with the French horn.

You are the middle-schooler denied a cell phone for all eternity while at the same time allowed to cultivate an enjoyment of Arrested Development, 30 Rock and The Office. That last bit is wholly inappropriate and let's leave that out of any future "San Diego 10 Best Moms" essays.

Like many of your favorite historical figures, you have honed tenacity. Whether trying out for Honor Band or Majors baseball All-Stars or running for Troop leadership, you demonstrate more willingness to fall and pick yourself up than most adults can muster. Maybe sea-lawyering or politics is in your future. You go, little dude.

You (or at least your too-often-touched pate) have partially satisfied your debt in purgatory already. Don't let that knowledge encourage you to earn more purgatory time.

You are half the team that recognizes Family means Forever. I didn't know Heartbreak mixed so easily with Heart-bursting pride until you explained to me that you'd plotted out a long-term care division-of-labor with Jamie. Mind you, claiming Charlie seemed a bit unfair to Jamie but there's plenty of time to work that out.

My biggest advice: Live it up before you have children. Visit the ruins, if that's what your dream is. Visit the tarpits, if that's where your interest lies. Be responsible but know that Responsibility awaits you. Make youth count.

Love always,
Mom