Entries in letters (3)


age of innocence

Sometimes at school, my son is given notes from friends who happen to be girls. Crinkled papers filled with curlicues and hearts and words of affection, and handed over demurely to a shy yet eager recipient.

For kindergartners, this is the meaning of friendship. The innocence of youth in its purest form.

I wonder if I have it less stressful as the mother of boys. If he signs his name with "love" he is a sensitive, caring boy. If I had a girl I'd probably warn that such a word can't be used frivolously. In theory, it should go both ways but in reality I know it's just not so.

I want my boys to be gentlemen, to respect girls and boys the same. I also want them to be gracious, to be kind and reciprocate kindness. So I encourage him to write back. And he crafts letters that intimate the importance of their friendship by coloring intricate images carefully thought out. It makes my heart swell to see such an exchange between friends. I hope my son continues to give and receive with such candor, such unabashed tenderness. But I know one day it'll pass - whether on its own or with adolescence. When it does, it'll be okay. Because I will always remember.





love letter

Dear Emersonmade,

I am writing this letter because I am in love with you. You're exquisite and divine, and just looking at you makes me happy.

When I first learned of you here, I was intrigued by your beauty. How lovely would it be to hold you against my heart? With pure delight, I squealed when I discovered you at my door step. As I uncovered and peered inside, my heart skipped a beat. Blooms! I was smitten.

Immediately, you fit in. 

You fascinated my little boy, who's curiosity left you in danger.

You captivated my middle boy, who just couldn't get enough.

You charmed my big boy, who questioned your motives. "Boys don't wear flowers," he proclaimed. Then he met you and I pinned him. "Hey, that's not so bad."

I'm happy that you're in our lives. That you belong to me. You chase away the dreary and add some fluff and flair.

Who said boys can't wear flowers?



Me and my Emersonmade family




magical place

Our house is a magical place.

At night as we lay deep in slumber, things come to life and our house becomes a playground. In the morning, it's not unusual to discover cookie crumbs and spilt milk. To learn that our ceramic dart frog shifted from its usual spot. To realize that our Ugly Dolls had separated where they'd once huddled in a hump. Once in a while, we write secret letters and roll them up tight, bound and left for their eyes only. In turn, they reply with colorful pictures and folded love notes, leaving in their wake a mess of scraps for us to clean.

In kindergarten, we learn the difference between fiction and non-fiction, between what's real and what's pretend. In our house, Willy Wonka's factory is a few hours away and Wilbur really does talk. Danny, the Elf (on a shelf), visits from Santa's workshop and Dracula rings from Transylvania to chat.

I supposed I could teach him the difference, to prepare him for the world. But our house is a magical place. And I just want him to be a kid for a little while longer.