(…Because when you’re the middlest middle who ever middled, “your very own” anything is cause for celebration.)
9:
Dearest Susannah,
Usually, I write you an open bloggy letter of sorts on your birthday. Usually, it’s filled with musings on the past year, hopes for the future, and high fives for our present.
Usually, a year like the one we’ve had is not our “usual.”
But wait- before I get completely ahead of myself- happy birthday, dear Suzy, happy birthday to youuu! Because, girl, you are 9. NINE! A totally almost Big Kid age and nothing even remotely resembling the tiny, gummy-smiled age that you were a hot five seconds ago. (Seriously, didn’t you just do that whole “Suzy, can you be angry“ shimmy shake of clenched fists, a vibrating face…and a giveaway beam/giggle a few moments ago? I know you did. That’ll teach me to leave the room or look away or blink.)
Sunshine girl, I am so very glad you’re 9 for so very many reasons. Firstly, you are so cool. And you keep getting cooler. The older you get the more I like just being with you, and it makes me stupidly happy for our future hangouts together.
Secondly, this past calendar year would’ve been a lot harder if you weren’t the fully realized child that you (thankfully) are. Last fall- right after a lengthy, city-wide teacher’s strike- we told you and your siblings that we were going to move our family five states away to Massachusetts, to my parents’ homestead, to Parts [semi]Unknown. You were stoked, sad, scared…but then you got to work. (I think you packed roughly 3/4 of your own stuff, and for that I am eternally grateful, my label-happy child.)
And then it got real.
This past spring- in the midst of a house-selling cyclone- the country shut down for the COVID-19 pandemic. It was a weird, weird time…but then you got to work. (You joined your fellow Chicago Public School students in a remote learning adventure, learned how to bake, and got really, really good at rolling with upended plans.)
This past summer- after realizing that our “new normal” wouldn’t allow for proper, in-person goodbyes of your favorite places and things and people- you gracefully packed up the remainders of your life in the only hometown you’d ever known. Traveling (not to mention MOVING) halfway across the country during the pandemic brought out feelings upon feelings (upon feelings)…but then you got to work. You created cozy spaces in your new bedroom, helped me set up our kitchen and bookshelves and art supplies and then, together, we did the hard (good) work of decompressing.
Mostly outdoors.
Because man, the outdoors ’round here.
We swam all day- and a few glorious nights, too. We made playlists to blast on picnic blankets under cloudless skies. We hiked- historic expanses, famous trails, newly unearthed paths behind our home- and we read paperbacks like we were being timed. Almost every meal was eaten outside, and we consumed a potentially unwise amount of soft serve ice cream. We knew that the real world would beckon soon enough in ways we couldn’t even begin to plan for…so we didn’t. Our barefoot, Boxcar Children-esque summer filled our buckets and grounded us in our new hometown as much as humanly possible. Even without the aid of the normal amounts of people, places or things that usually solidify families, post-move, we felt good here.
And you, darling…
…Took on the role of third grade New Kid (on Zoom!) like a champ. You’ve set up shop in our dining room with a laptop, a white board, more color-coded office supplies than an executive assistant, and a really great “work voice.” Lately you’ve taken to adding tiny vases of autumnal flowers from the yard and even asked for assistance in lighting a small candle nearby for ambience. (“9” is a pretty great office mate, turns out.)
Sometimes I think you sprang forth directly and fully-formed from my head like a whole Athena/Zeus situation, but there are definite times (and intonations) where you are Just. So. Much. Like. Your. Dad. You buffet-line your way through life, picking your faves with which to overload your plate, and wrinkling your nose at the stuff that doesn’t really interest you.
Truth be told, however, there isn’t much that makes you wrinkle your nose.
This makes me marvel.
This (sometimes) makes me worry.
But you, Susannah Mae of the gigantic heart, are quick with an empathetic tear and a sympathetic gag reflex. You’ve never met a stranger, or someone undeserving of a chance, a hug, or an ear for a nice li’l life story. You get the world, kid- good and bad- and grieve, pray, and celebrate with your whole being.
Right now we’re reading Ender’s Game aloud, back and forth, in a quiet little evening “book club” for two. It’s raising questions in your sweet brain about childhood and choice and war, and causing all of these parallels to present themselves as you struggle with the headlines I so desperately try to shield you from.
Thanks to this administration, we’ve had heavy bedtime convos about people not believing in pandemics, people not caring about their neighbors, and- for the love of God- what the heck “stand down and stand by” has to do with an election. (Of all the topics I thought we’d be tackling at 9, the Proud Boys was not one of them. Now excuse me while I Listerine that name right outta my mouth.)
That said, you love the world with a heartbreaking enthusiasm and grace. I pray you never feel pressured by my hopes and dreams for you- or anyone’s, for that matter- but holy moly, Suzy. You are light.
The world needs light.
I know someday you’ll shine and blaze for everyone wise enough to stand (or snuggle) with you, but for now, for these few, fleeting years of childhood, you get to flicker at home with us.
And gosh, that warms me.
(Happy birthday, dear Suzy, happy birthday to you.)
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