Next week is the opening production of your 7th grade play. You won one of the supporting roles and have been spending weeks rehearsing your lines. Pulling out my video camera, you started begging and pleading to not embarrass you. No other parents would be video taping you argued and really it wasn't a big deal because essentially you only had about 40 lines. I admit I gave you a lame canned response that I told myself I would never say when I was your age. Something about how it was my God given right to embarrass you. Truth is, I know something you don't understand right now. Some day you'll pull this video out and play it for your own son. You'll proudly proclaim, "This was me when I was your age!" and quietly thank me for not giving in so long ago. You think saying some lines in a play as no big deal right now. I see it as an achievement I once thought would never happen.
Dear Thirteen Year Old Tristan.
I remember a little boy who had no words.
And although you have little memory of it, I remember the frustrated child who could not get his wants and desires understood by me. I recall the tears, meltdowns, therapy visits and the hard work it took just to get a single word to cross your lips. I often wondered if my child would ever look at me and call out, "Mom".
Dear Thirteen Year Old Tristan.
It seems like every couple of days we have the same discussion about your hair. It has grown so long that I can barely see your eyes. I bite my tongue as to not make snide remarks about the need to borrow my barrettes and pony tail holders. You've insisted this shaggy look is cool. I must admit, when I chaperoned your class trip every 7th grade boy looked alike. The thought ran across my mind, "Take it from someone who had sky high bangs that took a can of hair spray a day to keep them up, you're going to regret this look some day."
Dear Thirteen Year Old Tristan.
I remember your first hair cut shortly after you turned two.
Your father had to hold you on his lap and practically had you in a head lock. Over a 10 minute period, you vomited on the hair stylist three times; covering she, your father and you with massive amounts of Pediasure. At that moment I questioned how long we could get away with letting your hair grow before someone mistaken you for a girl. Surely, only a masochist would want to do that anytime again soon.
Dear Thirteen Year Old Tristan.
This past Palm Sunday we celebrated your confirmation. You stood before the congregation and your father to confirm all that was said on your behalf at your Baptism. Standing before your father, he said a prayer for you and announced the confirmation verse you had chosen. I believe the members sitting in front of me and behind me could hear my deep breathes and sniffing as I tried to hold back tears. Confirmation is not the end. It's not a graduation of any kind, rather just the beginning of a faith walk that will not end until you are in heaven. Never forget you are a Baptized child of God. Redeemed by the blood of Jesus and an heir to the kingdom our Heavenly Father.
Dear Thirteen Year Old Tristan.
I remember your father and I sitting down several times to teach you to fold your hands, close your eyes, and bow your head to pray. When we decided to teach you to do this, you could not recite our meal time prayer, bed time prayer or even say, "Amen", but I believed God could still hear the prayers from the heart of a 2 year old child and I wanted you to understand the importance of prayer.
Dear Thirteen Year Old Tristan.
Before you were even born, we knew you had HLHS. At age 2 and 1/2 you were given the diagnosis of Autism. When you read your annual school report and medical chart, words such as: Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome, coarctation of the heart, Tricupid Valve Regurgitation, Autism Spectrum Disorder, Sensory Processing Disorder will be used. Words and terms that will have meaning when we sit down to talk about your medical conditions. I vowed from the beginning I would give you every chance to live and see your greatest potential; whether it was taking you to one of the best surgeons to operate on your heart or taking you to therapies every single day. I was not going to give up on you. The one thing I want you to remember is that it was NEVER a burden. Read this very carefully.... You are one of the greatest gifts God has given me. It doesn't matter to me if you grow up to be a rocket scientist or decide to take the high school equivalency test. My deepest prayer for you is to be a God fearing, Jesus loving, honorable, respectable and kind man. If you grow up to be that, I did my job.
Dear Thirteen Year Old Tristan.
When I look at you, the only label I give you is "MY SON" And I could not be prouder.
Dear Thirteen Year Old Tristan.
This morning you asked me if you could go with your friends to a rock concert for some group I vaguely heard of. I know other parents are allowing their kids to go, but I stand by my decision. I am not a fan of the lyrics and the influence it can have on you. After yelling, "Stop treating me like a little kid" and declaring me the meanest mom in the world, you stomped up the stairs, slammed your bedroom door and turned your radio on volume level blaring. I marched up the stairs after you, ready to pound on the bedroom door and shout over the music, "Turn down the music or you're going to be deaf", but as my fist was about to hit the door, I stopped. Instead I softly whispered, "You don't understand. Ten years went by so fast. It seems like it was just yesterday.....
You were just turning 3.
Happy Birthday, my son.
I love you always and forever.
