Dear Noah...About Your Room

Dear Noah,
Today the gardener's son, who is 9, asked to use the restroom. When he was done he took a little detour to peek into your room. I was in my office working so I could hear his footsteps. When he went back outside, I thought I'd see how your room would look to a stranger. A stranger who most likely only dreams of having his own bed, let alone having his own room. And this is a room that is never used; has not been used by you since December 26, 2011. I miss you, son. I miss you more than you could ever know and hope you never have to miss anyone with this same overwhelming ferocity.

Your room is a time capsule, filled with 11 year-old Noah's favorite things. World of Warcraft posters line two walls and bamboo fencing (to give it the same feel as a fishing shack) line the other two. You picked out the paint colors, aqua and sand. And there are books to the ceiling and video games galore. The stuffed animals you never outgrew are still here. Your favorites are sitting on your dresser, desk and nightstand and the rest are lounging on the top shelf in your closet. There's a tribute you wrote to your Betta fish, Fuego (remember him?) hanging on the bamboo fencing.

There are so many things that were once so important to you. The closet is loaded with goodies, too. Enough LEGO to build a village, an arsenal of NERF guns, games, knick-knacks, and some of the clothes that remind me of you most. I gave away a lot of your clothes to kids who didn't have any. You've outgrown them by far. But I'm saving the special stuff. Not sure if they were special to you in any way, or only to me. They're only things, I know, but they're what I have left.

There are other things in here, too. A pile of things that is growing in size. Gifts from each Christmas, things you refused from me. Do-dads and cards from each Valentine's Day, Easter, Birthday, and whatever occasion arose. You looked through them when I brought them to you, but ultimately decided you couldn't take them. "Could you keep this for me?" you asked me once. Absolutely. You bet. I have them, son. They'll be here whenever you want them.

And they're not just from me. They're from Auntie Toi and Gramma and Auntie Jodina and Jean and Dave, Oscar and Sami. So many people who love and miss you.

Come home, son. I'm your mom. This is your house. Always. Wherever I have a home, you'll have a home. Now, tomorrow, next week, next month, next year, forever. I love you with my whole heart. Always have, always will. I know you know that and I know you love me, too. I am praying that this horrible craziness stops soon. It started when you were 11 and now you're 14, soon to be 15. It's time for it to stop. This has done no one any good. No one.

I love you forever. Like the book. Love you forever and miss you like crazy and think about you every, single day so much. That's just what moms do.

Finally Posting This - 3 Years Late!

SEPTEMBER 30, 2008

We just got back from spending a weekend in Tucson with my mom and my aunts. My grandparents' ashes were finally interred in a mausoleum, and included service a short committal sermon as well as beautiful music, which was provided by my Auntie Anna and Uncle Dennis.

It was Noah's first experience of anything resembling a funeral, and he was somewhat nonplussed. He sat, quietly, sweating (an outdoor service in Tucson in September) and somewhat bored, but he didn't wiggle much and he only farted once. We're working on his trying to hold off on the loud gas-letting while in fairly quiet public places. I have a gassy son. All in all, he was very mature and I was proud of him.

He did end up being a little greedy when the Chinese red money envelopes (each contained a half-dollar) were passed out. For those who don't know, sometimes the red envelopes, or a coin wrapped in red paper, are passed out along with some kind of candy at funerals. The coin assures prosperity (spend it on something joyful!) and the candy is to sweeten the sorrow of grief. Typically, the candy is a regular Brachs' caramel. For this ceremony, we had tiny bags of malted milk balls because my grandfather happened to have love them. Noah ended up with a lot of 50-cent pieces and too much candy, of course. He was the only child there. My grandmother would have loved him. She always loved green eyes and curly hair.

The next day we went to Colossal Cave with my mom, Auntie Susan and Auntie Toi where we experienced the strong and distinct smell of guano, learned about stalactites (the ones that hang TIGHT to the ceiling of the cave) and stalagmites (the ones that MIGHT one day grow tall enough to reach the stalactities), and enjoyed the beauty of the Sonoran desert. Not to make this a post about farting, but while our tour group was silently taking in the beauty of the dark cave, Noah managed to let out several staccato bursts. He's so funny. <cringe>


We were fortunate enough to visit with my cousin Wes, and her husband, daughters, and grandson. Noah hightailed it into their backyard where Uncle Kraig rigged up a "baseball on a string" thingy so that Noah couldn't hit it out of the yard. Noah, 8, and Frankie, 2 1/2, played baseball for at least an hour. It was great to see, because 1.) Noah usually shies away from sports, and 2.) Noah generally shows great disdain for children younger than he. In this instance, he really admired Frankie's amazing baseball skills. And I definitely have to agree with him. Honestly, I've never seen such coordination from a toddler!

I'm ready to resume this blog and found this in my 'Drafts' folder. Three years have passed since I wrote this and so much has transpired. I am so horribly sad to share that Frankie's mother, Kristina, my beautiful second cousin whom I grew to think of as my niece, was killed in July 2011 by a man speeding the wrong way on the freeway. I love her and miss her so much, but know she's looking down with loving eyes on her brilliant son Frankie who just started school (and still has amazing baseball, soccer, running skills). <3 up to Krisina in heaven.

Looking ahead from way back then...

Last night I watched my son sleep. I don't think he was completely asleep, because he managed to jerk his head away when I tried to kiss his precious rosy smooth cheeks. He still doesn't realize that if he jerks away mid-kiss, he's more likely to end up with a wet kiss than if he just lets me moosh my closed, pursed lips against his forhead or cheek. When he jerks, he invariably takes my top lip with him, forcing me to plant a sloppy smack. Neither of us want that.

Anyhow, I watched him sleep, looking so much like a baby and so much like a big kid at the same time. He's ten. With such a giant head and such big feet that we were forced to buy size 8 hockey skates - instead of inheriting a pair from the kid's hockey league - and we're going up to Anaheim tomorrow to purchase a brand new men's size large hockey helmet. (We have to go up to the Hockey SuperStore in Anaheim to try on the helmet and have it custom fit with a child's face guard, since an adult's face guard would be way too big and allow a puck or a stick right through.) But his face, especially in repose, is a baby face. He has this incredibly thick wavy hair that I love to run my fingers through and push off his forehead. When I do that and see his high, smooth forehead and pouty mouth, he looks not much different than he did at age four. He's just bigger.

And that makes me wonder what I would have thought back then about this Noah now. Back when he was four years old and I wondered who he'd be. Would I have felt relief that he'd outgrow some of his more challenging and worrying traits and habits? Would I have felt frightened that I'd end up with such a smart, smart son, who at 10 has become an expert (really) in all his areas of interest? His math skills are better than mine. He spouts facts on fish, fishing, fish ecosystems, Catholicism, weapons, general science, politics, fish, and fish (and fish) that are precise, exact, and delightfully worded. Sometimes when I listen to him, I laugh with amazement and glee. "Why is that fishing line bright green, Noah?" I ask as we watch a documentary on monster fish we found on TV, much to his delight. "Well, monofilament is difficult to manufacture," he explains, as my smile begins. "And it can be made in several colors, but..." I can't even remember what he said, but the thrill of hearing my little professor succinctly explain why the line was green is still with me. During that same show he scoffed when they showed a large sharp-toothed jawbone from a mystery fish that they surmised was a pike. "That's too big to be a pike. It's got to be a muskilunge. They're related and live in the same area." I've never even heard of a muskilunge. Have you? Imagine my utter amazement when the spokes-scientist later declared that the jawbone actually belonged to the muskilunge, the pike's larger cousin. Ha! I think I laughed out loud. Did I mention that when it comes to fish he's self-taught? 

Would I have been all that impressed that he'd found answers to the questions he used to pose to me tirelessly, endlessly when he was 4, 5, 6? "What's the difference between a pond and a lake?" "How salty is brackish water?" "Where does brackish water begin?" " Where does it stop being salty or fresh?" "How does it stop being fresh?" "Can fish who live in the brackish water eventually move to salty or fresh water if they do it slowly enough?" (He already had the idea of acclimation in that big baby head of his.) Would I marvel that I'd soon be able to ask him things that I was curious about and expect a real, dependable answer?

I'm so proud of my son, and feel so lucky to have a son like him, that I wish I could share him with not just my friends and family, but with my other selves. With the young woman who wished for a child but assumed she'd never have one. With the nervous pregnant mother who was sure they'd made a mistake up in heaven and given a baby to the wrong mother and were about to take it back when they recognized their mistake. With the new mother who was so exhausted and worried about doing every little thing right. With the single, working mother of a child diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome who scrambled to read every word on the subject, in hopes of giving him everything he might ever need. All of those Ambers would have been so happy to know this Noah. They would all have been giddy with happiness and fallen madly in love. And I have a feeling that the Amber I am yet to become will look back on the Amber I am now and think...Wow, if only you could look ahead and see this incredible miracle who is your 20 year-old son, you'd be beside yourself with awe and joy. And, of course, I am and will continue to be.