Dearest Porter Pie-
You were curled up on the side of the tent in layer of jackets, sleeping bags and blankets, a Carhartt hat pushing your red hair down and out the front of it, your Cotton and blankie a forgotten memory next to your boots at the door of the tent. My cell phone had service but it hardly matter because the below freezing temperatures were draining the battery faster than I could find the perfect Instagram filter to put on the picture I had taken earlier that day of you hiding sticks for the squirrel I had convinced you was following us on our hike from Lake Louise to the Lake Agnes Tea House. The little girl in the tent next to us wasn't as good of a sleeper as you and with each one of her cries there were grumbles from the tents next to ours. The same sweet mannered college kids who had let you build them a campfire, the young couple who had helped us take the perfect photo in front of the alpine lake adjacent to our tent, the family who shared their son's string cheese with you simply so the boy could ask you your name, had far less grace and kindness for this late night interruption than us. You and I. We didn't mind.
When the sun rose three short hours later, you awoke with it, eager to greet the day. It was the last morning I remember you wearing footie pajamas. Your little feet scampered across the frozen soil, covered in green and yellow dinosaurs, to collect firewood. I had said hundreds of times over the previous year, "We're going to be okay. I'm going to be okay.", speaking into being the way I wished life to be. Here in this mountain air, poorly made coffee in hand, you cuddled in a camping chair next to me dropping marshmallows into your hot chocolate was the first time I knew not only would we be okay, but we would grow something beautiful from the ashes.
The thing about growing is that it doesn't happen in a linear fashion. As much as people will tell you there is some magical equation to the growth and well-being of a child, that is simply a lie. The truth is that growth happens in whatever way a little mind and body decides to be impacted and influenced by the world around it. Your growth, Bug, came with tears and rage. It came with hours of time outs, and meetings with your teachers, and the hope that we could make it through just one more day without having to find you another school. Bogged down by still slow speech you chose to use your hands to stand in the place of words. I remember the day you pulled a little girl's hair. "Because". Just because. Just because your toddlerhood had been tumultuous. Just because you had lost your other family in the midst for your dad's breakup. Just because you and I had moved homes for the second time in 6 months. Just because your little heart didn't know that when the other little boy in your class threw you up against a wall you were not to to follow his example. Just because your interactions and influences with the wold, at age three, were already telling you that this world was unpredictably difficult and so you strained for control.
As your control slipped, so did mine. For three years my identity had hinged on "mom". I had sacrificed years of my peace, crying myself to sleep trying for a baby. I had sacrificed a marriage taking no time or care of myself and that relationship out of the guilt of feeling unfit to raise you. I had sacrificed my mental health, my body, my dreams, my needs. Hear me now, Bug, I gladly gave it all up for the gift of you, the one I had been praying about for so long. What it took me until this year to realize is that you didn't need me to sacrifice anything for you. What you needed of me was to be whole, joy-filled, loving, and purpose driven. I was working on my own growth as that person you and I needed until I was hit with the first phone call home. It was the first of firsts. It was quickly followed by the first behavior-based incident report, the first meeting with you teachers, the first anger spell so bad you were projectile vomiting from stress on your circle time carpet. Like the ocean returning to high tide, my identity instantly returned to "mom". In the past, the lie of my identity had been that being a mother was the only thing I was good at. In this moment, the lie that attached itself to my mom identity was failure, not good enough, unworthy, damaging, unnecessary. I couldn't control the sobbing, hiding in the car while you played in the front yard. "His behavior is because of you." With each subsequent discipline the lies became louder and stronger. "You ruin everything you touch." Each time I would hide in my car, in the corners of my classroom, into my pillow at night, crying, believing that I was nothing but a poison that could not be controlled.
The thing that did not change in this season was my grace for you. I am a broken hot mess, like every other human, Porter. The good news is that when we were yet sinners our Jesus went to a cross. He gave us a grace without question. I will always guide you, discipline you, and teach you. I will give you consequences and have uncomfortable conversations about your actions that make you hide behind your hands. Likewise, I will always pour lavished, undeserved grace upon you. I will assume the best and listen to your heart of why your actions felt necessary. I never stopped holding you to sleep, reading you one zillion bedtime stories, and trying my hardest to guard your heart against the still uncertain circumstances of what family looks like.
The sweetness I saw in you never changed. In meetings with Teachers, Directors, and Principals the word "sweet" came up over and over again even as they described hard to stomach stories of your behavior. Your compassion, your care, your love, your excitement of life's littlest joys overflow out of you. In the war of nature versus nurture, I know this is all nature. Your dad and I both fight against our inner demons to possess these qualities. We found ourselves sitting back this year in utter awe of the love you show us and your little friends, at your ability to giggle at almost nothing, your way of hugging as a form of communication, your way of crying when a loved one does because you hate to see them hurting. I held on to these two unwavering truths as tightly as I could as hope and instruction for this season.
It was almost 6 full months later that I found myself in the car, crying once again, calling your dad. "I'm picking you up in ten minutes. We're going out to celebrate." You had made it through your first week with not a single incident or visit to the Director's office. It has been months since that first week and it has not been perfection. In our family, perfection is not a goal. Perfection is nothing more than another lie meant to bring down the happiest and healthiest of humans. Our call is to understanding our own limitations and lean on God for all that we lack.
Porter James Ulysses, Dad and I are faithfully here. We are a non-traditional family, and may always be, but we are a family who shows up, who tackles the difficulties, who grapples with the depths of our own self-doubt for the good of one another. We do not sweep things under the rug, or give up, or allow our hope to be transformed to hopelessness. We walk out love, and grace, and humility to the very best of our ability. More than anything, Porter, your Dad and I are adults with our own bumps and bruises. Our identity nor our worth hinge on how well you behave, what you accomplish, who you eventually chose to love, who you worship, what gender you identify with, or what you eventually chose to do as a career or as a human. We ask nothing more of you than to be your most authentic, kind, beautiful self and allow us to meet you there.
Happy fourth Birthday, my sweet, deeply feeling, little boy.
Love you forever and always,
Mommy
