Dear Mom

I remember the day I tried to tell you. I was a senior in highschool, somehow five years ago now, and I suddenly hated the fact I’d been cheating my way through pre-calculus all year. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so guilty in my life. I tried to come clean, because I wanted very much to feel not-that-way. You were having a rough day as it was, and when I beat around the bush about it you asked me if it would help or hurt our relationship, if you really needed to know, and I realized you didn’t. I’m sorry I lied to you, and I’m sorry my only thought behind confessing (at the time) was my conscience, and not our relationship.

Mom, somehow, you’ve always been there. Somehow, with a bazillion other kids to care about you still have time for me. Even when you don’t have time you still manage to worry about me. We’ve had disagreements, really big ones, cause I’ve never known how to put what I’m feeling into the right words (and I spend waaaaaay too much time looking for exactly “the right words”). Recently a friend of mine told me I look a lot like you, and honestly? I’ve never seen it before. I know I’m the spitting image of your dad at my age, but I guess I never thought about it enough. Still, my friend has been right about pretty much everything else, so maybe she's right about this too.

It’s common knowledge that growing up in a family of nine kids it’s hard to know exactly where you fit, or who you are. Technically I was the middle child, but my whole life I’ve either felt like the youngest or the oldest. I didn’t— don’t— know how to balance that. Not to mention, my personality lands somewhere right between you and Dad, and it’s the kind of personality that desperately wants to belong somewhere but always feels a little out of place. Balancing acts were never my strong point.

Thank you for encouraging me when I wanted to move out, and for supporting me how you needed to or could when I needed help. I’ve gained so much from that little, low-risk leap, and it brought me to a place to take larger and larger leaps. I’ve managed to find (and stumble upon) a lot of that stability I thought I was lacking all my life— and usually it was something I already had, something from you guys. Some of my quirks have been left behind, and some ended up being things I’m proud of. Life is still one big balancing act, but my foot work is a little better. I think the skateboarding helped.

You and Dad have both, at different times, highlighted your shortcomings and my shortcomings that I got from you. Thank you, for being honest. It anchors me, and it calms that feeling, that "I don’t belong" or "I'm not enough," that’s always lived in the back of mind. You've both shown me how much you know me-- and how much you see me-- through gifts you've given me. See? It wasn't all bad stuff. We were at that consignment shop and I pointed out the Lego car (the ridiculously large collector's model of a Mini Cooper that I had no reason to want or need) and the following Christmas it showed up under the tree and I don't know why I wanted it, but I've always treasured it. Dad gave me his copy of my favorite book that same year. More recently, I told you offhand that I wanted to get an N64, cause I was feeling lonely and nostalgic. You saw one at a yard sale, remembered, and bought it for me. Recently, Mom, that little console has been the source of a lot of joy in my life. Thank you for hearing me.

Which reminds me of the greatest gift you ever gave me. I remember what I think of as the day you put me in theatre. Theatre, which I would continue to do for fifteen years. Theatre which taught me to dance, and to sing, and even introduced me to lifelong friendships, some of the most important friendships and passions I've ever had. You didn't know what your little act would accomplish, but that small act of love, of trying to do right by me, did so much more than that. But that's not the greatest gift. I think you remember: 2018, I was going through one of the hardest times in my life as a silly shortsighted 18-year-old discovering himself. I think I was shaving in my bathroom mirror, singing something loudly to myself. You said, really simply and offhand, "It's so nice to hear you singing again." I still think about it, and remember people like to hear me sing. So, thank you Mom. Thank you for being here when you can, and for letting me go when you had to. Thank you for encouraging my dreams and worrying over my risks and bringing me into this crazy washed-up backwards upside-down world. I'm really glad I'm here.