Nine

Dear Tucker,

Nine years ago, Riverside sent us home with a perfect, wiggling, helpless infant.
Along with your arrival came this nagging sense that, the second time around, I should know what I was doing, that I should be sure.
Despite having done it before, despite degrees from accredited institutions and jobs in which we were charged with caring for actual human beings, despite a bank trusting us to pay our mortgage and licenses that let us drive cars, we were pretty unsure.
And still today, trying to provide answers to a curious nine year old, I am far from confident.

Basically I feel ridiculously unqualified and endlessly grateful to be your mom.

I gave birth to you, Tucker, but you gave me life.
You are nine now, at the intersection of youth and everything that lies beyond.
You are a boy who is a bit of a mystery, equal parts the age you are and all the ages you have been.
You are quick to say yes, to go along with the plan, to share what is yours.
You have helped us spot the difference between trivial and tragic since the day you were born.
You wear a smile that could be seen from outer space.
I hope you will always see yourself the way I see you, courageous and capable, resilient and wise, kind and handsome.
You love Zelda and brain teasers and comics and nature and transposing piano music, but you seem to love your brothers the most.
You dream of extraterrestrial communities and tiny tardigrade colonies in our own backyard.
And I dream a million dreams for the world you're gonna make.

All my love, forever.
Mom