A Birthday Letter

Dear Finny,

I tucked you in tonight, your last night as a four year old. The next time I see you awake you will be five. And Finny, I just don’t know how I feel about that. Normally I have a bit of a down time right before one of you guys ahs a birthday in general. Another year gone by. Another age behind us and a new one beginning. That’s just me. And when Punky turned five I went through it too. Five somehow seems so big. Somehow, the little boy you have been up until now just does not seem ready to fill the shoes of a FIVE YEAR OLD.

And with you in particular, my little Finny William, I just do not know how those five year old shoes will ever fit you quite right.

When I first saw you, five years ago at 3:27am on January 11, 2004, it was love at first sight. You came swiftly in the night, my first home birth with only 3 ½ hours of total labor. I had hardly gained any weight in my pregnancy and looked so small compared to my pregnancy with your big brother that I was positive you would be a petite little sister… there was no way I could possibly have been hiding anything over 6 pounds or so in that oh-so-small nine month belly of mine. So when you came and I first saw you, so round, so chunky, so long and with SUCH big hands, I was shocked. Your hair was thicker and longer than many one year olds, and jet black – though if I looked closely I could already see the silver blond color at the roots. You looked nothing at all like Punky had looked, nothing like the carbon copy of your Daddy that he was (and still is). You looked just like my baby pictures, in fact. And oh how sweet you were. By far the happiest, smiliest, funniest baby I have ever met. Never has another baby stolen my heart the way you did. Now don’t get me wrong, I do so love my children, each and every one of you… and I can say with all honesty that I do not love any of you more than another. You just have this way with me that I cannot resist. Your charm, your quirks, your smile… your carefree nature… you just always made being a baby, or a toddler, or even an early pre-schooler just look like so much fun.

As a baby you just smiled through everything. As a toddler, you just laughed it all off. I remember one day when you were about 18 months old. I had finally gotten you dressed again (you were naked more often than not) and mostly cleaned up after a nice, sunny summer day in our new construction yard full of dirt. I went around the corner of our driveway to water the plants and when I came back, there you were naked yet again… showering in the dripping water from the hanging plant I had just watered. You just stood there, buck naked, running your fingers through your white shoulder-length mop of hair as you let the cold water run all down your body. You looked like a grown up enjoying a long, hot shower. I couldn’t help but laugh at you. You were the one who walked around with a blanket over your head and bumping into walls, just to see what it felt like. You were the boy who rolled naked in dirt, refusing to wear clothes, and when you would wear them you usually chose jammies. You luxuriated in meal times, often smearing your food in your hair or all over your (again, usually naked) body. You climbed everything, more often than not falling off of whatever great height you reached. You rarely cried when you fell, usually just dusting yourself off and looking for the next adventure. Suffering from years of chronic ear fluid, infections and many a month of a wheat restricted diet in an effort to ward off the threat of ear tubes, you really never seemed to get bogged down by it all.

You, Finny, were my Sunshine Boy. Nothing seemed able to dim the glow that just seemed to emanate from your whole self.

And now, my sweet, Sunny boy, I sit here on the eve of your fifth birthday and fight off the tears as I think of you now. Trapped in a body that just does not seem able to handle all the troubles life throws at you. Frustrated at just about every step you stumble over. I can still see that sunshine in there. You still have days, weeks even, when you are all sunshine and roses, goodness and light. You still can make some of the tougher struggles in life just seem like fun anyway. But it seems that much too often now, you make even the simplest of feats seem like more than a soul can bear.

It’s called SPD. Sensory Processing Disorder. It’s something I had never heard of before in my life until Mare Grace mentioned it with her sons. And even then, it was just a thing her kids suffered from. Just some odd part of life that came from, I figured, being born a few weeks prematurely and that her kids would work through and outgrow eventually. It was never, ever something that even flickered on my radar as your mom. You were perfect. You were happy. Nothing bothered you. Sure you had quirks. But man, it was those quirks that made you such a happy baby. Such a dynamic and high spirited toddler. Such a goofy and delightful three year old.

But then, just a few months shy of your fifth birthday, all those quirks, those cute, babyish ways of yours that seemed so endearing and that I so delighted in for so many years, were just not going away. Suddenly, they weren’t so cute anymore. And you weren’t so happy anymore, either.

Now in hindsight, it all makes a little more sense. I know now that you were seeking sensory input for all those years when you climbed, jumped, fell, rolled, hung, wiggled and squirmed your way through the throes of toddlerhood. I can see that all those messy mealtimes of a silly boy painting himself in syrup or spaghetti sauce were actually deeply satisfying sensory experiences for a boy who was craving them from somewhere deep inside his body. I know that the oblivion in which you lived was just fine for a little boy. A baby.

But now as you approach an age that most children seem so suddenly grown up in, you just aren’t quite there yet. You still want to be that baby. You still want to do the messy, goofy, quirky things that one, two and three year olds can do. You still choose to speak in a baby voice and often back down from any form of responsibility. Any frustration that comes your way seems to be life altering to a boy who struggles just to get through a day full of sensory attacks.

I just don’t know what to do, Finny. Tonight you had a complete breakdown before bed. You stubbornly refused to do even the simple task of climbing the stairs and fought tooth and nail the things we asked of you. You went to bed howling and yelling at the top of your lungs. You cried and cried and cried for what seemed to the rest of us to be no reason at all. And I fought so hard to hold back my own tears. When you finally calmed down enough to talk your voice was hoarse from the yelling and you seemed so small, so frail and helpless. You were my little baby again. And it was just hard, Finny, to know that you are not that baby today. I can’t let you stay in this safe and warm world of mine, the world of Mommy. As your Mommy, I want to hold you and make it all better. I want to tell you it will all be OK and give you anything you want to make it be alright.

But I can’t.

I can’t make it all better. I can’t save you from your troubles. I can’t make your choices for you. I want to Baby, I really do. But I can’t do it.

And I pray for you so much. I know the Lord has made you perfectly and that He doesn’t make mistakes. I know that He will make something beautiful and strong out of your weakness and your struggles. I believe He has led us to a therapist who can really help you and can show us ways to help you grow and feel better. I know that one of the many reasons that he brought Mary Grace and her family into our lives is so that I could learn about SPD and knowhow to find the right people to help you, to help our whole family.

And I do have faith that everything will be alright someday.

But tonight, as I prepare the house to be just right for you to wake up to your fifth birthday, I admit that I am just a little bummed that it isn’t as easy or as fun as it once was. It is hard for me to see your sunny disposition replaced by an often sour and glum frustration at all of life’s troubles, whether those troubles are real or just perceived. It’s hard for me to see you struggle so. It seems hard for us both to let you grow up, Finny.

That’s a new one on me. Of course I always joke that I’d love my babies to stay babies forever. I do love babies, after all. But I delight in your growth, your maturing and discovering the world, the life God has prepared for you all. And Punky has always seemed more than ready to embrace the bigger world that lies ahead of him. He is ready to get big and go for it. So to see you struggling with it… well, I just don’t know what to do.

So that is what is on my heart tonight, my boy. I would love to sit here and tell you all about all the wonderful things you are doing and about how great a five year old you will be. I’d love to say that everything in life excites you and that everything is hunky dory. But instead, I sit here with a bit of a heavy heart. I sit here, wondering just how hard this year of growth, therapy, home exercises and increased discipline will be for you. I want to go on and on about what a wonderful artist you are, but I am nagged by the thought of how many times you sit down to draw only for it to end in a flood of tears and frustration that it’s not turning out right. I’d love to say how great you get along with your brothers and your sister. But instead I am sad to think of how many arguments have come from your rigidity with the boys, or about how you are limited in your time with Girly Pie because you cannot seem to control yourself when you are near her. I want to talk about your friends, but it breaks my heart to see you on the outside of most social circumstances.

I want so badly to have some great silver lining to offer. But tonight, I just don’t have it in me. Tonight I let go of one more year with my baby boy, not knowing what is to come as he becomes just that much more of a young man, a young man who is struggling and confused, both physically and emotionally.

But I will pray for peace and strength. I will pray for healing for you and for understanding for us all. I will pray for His will to be made just clear enough that I can know the part I am to play in your life right now. And I will pray and work to stay in today, not longing for the Finny that was, not worrying too terribly much over the Finny that will come.

And know this, my dear Finny William. I love you so very much. You do still light up my heart when you smile and when you are happy. And it breaks my heart so to see you hurting and sad. I rejoice with your cheers and I cry with your pain. And I want you to know that for as long as I am here and as long as God wills me to, I will walk this walk with you. I know someday you may be called to walk on this road alone. But for now, and for as long as I can, I will be here to carry you through it and hold your hand. And then, when God calls me to step back, I will hopefully have done my job and will put your hand in His and He will take you the rest of the way.

So goodnight, my sweet boy. I do hope you sleep well. And when you awake in the morning, you will be five years old. You have been counting down the days, and can hardly contain your excitement for the day that is to come. I do hope that you will enjoy it as much as you intend to. I hope that, at least for the day, your frustrations can cease and you can just let your light shine and feel the blessings of the day.

Love,

Mommy