The Crazy One

Dear Booger,
I said, some time ago, that writing letters to my children was something I wasn’t going to do. But then I did it for your sister on her eighth birthday, and a sense of sincerity crept over me. I realized it was the most genuine thing I could ever do for my children. Besides, I’m always in your face with a camera anyway, that I thought giving you a break and refraining from turning you into a movie for this special occasion might do us both some justice.

That, and I had the audacity to contract Strep throat over the weekend.

Yes. Again.

This past Saturday, you turned four. I don’t know if you’ve paid any attention to it, but it seems like you grew a foot from last summer. Your father and I can’t keep you in pants fast enough as you’re doing your best imitation of The Incredible Hulk and bursting out of everything. We would humor ourselves and ask you to get a part-time job just to cover the overwhelming deficit you and your sister seem to simultaneously subject to our wallets. Yet, out of the progressing character developments you have adopted in this year alone, we are learning that you are the “different” one. The “interesting” one. The “crazy” one. And asking you to get a part-time job, while in jest, may be a suggestion that could either give you pause to entertain seriously, or send you into a maniacal fit. We are just that unsure of you.

The terms “schizo” and “raging banshee” have crossed our minds a few times.



You have all but lost your baby face. You were always the one we worried about in the looks department. You were never an ugly baby, just one that made us scratch our heads because we had – and still have – no idea which one of us you look like. Your father has thrown out the word “milkman” as a possible candidate.

Your dad is funny. He likes to sleep on couches.



Your calmest time has been when you are asleep. You have bursts of energy likened to that of Jack Russell Terriers, but you are keenly aware of when you’ve had enough, and quickly revert into an elderly Jewish bubby with your oy!, and your I need to lie down.



If ever I could have given birth to two of the most opposite of children, I have with you and your sister. Where she is dramatic and exaggerated and sensitive, you are none of those things. You’re both funny in your own ways. While she takes after her mother and inhabits the unintentional wackiness of Lucille Ball, you channel Chevy Chase. You are queen of pratfalls and slapstick. You love a good joke and an even greater laugh. You constantly frustrate your sister with teasings, and get your most entertaining kicks out of watching her frustration from something you caused.



You hardly ever take yourself seriously. This is not to say you aren’t the typical four-year-old. You absolutely are. You have your tantrums. You expect things to be a certain way. You like your routine just so. And you are the most adamant, stubborn, hard-headed, willful, take-charge toddler I’ve ever seen in my entire life. But if someone falls down the stairs, or bangs their knee, or walks into a wall during your fit of rage, you’ve all but forgotten it as you’re too busy laughing.



Your favorite word is “no”. It used to be “why” and, sometimes, it still is. But you’ve started to figure things out on your own, and you like things on your own terms. You may have missed the memo that said you were a child. You can walk the walk with the biggest and best of them. And if you can’t find the words to articulate exactly how, when and why you said no, then a look will suffice. A look that says I am not listening to you right now, or You are not worth my belly lint. Since I have a grandmother like you, I am more attune to your ways. You frustrate your father greatly.



You’re a my-way-or-the-highway-type chick. You take no prisoners, and back down from nuthin’ and nobody. You don’t like to be told to wait, don’t like to be told to sit still and, even though it is your favorite word to use, definitely don’t like to be told no. Now that you’ve gained a few ounces of independence, you want everyone to know you can do it and you don’t care who’s watching. You hate asking for help, and would all but kill yourself trying to figure out a loophole.



You have your girly tendencies. You like your dolls and frilly things, yet you are the son I’ll probably never have. You are the tomboy. No dresses for you. You’d rather die. You may like your fairy wings and pretty princesses, but you can roll around and kick and punch with the roughest, toughest boy on the playground.



Lately, as the baby fat has left your face, some other things have transformed within you. What used to be this teflon coating around you, suddenly began showing signs of cracks. My fearless wonder now jumps at the sight of earthworms and lobsters. It was the strangest thing, almost to have happened overnight. We shake our baffled heads at the suddenness of it all, but at the same time wonder, “What took you so long?!”



My crazy, fearless, schizo, banshee, stubborn, tomboy Booger. I love you. All this time, I’d asked to be shown ways to overcome my fears. To take risks and go for it. In the four short years you’ve been in my life, you are the wake-up call I needed. Everyday, you teach me what living life can be and you have no idea.

Thank you.