My dearest Nate,
It’s time for your annual birthday letter… nine months late but who’s keeping score? Well, you probably. You’re very good with points. But it’s my blog. I’m the head ref. And you know better than to argue with the ref.
Your twelfth year is a bit of a blur. Possibly because you were flying past me on your knee scooter at breakneck speed. Last Wednesday evening, we sped to Pismo to have your cast cut off. The cast cutter then used his saw to make you a festive red cast star for our Christmas tree. The next evening we drove back for an x-ray, and Friday we got the all clear that you could start “walking” in your boot. You asked if you could take Dad’s phone to school so I could text you after my call with Raquel the physician’s assistant. It was a disorienting jolt when the response text came in from James Fucillo. It read “Let’s go.” I sure miss texts from Dad.
This weekend you thump dragged your way across the Hayward soccer fields to support your team in the last tournament of the year. I’d call this phase Robot Scarecrow. I’ve been coaching you on a more natural gait. It’s getting slightly better each day. You’re allowed to walk without your boot at home and this morning you’re like, “Look Mom, I can walk again!” It was better, but still reminiscent of your very first steps. Like your knees don’t bend. Sunday, we took home first place, and while you missed playing through the end of the season, you still managed to score the most goals.
In addition to mobility, you’ve taken on some big challenges as a seventh grader. You’re powering through advanced math, advanced English, and taking both history and science in Spanish. Your natural studying instincts are spot on. And while I’m not sure you’ve internalized the stretch goal I set for proper paper management, you’ve gained a strong sense of points, percentages, and proportions. You’re mathematically talented at knowing how your latest scores will affect your grades. I’m not sure why your friends have given you the passwords to their grades, but it has created ample opportunity for conversations on security and benchmarking your performance to yourself, not your buddies.
Speaking of your buddies… you’re blessed to have an entire team of friends. And they’re almost all eighth graders. I’ll never forget Halloween morning at school drop-off. The second I pull up, Alexis, our team captain, is there to greet you. You’re dressed as the rapper, Nate Dogg, with a gold hat and plenty of bling, though your grillz and Invisalign aren’t exactly compatible. Apparently some people thought your knee scooter was part of your costume. Alexis takes your hundred pound backpack and promises me he’ll take good care of you. I know he will.
You’re currently selling tickets for our annual team “Booze Wagon” raffle to raise funds for next year’s tournaments. While I wouldn’t say you’re drawn to sales, your pitch skills are improving. Your teammates are whispering that you’re playing the injured striker card and that’s why you’re exceeding your sales targets. I can confidently refute this rumor as regrettably, you haven’t used it to your advantage at all. My coaching has been squarely focused on more eye contact and less “likes.” Verbal crutches are outpacing physical crutches. I’m proud of you rising to the challenge of your first Zoom sales call to Alesia. It boosted both your confidence and your interest in sales.
In May, Alesia generously gifted us a fancy lunch outing for Bell’s in Los Alamos. Prior to your injury, we experienced a new personality in our midst: Hungry Nate. I mean, you’ve always been a good eater. But this year, You. Are. Hungry. We finally had a free weekend and drove down on a rainy Saturday afternoon. You openly laughed when the waiter asked if we wanted the kids menu. You took one look at that Michelin starred menu and confidently declared your vote for wild Burgundy snails and moules frites. It was a memorable lunch of chatting and eating and trying new things. We especially enjoyed the cheesy Gruyere brioche and vanilla ice cream with olive oil and sea salt. Who knew? You are a fun lunch companion that holds-up your third of the conversation. This can’t be said about most tweenage boys. And as Arlene points out, most men well into their forties….
Your newfound hunger has also paired with your newfound interest in fashion. Dad’s so proud. I could hardly comprehend your graduation present request for Nike Air Jordans and a red Nike Tech sweatshirt. You were very drippy in your new fit with a fresh cut. Cringe, Mom… At least I didn’t say “Skibidi toilet Sigma Ohio Rizz.” A few weeks ago, at your request, we actually went shopping for corduroy Empyre pants at a place called Zumiez. They’re like today’s Z Cavaricci’s, only more skatery. At one point I was afraid I might have to cut them off you when they got stuck on your cast in the dressing room. Fortunately, we made it out with two pairs of pants without any rips or tears.
Whether we’re talking tears, or tears, you are the most intuitive person I know. I can be upstairs in my room with the door closed and you can be playing Fortnite with your headset on and somehow you know I’m sad. You’ve always known how to be with big emotions. You’re my weighted baby blanket. No words. Just love.
Lightning McQueen’s mom recently texted me that she often uses you as an example of field etiquette and presence. “He carries himself with such grace and quiet confidence.” And while twelve-year-old you probably can’t appreciate this compliment, it captures everything I want for you. You are a gift, Nate. A precious gift. I love you. Dad loves you. Jacob loves you. Stay true to yourself. Like Ben says, “Just do your thing, Nate.” There is only one you and I love you so much my heart bursts.
Love,
m.