J2 is 2 squared

Dear J2,

You're 4! You've been 4 for almost a month! And I've been so busy with our life that I am just now getting to writing your annual birthday letter. First of all, I love (almost) everything about you. You are simply the cutest person that I know. The smile, the little voice, when you get down on one knee and give me a flower---it all makes me feel so happy that I am yours. Every day I can't wait to come home and give you a snuggle. Until you start whining. It sort of ruins the magic and I'm cool with going back to work.

You love crashing into things, shooting things, climbing things, jumping off things. ALL THE THINGS. You have been nicknamed the master destroyer by your Auntie Rachael.

You are so naughty. But I get it. It's probably fun. I bet it was super cathartic to empty an entire new bottle of shaving cream onto the bathroom floor. Being naughty is fun. Plus, you are so super cute doing it. Yeah, I get it. But for real ... if you could dial it back just a bit, that would not be terrible.

You have a love/hate relationship with your sister. She really loves you. You kind of hate her. Of course, I'm kidding. But again, it would not be terrible if you were a little nicer to her. She's sensitive and emotional and she once asked me why you don't like her. Doesn't that just break your four year old heart? Probably not.

Like every other human to ever walk this earth, you prefer to have your own way. Unfortunately, you have a brain malfunction when you don't get your way. The "awww, but I want it," is inevitable each time you are denied your heart's desire. I feel all your feels, my dear. Trust me.

You love girls. All kinds. The common folk and the princesses.

You have the highest highs and the lowest lows. I am either the person you love most in the world, or the one you hate because I won't let you eat cheese off the floor. Because why wouldn't I let you eat cheese off the floor? It's really baffling for a four year old.

Other parents have deemed you my payback for having the perfection that is J1. Thankfully, your devilishness does not tarnish my crowning parenting glory that is your sister.

But I love each and every bit of you. From the top of your head to the tips of your toes. I love seeing you stumble out of bed in the morning, rubbing your eyes, making a beeline straight for a mom hug. I love watching you sleep and peppering your little face with kisses. I love all your faces---cheesy smile, silly face, laughing face. I love when you hold my hand and when you snuggle up and when I'm falling asleep I love when you come in and kiss me good night.

Our family would simply not be complete without the J2 experience.

I love you more than all the stars in the sky,

Umma

because it's really never enough

My mom. She was beautiful. She was thoughtful. She was kind. She was the kind of mom that I hope to be. (Except let's be honest, I really don't want to carve pumpkins. Sooo messy. And sharp tools!) She made birthdays extraordinarily special. She made sacrifices for family.

She was mine. And she was gone too soon. Just when I was starting to gain momentum as an adult, she was gone. And that leaves me here. Wanting more. Thinking about all the things I am missing. That she is missing. That J1 and J2 are missing.

I usually try to get the kids' birthday letters done before I open this vein. But I am behind. This year has been extraordinarily hard. Some of it brought on by myself---e.g., thinking it was a good idea to train for a marathon---some of it brought on by forces over which we have no control. I am struggling. Struggling to keep my head above the water. Struggling to dive deep when the waves crash, with the hope of coming out better, brighter, and with more depth and self-awareness.

And as I hold my breath waiting for the storm to pass, it's then I miss you the most. Because in this past year, I definitely would have called you. A lot. All the time. I am not sure I have ever needed you more than I have in the last 12 months. I can't tell you what I would say, but I am certain there would be tears. I'm also not entirely sure what you would say in response---or if it would even make me feel better. But sometimes you just need your mom. The person that loves you in a way so completely and unconditionally that it is beyond description.

Each year is one more year without you. Each year is another year where I try to be as good as you were at this whole mom thing without being able to call you up and ask how you managed to get me to piano lessons, swim practice, Girl Scouts and still put dinner on the table---while here I struggle to just get the Postmates driver to show up at my door rather than in the alley.

Maybe I attach too much significance to all of it. Maybe if I called, you'd be like "f*uck, Nina, I don't know." Just kidding, my mom would definitely not drop the f-bomb. Regardless, of whether any particular conversation would be good, bad or indifferent, I just miss having the chance. The chance to even have a bad conversation. Maybe even the chance to disappoint you. Whatever. Just the chance for more. I look at some of the last photos I have of us together and have to remind myself to be happy I had you until I was 23 years old. But it will never be enough. Because really, all I want is more. More time. More photos. More you. More mom.

 

As an adult and particularly as a mom myself, I can clearly see that you gave David and me the best of you. I am doing my absolute best, which is far from perfect, but I hope I can honor your memory by giving J1 and J2 the best of me.

I just miss you. So much. That is all.