Dear (Thirteen-Year-Old) Trent September 9, 2024

Dear Trent,

It would be easy to start your birthday letter with the same-o, same-o: you’re so kind, you’re so smart, you’re so funny, and you’re so tall.  But I have a feeling if I read through each year’s letter, those adjectives would be the theme.  And now you’re a teenager!  How do I switch things up when those things are exactly who you are?

The hand-drawn banner on a gift yesterday called you a “thirteenager.”  I know to expect plenty of attitude in the future, and that our experience with that so far has been pretty sporadic (and kinda has surprised both of us).  But today I’m extra thankful for who you continue to be— you continue to be so dang kind, and I marvel at your ability to brush off comments made by peers that weren’t exactly pleasant and not let the attitude of others change your kindness.  You’re so quick to say please and thank you, and always quick to offer to help me with anything I might need.  You even have the confidence to show so much kindness to adults, and those are sometimes the moments that I realize just how mature you are.  I think it’s your kindness that draws animals to you, and why Casey the Kitty and Milkshake trust you so much.

You continue to be so smart, and while it’s great to be smart at school and earn the certificates for High Honor Roll and a medal for the Science Student of the Year, I’m so thankful for your common sense smarts.  You use your brain to figure things out and don’t just plow ahead at full throttle when you don’t know, and oh how I wish more people could be smart like that.  If you follow the path to be farmer, you’ll need those book smarts but not more than you’ll need to hang onto your common sense.

You continue to be so funny, and it’s a blessing every time you crack me up.  You light up from the inside sometimes, and I pray that’s not something you grow out of.  I love watching you break into a little dance on the soccer field, and I love hearing you burst into song in the car.  I love your jokes and am often surprised at your witty sarcasm.  You make me smile, and you make me laugh.

You continue to be tall!  I was looking at the picture from last year where I held you, thinking that was hilarious.  And it was, but I think that must have been the last year for that, and then I’m so sad.  You’re so much my baby but you’re beginning to tower over me, and that’s a little hard on my heart. 

You are an amazing kid who continues to be amazing, and I hope being a thirteenager doesn’t change you.  I can handle a little attitude every now and then as long you stay true to being you— kind, smart, funny, confident, respectful.  I’ll do everything I think might be in my power to keep you lighting up from the inside, and it is the best part of being a mom to watch you become more and more of YOU.  And for all those things in life out of my control, you know I’m praying hard.  So much might be same-o, same-o but today you are thirteen and I hope you know just how proud I am of you!  I love you!

Love forever and ever,

Mom

Dear (11-Year-Old) Tyson May 23, 2024

Dear (11-Year-Old) Tyson,

You are my hot dog.  My farmer.  My drummer and my pianist.  You are my boy curled up sleepy on the couch in the morning, and plenty riled up at night.  You are bursting with personality and talent, but hate the stage.  You are go-go-go, but then ready for the next thing.  You are full of sweetness and understanding, and rarely throw a fit when things don’t go quite your way (where does that maturity come from?).

Your year of being ten can somewhat be summarized with waiting to turn 11 so you can get your own fun.  But it’s also been the year of working ground by yourself, showing Sundae and winning ribbons, and starting band (and kicking butt!).  Fifth grade was not your favorite, even though your teacher described you as “brilliant,” you never had homework, you’ve earned your place in middle school honors math, you loved playing basketball on the playground, and your grades barely budged from 100% in each subject.  Your struggles came from the structure of all day every day, being bored with the material, and dealing with peers that weren’t on the fast track of “do the work, so we can move on” that you aim for.  But even though I struggled with seeing you off to school begrudgingly, you still sucked it up and kept doing your best anyway.  You once again didn’t get to celebrate your birthday during the school year because of a later birthday, but I’m so proud of your maturity and responsibility even as a younger kid. 

You love playing with your toy tractors, shooting the basketball in the driveway, and playing the piano (but you would never do a recital again if I gave that as an option).  You’re still my Army kid, loving to dress up in all your gear and line up your toy guns.  I can’t wait to see what all you accomplish as an 11 year old, and I’m excited to see where your natural talents take you also.  You will always be my blue-eyed baby, with his froggies and his blankie, and I hope I get another year (or 2? Or 3?) to be taller than you (but I’m not holding my breath).  Keep being amazing, keep being brilliant, and don’t be afraid to let those talents shine.  I’m beyond proud of you.  I love you more!

Love always,

Mom

Dear (12-Year-Old Trent) September 7, 2023

Dear Trent,

The most startling part of my day is waking you up from bed, trying to ease the sleepy transition with letting sunshine into your room, and watching you stand to full height.  You are not (yet) taller than me, but you shock me every time—my baby in a young man’s body.  You reach to hug me and still automatically wrap your arms around my waist, which means you bend over slightly to fit against me.  Oh my heart.

Another year in the scrapbook, another chance to celebrate only you, and the last birthday before you’re a teenager.  While your legs keep stretching out and your vocabulary seems to transcend your age, you are still undeniably my Trent.  My Trent has the gift of empathy, recognizing how others are feeling without a word being said.  That heart of gold is truly a gift from God, but it hurts my heart sometimes to see how the hurt of others will hurt you too.  I am so proud of how you own that heart, instead of trying to mask it or be a “tough guy.”  I pray you learn how to be a helper and a shoulder for those hurting, without shouldering their pain yourself. 

You started middle school, which is terrifying for a mama who wants her kind, follow-the-rules kid to do all the growing up things and also stay young for as long as possible.  You rocked your 5^th grade year, getting great grades, loving your teacher, and finding a love for band.  Now in middle school, your math frustrations are sadly familiar but so is your excitement for getting to have band every day.  I know you’ll become a favorite of all your teachers, even if this is the year you have to actually slog through homework and learn material that doesn’t sink in on first contact.  You took a leap into new territory this school year by signing up to run cross country, and while you’ve only had a handful of meets, it is impressive to see how far you’ve come!  I haven’t lied when I tell you on repeat that your race times don’t matter and just to push yourself and do the best, and I’m so absolutely proud to see you do exactly that.  This middle school stuff is new for you and new for me, and while there have been moments of uncertainty on both of our parts, being three weeks in has already proven that you will (as always) be just fine!

I love watching you play drums and piano.  I love watching you smile when talking about a good book.  I love watching you bubble up from the inside about Milkshake and farming.  I love watching you do a little dance in the middle of doing just about anything.  I love seeing you love on the cat.  I love watching you run the lawnmower and run Bessie.  I love hearing you tell a story about standing up for yourself and letting a rude comment slide off your back.  And I love literally nothing more than the unexpected grab for a big bear hug when I wasn’t necessarily expecting it.

You’ll keep growing taller, I guess.  You’ll eventually pass me up, I guess.  You’ll keep growing as a human, no matter how much I want you to stay an innocent kid, I guess.  But I know through it all, and with the help of being surrounded by so many people all across this community who love you and know you’re the best, you will stay my Trenty.  Keep growing kiddo, and keep the hugs coming.  I love you!

Love you forever and ever,

Mama

Dear (10-Year-Old) Tyson May 24, 2023

Dear 10-Year-Old Tyson,

We made it!  For months, you’ve been counting down to your birthday.  For the last week, there have been countdowns to different parties and the actual big day.  And in between, there have been countdowns by the hour. So much math!  I feel like we’ve been celebrating for this entire month in a way, and you know what?  You deserve it!

I just finished scrolling through photos from the last 365 days to pick some of my favorite “Tyson Moments.”  And let’s just say, I take a lot of pictures.  That’s not a surprise to you whatsoever, but I want you to know something else—I am obsessed with you!  In a healthy, loving, love-you-to-the-moon-and-back-to-infinity-plus-1 kind of obsession.

I am obsessed with your personality.  You are all the crazy, wild, and funny that can exist in one person.  But in a completely flip way, you are all the quiet, calm, and snuggly.  You are the one working to get the attention of a room, while also being the one who very seriously does not want to stand in front of a room.   In the same day you are dancing like a fool in hopes to get on the Busch Stadium jumbo-tron, you are asking me to just sit on the couch and hold you.  There isn’t a part of who you are that I’m not obsessed with—even the crabby Tyson that most of us have experience with.  I love him too!

I am obsessed with your musical talent.  It’s been a struggle this year to balance giving you all the experiences you want to explore, and finding which ones you love enough to give your time.  When it comes to the piano, I’ve been told “I’ve never seen a 9 year old do what he is doing whether playing off a written piece, by ear, or now jazz!”  It’s incredible to watch you walk into the house, beeline to the piano, and take off playing something that may or may not be an actual song.  You’ve done so well learning the violin and having the experience of playing with others in an orchestra, and worked through some banjo lessons so you can do a little sitting-and-picking.  Tomorrow, you’ll start guitar lessons and in the fall, join the 5^th grade band as a percussionist.  The sky is your limit, and I will buy the drum set, ask about the lessons, and soak up every moment of noise.

I am obsessed with your gorgeous eyes.  I’m obsessed with your heart.  I’m obsessed with your full-blown hugs.  I’m obsessed with your snuggles, laughs, and farts. 

You may be 10 years old, and continue to grow like a proverbial weed.  But I still see my 8-pound water-birth baby with the shocking blue eyes, and I still see you clutching your blanket and your froggies, and I still feel my heart burst at how amazing you are and that I get to call you mine.  Forever and ever, I love you. 

“I love you more.”

“I love you most.” 

“I love you mostest.” 

“I love you more than that.” 

“You can’t.” 

“Yes I can, I’m your mama.”

Dear (11-Year-Old) Trent September 9, 2022

Dear (11-Year-Old) Trent,

Another trip around the sun, another 5 inches taller (or so it seems), another long list of all the things you do well (reading, math, soccer, piano, loving Holsteins), and another attempt to share with you how much I love you.  Here we go!

You hear pretty regularly how amazing you are.  While I want you to hear it so often that you know it in your core, I hope you remember that there’s times in life where it’s okay to not be amazing.  Maybe the test was harder than you thought.  Maybe the new song has too many dang sharps.  Maybe someone has been really cruel to you and instead of saying “just take it”, you stand up for yourself.  Sometimes being amazing isn’t about being easy-going and likeable; sometimes being amazing is recognizing when you need to take a step back and breathe.  Sometimes being amazing is realizing you can be in a funk for a day and rebound tomorrow.  And that’s okay.

You are so mature and responsible for your age, but I will make it a regular reminder to my 11-year-old that the weight of the world is not on your shoulders.  As a kid, I thought adults had it all together.  Now as an adult, I realize what a load of bologna that idea was.  Adults screw up, adults make bad decisions, adults sometimes choose to be petty instead of taking the high road.  You are more aware than most your age what’s going on in the world around you, and you have a heart of gold.  Protect that heart, and I will pray that the badness in the world doesn’t sit on your shoulders.  I am so proud of you every time you share a story of someone frustrating you and choosing the high road anyway—you are a role model.  But I’ll say it again– the weight of the world is not on your shoulders.

You are the best big brother, dealing with your brother’s unpredictable personality and mood swings like a champ.  You and I share many “oh that’s Tyson” glances, loving him for exactly who he is.  You are the best calf handler, loving your Holsteins with everything you’ve got even when they get ornery and run away on you.  You are the best cat lover, cuddling Casey up after school and she never tries to get away.  You are the best cousin and grandson, nephew and friend, classmate and peer.  I promise you that heart of gold will take you places and bring you connections with people that are worth far more than all the V-bucks in Fortnite could buy.  Just don’t forget about that one part—stand up for yourself too. 

We’ve made it through so much together and this year will be no different.  We will love, we will laugh, we will do hard things, and you will grow like a weed.  I am beyond blessed to be your mama, from the first day that 6-pound, 9-ounce baby was laid in my arms after believing I might die in a birthing tub to today.  You make me a better person.  You make the world a better place.  You will do big things.  And you are so loved!

Happy 11^th birthday, Trent Allen.  Go rock the world.

I love you forever,

Mommy

The Shoes August 9, 2022

I put my shoes on for a workout class that morning.  Did the class, ran my errands, and dropped some meat off to my mom.  When I got home, I hadn’t even had time to take off my shoes before the pager went off.  Oh yay, I thought, saves me time getting out the door.  I didn’t know the shoes were taking me to Grandma.

When time stands still, it’s not on pause.  It’s in an alternate dimension where the people in that moment are in fast-forward and no one else can keep up.  Time stands still when there aren’t other first responders yet.  There’s not an ambulance yet.  How can I do “all the things” without “all the equipment”?  There’s questions being hollered and it’s not for days later that the bigger question is what tone I used.  I didn’t mean to sound accusatory, I just needed to know how fast.  I’m usually on the other side, knowing how fast I got an ambulance out the door and how fast I crossed town, and knowing there are situations where nothing is fast enough.  Situations where every statistic is against us.  Situations where it doesn’t matter that the best people providing the best care got there as fast as possible and couldn’t win.  Grandma’s situation.

The shoes carried me through the ER that day, where people came from everywhere to offer what they could and the doctor had terrible bedside manner.  Just be done talking to me.  The shoes met Aunt Susie in the hallway, prayed over Grandma with Pastor Tim, and witnessed tears from people who hurt so much for us.  And I guarantee I left those shoes at home that night when I chose to go the fire department meeting instead of stay in the silence of home, because there’s therapy and healing to be surrounded by people—some who were on the scene, some who knew Grandma, and some who pulled me in for a hug knowing I’m not a hugger.  I guarantee it was a few weeks before those were the shoes I picked for the gym.

I wore those shoes this morning.  Went to the same 8:15 am class as that Tuesday morning a year ago, and then went for errands.  But I skipped stopping by the butcher shop and treated myself to a coffee and visited with a friend instead.  I relive that day, and I think about those shoes every time I slip them on.  Grandma’s memory lives on in all the big ways and the small ways, her spirit alive in so many of us when we’re picking from the garden, baking, or pulling one of her dishes from the cabinet.  We aren’t healed from her leaving us.  But we still feel her love.

Dear (9-Year-Old) Tyson May 24, 2022

Dear (9-Year-Old) Tyson,

Happy birthday to my baby boy, my unlikely blue-eyed child, my “ultimate.”

You are ultimately a soldier, requiring all of the gear and equipment, and bravely battling in the trenches of the yard.  Nothing is left unconsidered from the canteen you must carry to the list of everything you still need.  You dream of being involved in reenactments and draw tanks for fun.

You are ultimately a musician, a jack-of-all-trades who cannot only read music but also play by ear.  You transpose, rearrange, and add your own finesse to anything written on a page, to the frustration of your mother trying to “just get through the song!” when it’s time to practice before your weekly piano lesson.  It’s officially been one year since you were gifted violin lessons, taking off like wildfire and finding joy in not only playing as an individual, but also as part of an orchestra.  A banjo ended up on the Christmas list and I can’t wait to see where plucking its 5 strings might take you.  You beg for Bluegrass Junction to be played in the car and dream of being the one to play out “Wagon Wheel.”

You are ultimately a sweetheart, surprising me daily with a hug for just turning around at the right time.  It’s not unusual for you to tell me “I love my mama” when I least expect it, softening my heart from the last Nerf bullet found in a strange place (or within every inch of space).  You are cuddly and loving, a strange dichotomy to the soldier stomping around with the M1 Thompson.  You never mind when I share your blankie for my nap and I always promise to keep watch over your froggies.  You dream of building a house with Willa and your best friend Finn, where your brother gets paid to mow your grass and surely your mama isn’t far.

You are ultimately my Tyson Steven, and always my 8-pound baby (even though I can barely carry you down the hallway).  From baseball to bluegrass, there’s not a dream I won’t help you follow.  I pray you stay your own version of sweet, never forgetting the family who loves you endlessly for being exactly who you are.  Nine years of loving you makes me so excited to see the path you take! 

I love you ultimately.

Mommy

Dear (10-Year-Old) Trent September 9, 2021

Dear Trent,

They say age is just a number, but this whole double-digit thing is suddenly seeming like a bigger deal than I’d originally expected.  You are TEN: an entire decade of blessing us with your sweetness, humor, love of animals, and super-observant nature.

We all love Tyson, obviously, but when I need something to get done, you’re the one I holler for.  When I need a favor, very rarely is there any hesitation (unless you’re just about to win a battle on the Kindle).  And when that pesky little brother still won’t go down to the basement or to the dark bedroom alone, you still humor him with your company (even when you sign impatiently, you still go).  Your excitement for things you love is full-fledged and contagious: when a train goes by, or when it’s time to visit Sophie, or we start talking about getting ice cream from The Chocolate Affair. 

You’re an excellent swimmer, play hard at soccer, and know more about steam engines and the battle at Pearl Harbor than I will ever know.  I know the years will start getting harder when it comes to “mean kids” at school who make fun of others for any reason they can come up with, but you’ve got such a solid foundation of knowing you need to just be you.  I’m so proud of you for how you care for others and want to be helpful. 

When you rub my back when I’m sad, I see you.  When you put up with your brother being all up in your space, I see you.  When you practice the song on the piano over and over again even though you want to be done, I see you.  When you struggle with an ornery calf but don’t let go, I see you.  When you do one of the hundreds of things you do just to make someone else smile, I see you. 

You’re one in a million Trent Allen, and I’m thankful every day you’re mine!  Happy 10^th Birthday!

Love you forever and ever,

Mommy

Dear Grandma August 12, 2021

Oh Grandma.

I thought I’d start this letter with “Dear Grandma” but after saying “Oh Grandma” so much in the last day, it seems to be a more fitting to start talking to you.

Everyone is telling me they’re sorry.  They’re shocked.  And that you were such a sweet lady.

I’m sorry too.  And I’m not sure when the feelings of shock will lose the sting, or if that will never happen when I think back to The Worst Day of my life.  And we both know you were sweet to those you loved, but we got all the sweetness.  You didn’t walk around showering others with sweetness—you and me both.

You’re my kindred spirit, for the better and for the worst.  We love hard on those in our circle, not with hugs and “I love yous” but with little gifts and thoughts and always offering to help.  We make snarky comments when maybe we shouldn’t, because for some reason we can’t just keep it to ourselves.  There’s people we don’t think need our time of day and they don’t get it, but we would travel around the world twice and head to the moon for anything a loved one needs: and not one millisecond of the trip would be because it might be reciprocated.  You did so many things so well, but didn’t always care about perfection because good enough is good enough—same.  There’s people you’ve crossed who might say a dozen great things about you and not use “sweet” and you wouldn’t give a shit.  You taught me a long time ago that “it takes a lot of different people to make a world” and from that, I am reminded that we can all do things our own way and have our own priorities, and no one can tell us what is right or wrong.  It wasn’t too long ago that I used your quote against you, when you had a complaint about someone doing something—the details evade me, but I smiled using your own words in response.

You’d be mad to think we’re fussing over you now.  You’d be mad for what I see in my head from The Worst Day.  You’d be mad at me for every person I’ve shaken off who said you are so proud of what I was able to do, even though The Worst Day had a bad ending.  There’s probably a part of you giving a snicker that so many people are talking about you, especially with news articles and a blip on WGEL, and we’re left wondering why you had to give us such a dramatic ending.

But in my faith, I look for the good.  The good people who came to help.  The good people on the ambulance who didn’t tell me to stay away, who did all the things with skill and compassion.  The good people at the ER who came from all over the damn hospital for you, and for me.  The good friend who I hadn’t seen in years who showed up at what was probably the worst time of The Worst Day, who held my hands and said the right things and prayed with me, especially when I didn’t know where any of my people were yet.  The good people who blew up my phone with messages of prayers, tears, and hearts breaking with mine.  The good people who said “I know you don’t like hugs” and grabbed me anyway.

You’re up in heaven with Grandpa, glad as hell that you didn’t have an ending like his—dementia, or physical deterioration, or illness that would have pushed you away from your home and garden, leading us all to fuss around you.  Let me tell you Grandma, you would have made a terrible patient, relying on anyone else to take care of you in the slightest.  But I hate that there were all the ambulance calls to your address for Grandpa and phone calls from you asking me to come help with him, and the one damn time you needed me, it was The Worst Day.  I’ll forgive you someday, but right now, I’m still mad.

Like all people who have a worst day, an unexpected tragedy, the loss of someone too soon, I’m so sad.  I’m so confused.  I’m so uncomfortable with what to do next.  But for as many times as we cried together over Grandpa, and for as many times as I’m sure these tears will come when I don’t expect them to, I learned from you to be strong.  I’ll be sad but I’ll hold my head up and keep looking for what needs to be done.  I find peace knowing that you’ve gone from talking to Grandpa every night from your house looking upwards to talking to him face-to-face.

Well Grandma, you’ve bonded us all together for years.  My sisters, the cousins, the family, and now another memory to share with my dad that I wouldn’t put on anyone else.  I’m forever grateful for the years and years of memories, thankful my kids will always remember you and how much you did for them, appreciative for every second you looked out for me and fussed over me when I didn’t think I needed it, and will always remember your real smile.  Not the “I’m getting my picture taken and I hate it” smile but the real smile that I’m sure lit up your face when Grandpa met you up there.  We move forward without you but will never stop loving you.  Oh Grandma, we miss you already.  We love you forever.

In the words of Dad, which will bring me comfort for the rest of my life, “Proud of the fact we could be there and have the training to give her a chance to survive, the peace to know we did our best, and the serenity to know she was in God’s hands all the while.” I won’t stop loving you hard down here, but you better brace yourself for one helluva hug when I meet you in heaven.

Love,

Jessie

Dear (8-Year-Old) Tyson May 23, 2021

Dear (8-Year-Old) Tyson,

I have heard it 100 times in the past few months: how you seem to have aged a great amount in a short time.  Everyone thinks you look older, taller, and lost your baby face.  Then you lost one front tooth, then two, and who knew how much of a difference that would make!  So I’m not saying anyone is wrong because all of those things are true.  Maybe it’s the longer hair and the missing teeth, but you are older, taller, and your face has filled out to more of a man, less of a baby.

But I see my Tyson curled up on the couch with a blanket around you always.  It’s usually your Paw Patrol blanket (still, after all these years, and it’s still my favorite blanket to nap with) but you won’t discriminate when feeling a bit too lazy.  All the blankets in the house get their turn, which is a lot when you live with boys who love forts.  And trusty froggy is never far away either, and the #1 pick when it was a day to bring something prized to school.  I hope when it’s time to write another birthday letter, I’m still mentioning your blankey and froggy, and how you’re still my baby.

You are still my baby.  You’re less confident than your big brother, who still accompanies you when a trip to the basement or your bedroom is required because you will not go alone.  You give hugs without asking and love a good cuddle.  If I fall asleep next to you, I feel a habitual slap that you’re checking I’m still there, even in your sleep.  You’re my blue-eyed baby boy who is still moving slowly from the nest and this mama is so glad to see the occasional hesitation.

Because when you’re not cuddly and unsure, you’re our soldier boy.  Uniform head-to-toe, patches in place, and more accessories than I knew was possible.  You move with purpose and grit, a backyard bravery befitting of a soldier on a mission.  When it comes to your fort in the trees, there’s barbed wire, two-by-fours, American flags, sniper positions, and probably more secrets than I want to know.  I can’t claim to always have an eye on you when you’re in your fort, but I saw you and your friend stop, remove your hats, and hold your hands to heart while facing a flying flag the other morning.  The barbed wire freaks me out sometimes and I’m always a little scared of what I might find while mowing, but there’s no way I’m going to dampen your American spirit and penchant for dirt.

Like everyone else, the 2020-2021 school year was… strange.  I was sad to read your end-of-year booklet where you mentioned numerous times that you hated wearing a mask, and I was sad to see you crying on the last day (morning, afternoon, and night).  But not only did I see you change this year, your teacher took note too.  She wrote “You have really grown this year.  Keep up your happy, confident attitude.”  Confidence is probably the biggest way you grew this year, if I don’t count your handwriting (which also improved, thank goodness!).  That little boy who started 2^nd grade finished the year as a big kid, more ready to move mountains. 

So happy 8^th birthday Tyson Steven, and thank you for staying my cuddle buddy even when there’s missions to be won in the tree-line.  Thank you for the hugs I don’t ask for, and never refusing when I ask for one.  Thank you for reminding me to let little boys be dirty and rough, even when there’s times I forget and tell you to knock it off.  Thank you for always replying “I love you more” when I tell you that I love you.  Because no matter where life takes you, what paths you choose, how many teeth you lose, or how you grow your hair, you will always be my baby.

Love you most,

Mommy