birthday – Erin Strybis

Bold, bright and brave: a birthday tribute

As a baby, you stuck to me like glue, nursing ‘round the clock and snoozing on my chest. Throughout your first year, we broke all the “sleep rules” with you, and we didn’t care. You were our long-awaited second child, our rainbow baby after miscarriage, and our last child, given my age. Your dad and I were going to savor you.

Adam, you arrived five years and two days after your brother Jack was born, and you haven’t stopped chasing him since. Milestone after milestone, you’d leap frog past our expectations, determined to be just like Jack.

No one told me that younger siblings tend to age faster than their older siblings, and the ache to keep you little is one I’ve felt acutely in your third year. You started preschool this past fall, and each week, you share new revelations with me — singing songs, scribbling your name and chatting about your new pals. After we get home from school, you want to sit on my lap when we eat lunch together; you like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or chicken nuggets and cucumbers.

You also like free building with Legos or Magna-tiles, playing your brother’s Switch, playing with and/or annoying your brother and drinking root beer as a special treat. You are bold, bright and brave, barreling into new experiences and connecting with new playmates. “Watch me, Mom!” is a common refrain. Your zest for life inspires me.

You’re my little buddy, helping load laundry and wipe the kitchen table clean. You accompany me to the library, Trader Joe’s and Target often. Sometimes, we’ll do coffee and pastry dates. And when it’s warm enough, we’ll walk our dog to the playground and play pirates there.

Even though you’re so big, you still like to be close to me when you sleep. After storytime and lights out, I’ll snuggle next to you in your bed for five minutes. When I say, “It’s time for me to get ready for bed,” you protest, begging for “One more minute!” repeatedly. Finally, I say goodnight, and you hold my face in your hands and kiss me on the forehead with relish, an echo of how I kissed your forehead as a babe.

Happy fourth birthday, Adam. It’s a gift to love and be loved by you.

Celebrating his story

I’ve been writing about him since he was born, nine years ago. Jack arrived in January, quiet as snow.

And by that I mean, I cried for him under the harsh lights of the OR before he ever cried for me. Time slowed to a drip — though it must have been a minute — before Jack’s lungs were cleared and he found his voice, leaving me wordless.

Since then, he’s stunned me at every turn with his strong will, race car brain and active spirit. He’s the boy who made me a mother, and his life inspired me to pick up the pen and tell the truth about motherhood. I wrote because I needed to make sense of this wild, wonderful, challenging calling. I am still making sense of it, years later, still being changed by it. Nowadays, our stories intersect less and less. I know this is for the best, given his growing independence.

But because it’s his birthday, and it’s tradition, here’s what I know is true about Jack:

He’s brave. Being the new kid in third grade isn’t easy, but he’s handled the transition with a lot of grace.

He’s artsy, doodling in the margins of his schoolwork, reading any graphic novel he can procure, dreaming up games and writing his own mini comics.

He’s playful. This winter, he’s into Roblox and board games. Once the weather turns, we’ll have baseball, soccer and bike-riding back.

He’s a good big brother, mentoring Adam and engaging with him, even though they both get on each other’s nerves.

He’s kind. Though he misses his buddies from Queens, he’s fostered warm relationships with his classmates. His favorite thing is making them laugh.

Snow’s falling as I write this tribute, which seems fitting. Jack, usually talkative, is silent, reading Adventure Time. He glances up at me when he turns the page. I set down my pen and study him — my wonder boy who braved a big move and has kept on laughing, learning and growing. Bedtime awaits but I savor the moment.

Happy birthday, Jack. I can’t wait to see what happens next in your stunning story.

Chapter 39

There are years that test us, and years that embrace us. I’m grateful that my 39th year has been the latter. In lots of little ways I’ve felt held —

in the abundance of cherry tomatoes from our new garden;
my first glimpse of stars from our backyard in the suburbs;
each time Jay and I drop our boys off with my parents;
through “Hellos” and connections with new neighbors;
sweet messages and meetups with old friends from Chicago;
a perfect latte from a local coffee shop;
by the words of writers and musicians who move me;
walking Miami beach in deep talks with my college girlfriends;
date nights with Jay, especially to see theater or live music;
prayers sent out by family and friends;
when my boys ask for lullabies or games of catch;
and capturing it all on the page, writing. Always writing.

In my calls to write and mother, I spent the bulk of the year planting seeds and nurturing unseen growth. From potty training to helping the boys acclimate to new schools, we’ve conquered several transitions. Freelance projects have come and gone, I managed to keep my Substack alive in the midst of our move. I set aside one manuscript (for now) and started writing another. The work of raising kind humans and putting warm words into the world feels more urgent than ever.

Selling our Chicago home in 2024 was a real trust fall with God. I’m grateful our family landed in such a beautiful house and community this past August. Starting over socially hasn’t been easy. Once a week, I remind myself of a dear friend’s advice to be “the very best version of myself,” trusting that, with time, I’ll cultivate great relationships here.

Today, on my 40th birthday, I’m more at home in myself than I’ve ever felt before. This confidence was hard won; at 38, I experienced a dark night of the soul from which I’m still healing. A commitment to caring for my physical and mental health, plus gaining a greater understanding of how my mind works, has been transformative. God’s grace was evident in the ones whose love carried me when I most needed it.

If I could tell my younger self anything, I’d hug her and whisper, “You are stronger than you think you are. Trust yourself. Believe in your goodness.”

I want to remember you like this

Immersed in the world of Dogman,
our dog curled against your chest,
your head resting atop the mega Pikachu pillow,
one leg dangling off the leather couch,
and laughter bubbling out of your mouth.
What I like most about you now is that
when you’re reading, you’re completely at ease.

I want to remember you like this, too:
Handsome in your chambray shirt,
standing tall with a genuine grin,
your hands anchoring your little brother’s shoulders.
Chances are high that he kicked you before this photo
— you are his nemesis and his idol —
still, you keep answering the call to lead
and love your brother (sometimes giving tough love).
I am awed by your nurturing spirit.

I need to remember you like this:
Far away from me, eyes locked on the horizon,
pointing to something unknown.
Was it the waves breaking?
The impossibly blue sky?
All I know is that, going to the beach was your idea
you asked us all summer when we could go,
and on Labor Day, the wind was whipping like crazy,
but you got your wish.

After I took this photo, you sprinted toward Lake Michigan,
your little brother (naturally) at your heels, by the time you reached
the water, your sunny blonde hair was tousled and sandy. Eyes shining,
you stepped into the tide. Gripping your brother’s hand, I watched. For the first time, I wasn’t afraid if you could hold your own, because this summer, you swam like a fish at the pool. Still you stayed nearby
(a small mercy on a day when the waves were wild),
you even came back to me the first time I called.

One day sooner than I’d like, you’ll swim away for good. Like the stones
your brother collects from the shore, I store up this truth
to revisit later. Today you’re still my boy, content at home
and also pulled toward adventure. I want to cherish you at eight —
so ebullient, so bright.

This poem is dedicated to my son Jack; today is his eighth(!) birthday. The title of this piece was inspired by poet Michelle Windsor.

Chapter 38

Today she turns 39.

Her 38th year is not one she’d ever ask to repeat. “Trying” is how her husband described it in her birthday card. Other adjectives she’d add are “traumatic” and “revelatory.” She has no shining accomplishments to toast. There were more endings than beginnings. More questions than answers. At one point, she disliked herself so much she couldn’t bear to look in the mirror.

Healing took time and courage. She left communities she loved because belonging to them was causing her harm. For a season, she set down her pen and silenced herself. She had hard conversations and made school lunches and folded the laundry and kissed her children and cried in the shower.

Does everyone have these hidden pains they just shoulder quietly? she asked God. Her faith was shaken, but she didn’t stop believing.

Hours of research and reflection helped her see she wasn’t alone. The stories she read — paired with her family’s love — mended what was broken inside. Joy returned. And with it, many wonderful moments; the only possible explanation was grace.

She discovered that some years are gentle and sweet, and other years, everything you think you know burns to ash and you have to fight like hell to rise up after the fire.

After much prayer, she picked up her pen again. She decided she’ll write another book.

At 6:15 a.m. today, her sons tumbled into the master bedroom, searching for her. Her husband rolled back the comforter and the two boys burrowed between them like a pair of puppies. Under the warmth of the comforter, she clung to her children. At least I kept them safe and sound, she resolved. I held them and they held me. That is enough.

Legacy

At the end of June, my family flew to New Orleans for my grandma Eleanor’s 90th birthday. Two years had passed since our last visit, and I was excited to introduce her to our toddler, Adam.

Upon arrival, I watched with delight as she held Adam and lavished attention on our oldest, who showed off his new Pokemon cards. Later, when she held my hands in hers and murmured, “You have a beautiful family — enjoy them,” my eyes welled with tears.

The day of Grandma’s party, we feasted on a fabulous Mediterranean spread including the best hummus, fruit salad, and doberge cake. We posed for photos with the guest of honor, traded hugs and stories, and raised our voices to wish her a happy birthday.

We sang. Grandma sat beholding her glowing candles, encircled by children, grandchildren and great grandchildren who’d come together to celebrate her life and legacy.

My grandmother has spent her 90 years well. She was a devoted wife and homemaker, cooking from scratch, composting and hanging the laundry out to dry. She loved raising her kids and square-dancing with her late husband, my grandfather. She continues to be a loving mother. She’s an avid reader, zealous churchgoer, and fantastic Scrabble player. She’s an inspiration in faith — the kind of person whose presence warms the room.

After her final candle extinguished, Grandma beamed. Even though the light was out, I couldn’t help but notice the way a glow lingered in her eyes.

I’ll be honest: aging scares me. But then I think of Grandma Eleanor, a woman who has truly enjoyed her family, who keeps living and loving and shining Christ’s light, and I think, maybe aging isn’t something to fear at all, maybe it’s something to look forward to.

Every year, every moment, is a gift to steward, and she has tended her time so well. Happy 90th to my grandma — thank you for showing me the beauty of a life well-loved.

I could call him a wonder

Today is Adam’s first birthday. From our couch, I watch him cruise the living room, weaving in and out of midwinter sunbeams. He picks up a blue building block and passes it through the mail slot of our front door. Turning to me, he exclaims “Da-da-da!” while I hover my pen over my notebook.

“Good job, baby!” I reply, setting my pen down. I’m trying to think of a metaphor that encapsulates his spirit, but everything I write sounds stale. I guess love does that to you, doesn’t it? Sometimes love leaves you wide-eyed and bewitched, unable to translate the heft of your feelings into words.

Some call the first years of a child’s life “the wonder years” and for good reason. A year ago Adam was just a tiny babe who wanted nothing more than the comfort of my arms, but now he’s crawling and toddling. He’s hungry for new tastes and faces and experiences. And I’m stuck wondering how he underwent metamorphosis before my very eyes. How did he turn from shy smiles to rich giggles? How did he outgrow those tiny onesies? How did he move from tummy time to banging pots in the kitchen?

If my life was a sonnet, Adam would be the volta, the turning point where the speaker shifts her focus and entertains a new perspective. He burst into my world and gave me the courage to claim a new beginning. He was born the day Kim and I received an offer to write The Beauty of Motherhood. He was by my side as I wrestled words to the page in the midst of feeding and diaper duty. He woke me over and over at night and taught me there’s beauty in the darkness. He’s helped me laugh, slow down and appreciate the person I’ve always been and who I am becoming.

I read today that we’re approaching the halfway mark between winter and summer. Outside snow dresses the ground, trees and homes in our neighborhood. Steam rises and twists in the twenty degree air. Inside Adam abandons his game and scrambles toward me. I gather him up in a bear hug, relishing the warmth of his love. I could call him a wonder. I could call him a turning point. I could call him the midwinter sun.

Who you are at six : a birthday tribute

You are an athlete. You sprint across the soccer field, swing from the monkey bars, scale trees, slides and rocks then leap into your next adventure. Motion is your oxygen.

You were an angel in the Christmas play, and though you wouldn’t wear your wings (“too scratchy”) and you might have ignored a few stage cues, you sang so sweetly to baby Jesus. You have an active, playful faith — and a propensity for mischief.

You want to be a “scientist who mixes chemicals” for work, and like your dad, you have a knack for numbers.

Yet, to me, you bear the soul of an artist: You splash color and doodles outside the lines of your kindergarten assignments, you’re the one who says “First, I have to show you something beautiful,” you’re always building something or in the middle of an epic Lego story. Your imagination is boundless. You have a big heart and a lot of love to give, like your mama.

Much of my work in midlife, I recently realized, is launching you into this stunning, cruel, crazy world, where there are dreams to chase and gorgeous places to explore and stories to discover.

My wish for you at six is that you never forget who and whose you are, beloved child. The world will try to stifle your kindness and your sense of wonder. Don’t let it. Cling to hope. Trust your faithful foundation. Use your gifts to spread peace and healing to everyone you encounter. Make your mark: Keep playing and caring and creating.

Happy sixth birthday to the boy who made me a mama.

Year in review

On my 37th birthday, what I wanted most of all was time to write. I put the baby down for his first nap, pacified my older boy with his tablet and retrieved my pale green journal. Before sitting down, I lit a candle, which is my writing ritual. I like imagining the flame as my artistic spirit or even the Holy Spirit, calling me to create.

Curled up in an armchair, I held my pen above an empty page. What could I say about the past year of my life? It’s been a whirlwind, a time of change and, in many ways, a joy. I glanced at the Christmas tree glowing in our front window. Lately getting ready for Christmas had consumed my time, and I was grateful for the chance to let my mind wander.

The page stared back at me. I have written professionally for over a decade and yet every opening humbles me. I rifled through the files of my mind for the perfect words and I quickly realized the naptime clock was ticking — better to pick words that were good enough. So, I wrote:

Chapter 36

It was a year of growth and a year of grace.

The year I birthed my second baby and the year I signed my first book deal. The year I learned that dreams-come-true sparkle from afar, but close up demand grit and labor. The year I stretched my body and mind while nourishing a baby and my stories. The year I realized the most rewarding part of having dreams-come-true is how you tend them.

It was the year I left my magazine job. The year I struggled to adjust to staying home with my children. The year a fog of depression descended and didn’t budge until I began taking my mental health more seriously. The year I received a proper diagnosis for the doubts that haunted me daily.

The year I cried my eyes out and picked myself off the floor and summoned strength to care for my family. The year I trusted my gut and leaned into faith and slept very little but embraced the beauty of the darkness.

It was the year I danced in the kitchen and paced the halls with a restless baby and lived for the laughter of my children.

It was a year of admiring sunsets, the blue of the smoky mountains, the blaze of fall leaves in our woods and the glittering snow that graced Chicago just in time for Christmas.

The year I prayed over my kids and penned more prayers than I ever imagined. The year we found a closer church so we could start going to in-person worship again. The year we baptized our new baby.

It was the year everything seemed heavier with two children. The year I boldly sought help with childrearing and cultivated a stronger village. A year of holding the weight of motherhood and finding others to help me carry it.

The year I watched my oldest grapple with friendship hurdles and expand his social circle. The year he swam, played on a team, and began kindergarten. The year he built with Legos, rode without training wheels, became a big brother. The year I saw my baby’s first smile, roll, crawl and babble, and each left me breathless with wonder. The year I witnessed ordinary miracles.

It was a year of taking turns with my husband, learning to be a team, falling deeply in love again. A year of unloading the dishwasher, doing the laundry, paying the bills, returning library books. A year of shared glances, warm embraces and deeper knowing.

The year I learned the power of silence. The year I paid closer attention to what’s unsaid and tried to say less myself. The year I listened deeply for the voice of my Creator.

It was my phoenix year. The year I burned down my old way of being, the false tales I told myself about myself and reemerged equipped with the knowledge I need to shine brighter.

I nested. I mothered. I cuddled. I messed up. I apologized. I read. I wrote. I gave it my all. I let it all go. I failed. I soared.

My son’s cries came from the bedroom. I set aside my pen and stopped writing. The rest of the day unfolded, same as usual: I scrambled eggs, changed dirty diapers, and loaded the dishwasher. We walked the dog and marveled at the snowflakes and I tripped on a stack of Magna-Tiles.

Later that night, we gathered around our kitchen table for white chicken chili. It was the first family meal we’d shared in seemingly ages given my husband’s aggressive end-of-the-year work schedule. After I put the baby to bed, my older son, my husband and I enjoyed slices of pumpkin pie, my traditional birthday dessert.

I lit my birthday candle and smiled back at my boys while they wished me a happy birthday. Gazing at the flame, I held a simple wish in my heart: More. God, give me more time with them. More beauty. More life. I’ve reached my 37th chapter and I am not yet finished writing a beautiful story.

I’m just getting started.

Written 12/22/22

A prayer for my son after his fifth birthday

Dear Jack,

The morning you turned five, you rocketed out of your bed first thing and crawled into ours. I held you close and wished you a happy birthday. I asked, “Are you excited to be five?” You squealed “Yes!” and woke up your father.

The night before I’d baked you a chocolate birthday cake with blue buttercream frosting and a Superman cake topper, just like you requested. You love blue, and Superman is your favorite hero. At bedtime, you always ask for “a little superhero story” featuring him, you and our dog, “Super Gussy.”

I’m not sure how or when you decided Superman was your favorite hero. All I know is after you were born, your grandmother gave me a stuffed bear dressed in a Superman shirt and cape. I think she meant it to represent me, though I felt anything but heroic. Nothing about your birthday had gone according to plan — and I love a good plan — resulting in an emergency c-section for me and your stay in the NICU. Honestly, I thought I’d failed you.

Yet five years later, I can see the strength in both of us. You bravely scale trees and the heights of playgrounds. You’re sounding out phonics so well and on the verge of reading. You love science experiments and going to swim lessons. I’m proud of the super boy you’ve become, with your kind heart, generous spirit and boundless imagination. I’m grateful for all I’ve learned by mothering you.

My prayer for you at five is that, when faced with conflict, you’ll make a heroic choice. That you’ll voice your values and strive for peaceful resolution.

I pray you keep noticing the beauty of creation and urging me to join you.

I pray you continue loving and learning from stories — from your children’s Bible, favorite shows and books that inspire you. I trust you’ll glean empathy and wisdom from grappling with difficult stories.

I pray you see yourself and everyone you meet as a beloved child of God, including those who think, pray or look differently than you.

Most of all, I pray you know how deeply Dad and I love you and how deeply your Creator loves you. That you keep sharing that love with your neighbors near and far.

Love,
Mom

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