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.
Erin Strybis 