Stella | walscapades.com

This was the year. The year we would get Stella on the chair lift and the year we would get Porter on skis. And what do you know, but we did it! Or, they did it. Er, um, we facilitated it? Whatever. Stella slayed the chair-lift (with the one minor hiccup of nearly taking out my mom’s knee on one of her earlier dismounts), and Porter skied. Let me say that again: Porter. Skied. Okay, to be totally honest, he spent about 10 minutes in his lesson until he grew too impatient to wait, and instead made Steve haul him to the top of the bunny hill. Steve, who was not wearing skis. You see, Porter had no interest in the banal details of safety and recovery – he just wanted to ski, Ski, SKI!!! And so up he went, armed with a lot of enthusiasm and little else. He made it up and down the hill a couple of times – only dragging Steve over once. And at the end of it all he called it a success, and so therefore WE called it a success. Done annnnd done!

The rest was all just gravy…

Hey Sis,

Well, here we are. Year 7. A year of growth, and change and life altering moments.

If I’d ever had a 7 year old before, I might be able to have a little perspective. However, being that I have no recollection of being 7 myself, I instead find myself proud, conflicted, confused, excited, perplexed and surprised – as in, daily. Like, how sometimes you are 7. You play fairies with your friends. You build forts with your brother. You color, and make potions from mud and grass, and watch cartoons. Then, sometimes you are 13. You pout. You primp and preen about your appearance. You trot around with your iPod belting out lyrics like “How will I knnnoowwww if heeeee looooves me?” Aye carumba. I sense the changes coming, and it is frightening. No, make that terrifying. No, wait, make that frighteningly terrifying. Your dad and I both can personally relate to many aspects of your personality – which directly underscores our fear. Ironically, our counselor informed us that it is that empathy that might be our greatest asset.

What counselor? Oh yeah, about that…

This year, your dad and I reached a point where we felt like we had emptied our parenting toolbag (even going so far as to turn it upside down and shake it vigorously in the hopes that a Chaos McMinimizer® might have been stuck somewhere in the lining.) So we sought professional help. We initially set out on this quest due to your brother (something he will hear about AT LENGTH in his birthday post) – but also to get a handle on the overall chaos our house seemed to be continually swept up in. Our counselor – The Child Whisperer, as I like to refer to her – gave us some pretty interesting information that has helped us understand the intricacies of your personalities a little better. You, my little flower, have a bit of an impulsive side to you. This wasn’t exactly news. Nor was the fact that for both you and your brother they had to add about 6 additional numbers to the scale so we could accurately score you in the Intensity category. None of this was really all that shocking – however she did give us some guidance on how to productively channel all this awesomeness: trickery and magic. And sometimes, handcuffs (but just sometimes).

After last year’s little leapfrogging exercise you did from Kindergarten to 1st grade, we all of a sudden found ourselves walking you to the first day of 2nd grade. Poof, just like that. It was an emotional day for many reasons (more on this later), but you – per your usual self – walked in, sat down and owned the place. Just before letting out for Thanksgiving we had your parent-teacher conference, and with the exception of a not so subtle comment about someone’s need to always have the last word (ahem), you are a model student. And although you jumped from the top to the bottom of the age heap, you are indistinguishable as anything other than a full-fledged 2nd grader. Just promise me you will use your powers for good and not evil. Please?

You are still an avid reader and often times when I wonder where you have been for the last hour, will find you off somewhere buried in a book. This becomes very conflicting for me when I have asked you on 15 different occasions to get your pajamas on and each time I come to check you have only moved one inch closer to your dresser – while still reading. You’ll have to excuse me if I find difficulty in yelling at my child to stop reading already.

Now, on to the part I hate to have to write. This year your Uncle Scott died. It still sounds so surreal to even say. It was out of nowhere, and although it has just now been a little over three months, all of us feels like we have lived 10 lifetimes. Your dad and I opted to tell you about it right away, and gave you the option of attending the funeral. You immediately agreed, telling me that unlike those of us who were at the hospital, you didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. And although you were there, going through the experience with all of us, it has only been in these following months that I have watched you process what it all means. We have made a point to continue to talk openly about Scott in hopes that you and Porter will understand that this is something that takes a long time to work through and that no matter how much it hurts, we want to keep remembering him. You are continuing to ruminate and come up with new questions – like when, out of nowhere, you asked me if it hurts when you die. Ugh. I try to be honest in my answers, and try not to repress my emotion – but it is difficult, because I can tell that it upsets you when you see Dad and I cry. You have continually read and re-read the children’s grief books that we got from the nurses at the hospital, and they seem to be a comfort to you, as well as a signal to me that you are thinking about it. Stel, this will be something that will overshadow our lives forever, but your Dad and I are committed to do whatever it takes to bring us all through this. One step at a time.

I know that as you look back over these pages later you’ll realize that my frequency and volume of writing have thinned quite a bit over the last year or two. We are at a point where you guys need me more than my computer does. Thankfully, I have managed to keep a consistent stream of 140 character blog posts running over on Twitter, and a quick skim through that list tells a story of it’s own. I have no doubt I’ll get a chance to return to writing more frequently, and when I do I think even that will have changed. As you get older, I am careful to be much more selective about what I will and won’t say here. It isn’t fair for me to share details of your life that could ultimately be stumbled upon by your peers. Things that are funny or crazy or heartwarming to me as your mom, could be mortifying to you, and I want you to know that I respect you way too much to put you in that kind of position. Unless you deserve it ;)