Letters to You
By Michelle Parrott
It’s that time of the year again. All three of my children have celebrated another year around the sun. The parties were planned, the candles blown out, the gifts exclaimed over and then, generally, forgotten. It isn’t January, but in our family it still feels a bit like a new year. The clock resets to zero, once again, as each child’s age ticks upward one notch.
Mentally checking off a list of tasks that I have never bothered to write down, I text out the birthday thank-yous to the friends who came to the last party. I make well-child appointments and dentist appointments. I try introducing new responsibilities for the oldest two, my twins. Okay, you’re six now, Mom doesn’t dress six year-olds! Last year, actually, they were informed that Mom doesn’t dress five-year-olds, but somehow, the new rule didn’t stick. Maybe this year.
Then, there is only one more task remaining in my “birthday season” routine: writing each of my kids a letter. Someone gifted me two lovely, linen-bound books called “Letters to You,” when I was pregnant with my twins. Inside are pages to write down a few fun memories of your child for each year of their life, and a blank page where you are supposed to write them a letter. I was never amazing at keeping up my kids’ baby books, but this–writing to them–I have committed to.
Every year around this time, when the birthday dust and glitter has settled (or...sometimes a couple months later!) I take out these books and spend an evening or two composing and carefully handwriting the annual letter. I might tear up while marveling at how quickly yet another year passed. I might flip through the completed pages and smile at the sweet memories recorded there, inevitably coming across some anecdote that I had completely forgotten about. And yes, I might give myself a pat on the back for checking this box once again, for being the mom who can at least keep up with this one tradition.
“You have taken your time with your milestones, which is fine with me, although I'd like to have a word with you about sleeping through the night.”
“It’s so fun to see your imaginary games, like putting out fires or making ‘special deliveries.’”
“Your third year of life was my favorite with you yet! It was also the year the world went crazy with a global pandemic.”
This year I started off really strong–only about three weeks had elapsed since the twins turned six when I plucked the books (three of them now) from the shelf one evening. Before writing the boys’ six-year letters, I thought, best to refresh myself on their five-year letters. One twin’s letter was right there where it was supposed to be, page twelve, written in my barely legible handwriting. But his brother’s matching book had a blank page twelve. Apparently, my perfect streak of loving letters was broken.
Panicked, I wracked my brain. How could I have forgotten his letter? Why would I have done one and not the other? What about my daughter, who turned one last year…surely I had taken the time to write her a letter, right? Suddenly, the prospect of having to write not only three new letters about the two-year-old and six-year-olds of today but also, making up the missing assignment about the five-year-old of a year ago seemed like far, far too much. This must be how memory keeping practices died. One small slip-up quickly turning into overwhelm, and then surrender. The blank pages piling up and mocking me like too many baskets of laundry, daring me to tackle them, but multiplying too quickly for me to ever catch up.
A few deep breaths later, I found a reprieve, for now at least. As it turned out, I had written the letter for my one year old. And, thankfully, I soon discovered that my son’s missing letter was safe in my very disorganized Google Drive; it just hadn’t made it onto the page. I’m not really behind, after all. Not by much.
And so, I sat down to write, and read, and reflect on my three growing children, and all the myriad ways they’d changed in 365 days. Sitting there, surrounded by all the letters I’d already written, I noticed something. Much of what I’d put to paper in these heartfelt missives was about describing them: funny quirks, cute expressions, fond memories, milestones, favorite foods. Of course, it’s a book about them, right? Their lives, one year at a time, faithfully captured. But then, I tried to imagine handing over this book to an 18-year-old fresh high school graduate. What will they think? Will Ben care to know that he made a “lemonade juicing machine” from cardboard when he was 4? Will Noah take joy in discovering that when he was two he often asked to read about “Little Nut-Brown Hare,” but called it “Butt-Nown Bunny?”
I believe these snapshots are valuable, even priceless. Still, something feels hollow about the way I’ve written the letters up until now. I’ve told them how much I love them in each and every one, and surely that is the most important thing. But what is missing? What else could they want from these letters? What more will I wish that I had said?
I think further into the future, visualizing my three little ones as middle-aged adults. Maybe they are sharing their memories with their own children, now coming of age. Maybe they’ve only just now taken possession of all their childhood paraphernalia–hey, it happens to the best of us. Or maybe they are cleaning out their parents’ home, reminiscing in preparation for a funeral. Maybe they are missing me.
I hope that they’ll feel love in the sweet words I’ve recorded in these simple books. And that they’ll have a laugh or two. But I also think they’ll crave a bit more of me in the “letters to you.” It’s fine to record milestones and to do my best to depict a child who will be long lost to time by the day my words are read. But much of this exists for my kids in other places, too. They will have innumerable videos of their childhood, and even my old blogs describing their latest interests and idiosyncrasies, should they care to remember. I want these letters to be something else. In these letters, I do not want to be a ghostwriter, simply packaging current them and delivering it to future them. I have written 11 “Letters to You.” I know now that beginning with the 12th, little by little, I want to put more of myself on the page. More of how I felt along the way, and hopefully a bit of wisdom that they can hold on to one day when childhood is long in the past and life is hitting them full force and I am no longer there. More of what they’ve taught me, and less of what I’ve taught them.
“You know your colors so well now, and you love picking flowers every time we go for a walk!”
“The way you insist on plucking flowers from every bush we pass is one of my favorite things about you. You’ve made me a convert to the joys of collecting these bright bits of beauty. They may be ephemeral, but tomorrow there will always be more to discover.”
“You and your brother are inseparable and love meeting friends at the park for playdates.”
“Though your relationship won’t be free of tension, I pray that both of you always know the precious gift you’ve been given, and that you always consider each other a safe harbor. For me, having trustworthy long-term friends has been invaluable in my life. I hope you’ll find people who ground you and value you too, starting with the person God put alongside you from the very beginning: your brother.
I don’t know exactly what this looks like yet. I do know this tradition is not the only way I can honor our memories and bottle up a bit of our time together on this Earth, but if I am going to take the time to write to my children, let it be intentional. Let it be earnest. Let them not only read my words, but hear my voice as well. I will be glad that I took the time to immortalize a bit of the fleeting, precious people they were at each and every age. If nothing else, I will have the memories for myself (in my Google drive, somewhere!) even if the kids themselves don’t really care. But I think they will treasure it too if I succeed in introducing them, even a little, to a version of Mom who is also fleeting, and whom they might not otherwise feel like they ever knew. I want us both, mother and child, to discover a bit more of ourselves preserved between the pages this year. Slightly faded, but still beautiful.
Guest essay written by Michelle Parrott. Michelle is a part-time teacher and mom of three. A Pacific Northwest native, she and her husband moved to Saudi Arabia in 2012 and discovered they love the expat life. She doesn’t have a Substack—just a very full Google Drive.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.