Benjamin Penguin

Dear Benjamin,

Ah, what interesting mood a bit of a gray, foggy day can bring. I started out tired and ended up contemplative and, while not sad, rather pensive at the conclusion of my day out and about in the world. As I planned to write your monthly letter tonight, I do it from this frame of mind. Which is to say that I am not really sure what direction this mood will take my letter, but it will likely be one of quiet reflection. Let me explain.  Two things happened today in the course of an hour that really shaped my current state of mind.  I had a meeting this afternoon and on my way back to the office, I took note of a sad little sight. A pigeon had flown up on to the tracks of the elevated train and appeared to be hit by the engine. It fell to the ground below and settled on the ground, facing towards a concrete wall. It’s back was badly hurt and it’s leg was broken. Almost instantly I let out a small groan because I knew that the bird would likely not be able to recover and that things would not end well. I was upset that there was nothing I could do and no way in which the animal could really die in quiet dignity. It would die alone, in pain, facing a concrete wall as busy Chicagoans shuffled by, intent on arriving at their next point of destination. And in that moment, I, too, felt alone. Because it’s not very easy to be one of the few people walking along that street that cares about a dirty little pigeon.  I called Daddy right away because, well, he is just about one of the only people in the world that would get why I was choking back tears over an animal most people kick away with an impatient foot as they make their way down Wabash Avenue. And of course, he did. Not only that, but he felt equally upset and wished there was something that he could do as well.

Just a short while later, after I made a few calls to various city agencies to implore someone put the poor bird out of its misery, I engaged in a conversation with a homeless person.  There are many homeless people in Chicago and a number of them find themselves parked in the vicinity of my place of employment. In part this is because there is a large, warm alleyway next to my building that provides excellent, if not temporary, shelter from the cold.  Often, people will ask Mama for money as she is walking to and from work. Mama never has money because Mama has butter fingers and she misplaces it, spends it or generally fails to care for it mere moments after she is in receipt of it. So I didn’t have any money to share with the person when he asked for spare change. Maybe it was because there was so little that I could do for the pigeon. Maybe it was because this person was the fourteenth homeless person I had passed in my 10 minutes of walking and I was feeling a bit frustrated by the occasional, sometimes cruel, harshness of life. Whatever the cause, I quickly motioned for him to follow me into the nearest sandwich shop and I bought him a sandwich and a soda. I hope it helped.

I bring all of this up as a preface to the question that has been dancing around my brain ever since these things happened this afternoon. Namely, when you encounter your world, will you experience similar depths of overwhelming sadness and joy? I always find myself thinking about the boy, then young man and then man that you may grow to be and I wonder, will you see the same radiant glimmers of hope around the sharp edges of despair? Will you stop suddenly in the middle of a walk down a busy morning sidewalk to lean against a building and revel in the sight of a gorgeous sun rising over the lake? And will you think to yourself, “Oh, how wonderfully lovely”? Conversely, will you let this same wall hold you up when you realize that some horrible inevitably is about to unfold and you are powerless to stop it and offer some measure of reverence and dignity to the situation? And will you think to yourself, “Oh, how terribly sad”?

I think, truthfully, you are too young yet for me and Daddy to really sense how compassionate a person you will become. Increasingly, we catch glimpses of an empathy that seems indicative of compassion.  When I or Daddy seem tired or sad or if I have employed the daily ritual of accidentally hurting myself by banging my head or foot or some other body part, you look at me for a moment, as if sizing up the situation, and then generally say a simple, “hugs.” Weeks back, you developed this as your cue to have someone come over to you and give you a hug or lovingly squeeze you in some way. I can’t begin to tell you the number of times you say “hugs” in a day. Or the number of times you run up to my legs or Daddy’s legs and wrap your arms around them and hug.  One of the things I have always loved about Daddy is his absolute desire to embrace Mama in a hug multiple times a day, to tell her that he loves her and to show his affection in other very obvious ways. It’s a little gift that I regularly cherish and can’t imagine a life without it. I’ve always chalked it up to Daddy being a very compassionate person that – deep down – really does love life, though our social world often angers, frightens or disappoints him. As it should. It is at once an amazing and awful place to live out your days.

My rapidly expanding assumption is that you are going to be a man just like your Daddy, because the seeds of this personality seem to be sprouting already.  How wonderful this would be. How absolutely, utterly wonderful. I love the man that Daddy is and love what he brings to our life and to our world. I love that he loves animals, cares about people, does thoughtful things without being asked and tries hard to see both the good and the bad in the world, if not always in equal measure. You can come to Mama for an overwhelmingly upbeat dose of optimism. Go to Daddy for a more tempered version of the same.  So, I guess I love his complexity as well.  I will love the man that you become no matter who you are and how you eventually engage in life with those around you. I think that you will have a very rich, very complex and very wise soul as you mature. I don’t know how that will translate into your very own little personality as a child and then your matured personality as an adult. But you’ll have to forgive my sincere wish that the man you become resemble your Daddy.

I don’t think that you are a simple child. And I mean simple in the unflattering, turn-of-the-century way. What I mean to say is that I think you are already something of a thinker and a liver and a dreamer. I get the real sense, with each passing day, that you are probably not going to be a person that lets life pass by without some serious living. There is an intensity about your play and a conviviality to your interactions with others that suggests a certain joie de vivre. I am thinking back to Halloween this year. It was the first in which you could really participate since your very first Halloween occurred when you were about 10 months old and incapable of walking. I wasn’t really all that worried about putting you in a costume because I just had the sense that you would be fine with the theatrics of it all. And, in fact, you put the costume on without a fuss and wore it for the rest of the evening without a fuss. You walked along the street like it was the most normal thing in the world to be wearing a puppy costume and approached houses with an assured “Here I am” quality that belied your young age. You didn’t quite get that you should say anything to request the candy and you weren’t entirely sure why you were standing on a porch being handed chocolate, but that’s not the point. The point is that you took this very unknown, very novel experience all in stride. I found myself giggling repeatedly throughout the night for this very reason. I would look down at you walking along side me, just bopping along in your costume, or following me up to the front door of a house and waiting there patiently for someone to give us candy and I was amazed at the ease with which you were innately enjoying something as silly and festive as the Halloween holiday.

I’ve got to keep this letter short. You are currently tugging on my leg and begging me to come play with the dough I made you last week. But I just wanted to stop and tell you that I think you are an amazing little person already. I can’t wait to witness the person that you grow into, but don’t let that detract from the fact that I adore being with the little you that you are now. How could something so small be so bright and shining and wonderful? How is it that the sheer act of writing about you just now has taken a gray day and the accompanying gray mood and completely flipped it to a calm peace and a real gratitude for life and my years on this planet. This, above all, is the amazing gift YOU give me every day. Thanks, buddy.

Love,

Mama

Dear Benjamin,

During your 20th month of life, we moved. In years to come, when you grow into adulthood and find that you have to put all of your belongings in little boxes and carry them elsewhere to then remove them from the little boxes, you will understand why I can remember little from the 20th month of your life. Other than boxes. And tape. And more boxes. And then some more.

You most assuredly did cute things. You always do cute things. You most assuredly did things that made me laugh, made me feel a little flustered, made me feel happy and made me feel worried. I am pretty sure you wore my hot pink headband for about 4 hours one day. That was mighty adorable. You likely said new words you have never said before and you waffled between eating really well and ignoring everything but cookies, as toddlers are wont to do. You and I probably took a walk tor two and I’m sure there was a temper tantrum in there for good measure. We did see Nana and Grandpa in Milwaukee. This much I do remember.

I can’t really remember much else, though. It’s an unfortunate reality that some life events are so all-encompassing, so time-consuming, that they blot out the memory of anything else that happens during that time. The last time I felt this way was when you were a tiny little newborn. I know that I was walking, moving and talking during the month of January 2008, but that’s about all I can say about that. The rest is a big, puffy blur. Of course, in that case it was less an “unfortunate reality” and more a “terrifyingly new yet exciting reality that shook the foundations of my previous life to the core.” But you get the idea. Big changes leave big waves that make it hard to see anything else.

I know, last month, that I didn’t see you much and I hated that. I know that I was busy all the time and had little opportunity to play with you and I hated that. I know that Daddy had really bad back problems and couldn’t help with the move towards the end there and I rather hated that, too. Although, you were super cute about the whole thing – you would grab your back and say “ohhhh daddy back hurt” because Daddy spent the whole month falling all over the place moaning about his back. Since I have had a back problem or two in my day, I can sympathize. And apparently, so can you.

So, let’s put the month of September (and this disappointingly short monthly letter) to a close. October has been more interesting and I’ll tell you all about it in a little bit.

Love,

Mama