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Dear son:
Never worry about being “unplanned.”
You are a very intentional child.
Remember every milestone. The day I found out you were on your way. The first day at school with a little red lunch box, the first loss (a goldfish named “Sushi”), the first girlfriend, the graduation from kindergarten to university, and then the first time on stage at dozens of concerts. Singing solo. For the first time, I discovered the power of soothing you, of loving unconditionally, and of being loved.
We went through the Buzz Lightyear era. You wore that costume day and night, including when we picked blueberries, your bulging wings sticking out in the bushes and your white costumed knees turning purple.
I once cursed myself for stepping on Legos with my bare feet on my way to the bathroom at night. We went to the supermarket with Superman and Batman capes. You impatiently explain to your ignorant mother about Minecraft, Dungeons and Dragons, and her computer programs. When we traveled, we saw the world through your eyes and found you “lost” in the Chugach Option school library. There were several door slams and one wall punch when I was a teenager.
We haven't missed anything.
We have learned from each other. One winter morning, on my way to school, I saw a car flip over on Dimond Boulevard. I said, “That's why you wear your seatbelt.” Later that night, as I put him in the car, he said, “Thank you for showing me why I wear my seatbelt.”
Years later, we were rushing to a football game and you were eating a hamburger in your booster seat. I noticed that you stopped to eat in a corner where homeless people were begging for money. “Why isn't it over? We're almost there.” You said, “You can't eat in front of people who don't have anything to eat.” Seeing your empathic powers at a young age made me pay more attention to others.
Balancing career and motherhood was never easy, but we made it work. Once, when I had to travel for work and you were still in elementary school, I gave you a ring to wear until I got back. You met me at the airport and I was crying because a stone had fallen. I picked you up and told you it didn't matter at all, you were here and you were safe, that was the only thing that mattered.
I've always wanted to become a mother someday, but I wasn't sure when or how. Then life gave me three weeks to make a decision. The necessary treatment for cancer permanently stops egg production. My indecision disappeared and I chose to do what I could. You mated under fire and used new and flashy techniques that were incredibly expensive, but each step of the way was blessed with grace that made it your miracle.
You were meant to be.
There is a sentimental ache when I remember the days when you needed me, from skinning my elbows to encouraging me after disappointments. But our journey has surpassed all hopes and dreams and continues to do so. Sometimes I feel so grateful that I almost collapse.
My own mother passed away a long time ago. It's the worst heartache I've ever endured. Every time I make a new recipe for you or repeat a tired adage like “many hands make an easy job,” I give you her love, and give her my I give you my honor.
One year, you forgot to call me until midnight on Mother's Day. I'll never forget those empty moments wondering if you would remember me that day. As I grew older, I went from thinking, “It's just a stupid Hallmark holiday,” to actually understanding why it was important.
Now I receive texts almost every day.
Messages like “I’m in!” “Check out my new haircut”, travel photos, “Good night, I love you” and “Check out this new recipe I made” come from afar. These notes mean so much more than the seven seconds it takes to pick them up between your fingers.
I am sad that I am not with you today, but it reflects an important truth. Our children only really need us for a few years.
I'm sorry I'm not with you today because you're independent and living a full life, surrounded by friends, hobbies, a meaningful job, and new cities and regions to explore. That's it!
Love puts ointment on the difficult things we face.
It has helped this mother endure everything life throws at her.
With love and gratitude,
mother
Mary Katzke is the executive director of Affinityfilms Inc., a nonprofit film production company focused on social issues and based in Anchorage since 1982.
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