Dear Lukey 7

The many moods of Lukey…ASSEMBLE.

In your seventh year, you have finally entered your Avengers stage, and this Marvel-loving mom could not be happier. Finally, we can watch movies together that I actually love. You are most obsessed with Hulk in all forms—your standard green Hulk, trendy new Red Hulk, Bruce Banner, Hulk Buster, all of it. You spend hours growling around the house pretending to be one of them and recently asked me to use old Halloween makeup to paint your entire torso green (I did not—though I did use it to paint your face then spray-painted your hair black, so why I stopped there is not clear). I could not support this phase more and hope it leads to many cherished memories of us going to the theater together, even if it’s to see “Avengers: The End For Real—We Super Mean It This Time” in 2047. 

Other than Avengers, your favorite things to watch are Orioles baseball with dad (which you call Birdie Baseball and please never stop doing that) and horror movies, which you insist on watching with me, a person who strictly adheres to a “real life is scary enough, no need to pile on” mentality. I’m kinda OK with camp, and we’ve had many conversations about the difference between Silly Scary (your “Sharknados,” your “Mega Shark vs. Crocosaurus”-es, which I will gladly watch all day) and Scary Scary (everything you like and I hate). You made me watch a film called “Sting,” in which a little girl’s pet spider grows enormous because of space goo and kills everyone in her apartment building by wrapping them up in giant webs and waiting for them to slowly suffocate. So, you know, family-friendly viewing at its finest. But I persevere because while we watch, you insist that we snuggle under a blanket so we can pull it up over our eyes during the scary parts. Worth it. 

Another new interest this year is baseball. You joined the team in the fall and have steadily improved since. You’re usually good for a few base hits a game and always reliable for some outfield dance moves. 

A baseball fan and his Mini Me

You also lost your first tooth this year. As is often the case with you, it happened in total frat-boy fashion. You had been wiggling it and grumbling about it for days, during which I repeatedly told you I’d happily remove it for you. That solution not being to your liking, you opted instead to complain to a neighborhood friend about it. Said friend offered to wrap a piece of tape around it (why?) then reach inside your mouth with his grimy little-boy fingers (also why?) and yank it out. That sounded good to you and a minute later, both of you burst through my front door and shoved a bloody tooth at me. The next day, the same neighborhood boy had a nasty stomach bug and was up all night feverish and puking. Because, of course he was. 

Frank the Tank minus one incisor.

You’re also still always making us laugh, whether with a wacky dance move, a contorted face, a silly voice or a spot-on impression. You’re a natural entertainer and if you don’t end up on some sort of stage, I’ll be super surprised (yet you’re also very good at surprising me, so we shall see). 

So festive. So funny.

But perhaps the moment that best sums you up as you turn seven came when we were watching your current favorite film, “Wolfman.” The frenetic woodland creature had taken a chunk from the boring dad’s arm and the latter was, quite painfully, transforming into the titular character (or maybe the thing in the woods was Wolfman? And they became Wolfmen? Wolvesmen? Idk). The dad/wolfman was writhing and crying and spitting out teeth and generally going through it, and you turned to me and, said, so earnestly, “I just want to rub his back and bring him a blanket.”

Of course you do. Your amazing capacity for kindness can’t even be quelled by a man morphing into a super murder-y werewolf (wereswolves?). I’m constantly in awe of you. 

You also just came over, peeked at my screen and asked what I was writing. When I told you I was writing about all the things you like right now, you thought about it a minute and said, “I like Mom.”

Guess what? I like you too, kid. Like, A LOT. 

Love always,

Mum

Dear Libby 10

It’s official—you’ve hit double digits. You are now closer to adulthood than you are to babydom. I recall being gutted last year when another mom said, “It’s half over,” meaning you’d be 18 in nine years. As you mark another year closer to that milestone, all I can say is WHERE’S THE PAUSE BUTTON?

Ten has marked a significant shift. So much about you is changing. Gone are the days of your personal aesthetic being rooted in rainbow everything and “the sparklier the better.” For the first time, your Christmas list included more clothes than toys, and most of your choices were graphic tees, baggy pants, and monochrome sets. You even opted for a more gender-neutral winter coat and (adorably) convinced me to buy your brother a matching one. 

Too bad he clearly hated twinning with his big sis. 

You also redid your room this year, swapping My Little Pony decals for Taylor Swift posters. You spend hours in there behind closed doors, though no door could block out the music you’re often blasting. These days, it’s the Wicked soundtrack with you singing along at full voice (both parts, of course). I always pause what I’m doing to listen as you drown out Elphaba on the last line of “Defying Gravity,” the anthem you also requested as your birthday shoutout song at your roller skating party this year. Watching you skate and sing your heart out to that song while waving your arms for emphasis and only falling once (ironically, to the line “And you can’t pull me down”) is something I will never forget. 

Your party also included a sample of your wide friend group full of all different kinds of personalities—some shy, some outgoing, some you’ve had for years, some you’ve just made recently. You made everyone feel included, as you always do. Your ability to see the best in everyone makes people from all different walks of life become genuinely drawn to you. When I’m subbing at school, I’m known as “Libby’s Mom” and I couldn’t be more proud. One boy asked me to give him the answers to an assignment because he was your friend, and I told him if I did that for everyone who was your friend, the majority of the school would cheat nonstop. 

In addition to being a great friend, you also continue to be fantastic at drawing. You’ve graduated from the plastic Fisher Price easel you dubbed “art show” to your very own desk in your room, where you’re constantly creating new characters, coming up with stories to illustrate, and growing as an artist. Thank God for online guided drawing tutorials because if you ever needed me to help you in this area, your education would end with stick figures. 

You also got your braces off this year (which I think you’re happy about), started playing the trombone (which I think you’re still figuring out if you like or not), and went ice skating for the first time, which you loved aside from acquiring the most bizarre, heel-spanning blister I’ve ever seen. It started out looking like a third-degree burn and as it healed, began to resemble a cut of ham, inspiring the nickname “Ham Heel Libby.” It was simultaneously gross and super hilarious. 

But even though they may hurt from time to time, I’m not going to stop you from trying new things. You are old enough now to experience a little bit of life and see what works for you and what doesn’t. And as you do, I will try to resist the urge to beg you to stop growing up. 

After all, everyone deserves the chance to fly. 

Love always, 

Mum