It’s easy to forget you had a life before Nick and me, Mom. It wasn’t until recently that I realized how accomplished you were before we came along, for you do the mom job so perfectly. Yeah any woman who has a baby is technically a mom, but not really. It’s a title to be earned. Does she go to her all her son’s sporting events? Does she lick her finger to fix his hair? Does she drive him to three bar mitzvahs in one night? Does she insist on taking photos to document his life, even when he complains “Not another one, Mom!” Does she fret more over a serious sunburn than a mugging? Does she knit Christmas stockings? Does she bring homemade cinnamon rolls to Asia?

Anyone who knows you would say thoughtfulness and attention to detail are your trademarks. Meticulous compassion. More than a few people have compared you to another Martha, minus the felon part. Nick and I tease you about being “proper” – when we were younger, that meant calling a fart a “tushy burp” and saying something “stinks” instead of “sucks.” Now it means eating with the mouth closed (Nick) and not wearing shirts with massive rips in them (Nick). It was hilarious to discover that some of my girlfriends were initially intimidated by you, worried that they could never impress you. There’s even an ongoing competition over whom you like best.

You can do anything. Journalism? Check. Photography? Check. Design a house? Check. Cook a mean calzone? Check. You bike ride before the rest of us even wake up (and bring fresh bagels back), and play tennis the other days. My Halloween costumes are works of art, and we’re not just talking back in the day with “The Cow that Jumped Over the Moon.” Just last year you made my Woody vest, and two years ago you made not one, but four Waldo shirts.

Dad and I were joking the other day that every time I call, you exclaim, “I was just thinking of you!” Or “I ran out of the house for a second, but brought my cell phone just in case you were to call.” I thought it was coincidence at first, just good timing, but it was soon clear you’re never not thinking of me (and Nick, I suppose). Which is why I know how hard it was for you to let me do this trip. I know you’re constantly worrying about me, but, if it makes you feel any better, there were no grey hairs last time I saw you.

When I was younger, I can’t remember how many times you used to say to me, to lightheartedly plead: “Promise me you’ll always stay my little boy.” And though I may not fit on your lap anymore, though I may have learned a few more things over the years, though I may be the tallest one in the family, though I may have facial hair (okay, not yet), though I may be miles away – I promise. (Click on the photo to see the rest of the message...)

This entry was posted on Wednesday, March 22nd, 2006 at 4:25 am in XVIII. Argentina. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.