February 14, 2015
Dear Cole,
I fell in love with you even before the tests proved you were there. Your dad and I had been creating TV, radio and print campaigns for years. However, you will always be the greatest show of our creative abilities. They don’t give out ADDY’s or One Shows for that, but we didn’t care. Something bigger than fame, success, and ambition was developing. I felt an immediate connection. You did make me sick at first, which made hiding your existence a little difficult. Not that we didn’t want to shout the fact from the rooftops. Your dad and I changed jobs to lower the stress of our work so that it wouldn’t affect your development. We wanted you in our lives. I talked to you every day. I read to you, too. I couldn’t wait to meet you. You took your time. I waited weeks past your due date. That was a bit too long. Luckily, we were in the right place at the right time, and though you came into this world with great urgency, you landed safely. I will always be grateful for that.
Every parent I know describes feeling a love like they’ve never felt before. It is amazing to me how every babble, blink, burp, or bm was a wondrous event. Reading “Pat The Bunny” to you again and again and again and again and again never seemed to bore me. A Blues fan from the beginning, the music that would settle you was The Cobra Record Story. I know every word of every song by heart. I even made up my own songs to the rhythms of those like, “You get fussy at four, but I just love you more.”
You smiled from day one. Even though you had colic, and your system was very distressed, you could always summon a smile between pains. In fact, I’ll never forget we were in the doctors because you were running a fever, you were maybe 4 or 5 months and your dad started playing with you and your belly laughed so hard. Here we were in the doctors because you were sick, and this infectious laughter came out of you for the first time.
Your whole being seemed to emanate joy. If you missed a day at daycare, the teachers would say that the children didn’t eat as well. Apparently, you walked around the tables and made sure every child “ate their colors”. When I would pick you up you would squeal in delight. It thrilled me while at the same time making me aware of how much I wanted to be home with you. We decided to give it a try.
I stopped working full-time and went freelance. That meant sometimes you sat quietly at my feet and played in the recording studio and occasionally, I’d have to take you to meetings. One meeting, while I looked for an address at King Plow, you decided to climb into the fountain to try to catch a fish. Luckily, your diaper held up to that; even the fish survived. When I brought you to New York while I helped Ogilvy & Mather with a client pitch, we spent a weekend at an Ashram. I remember you were pretty much potty trained by the end of it. Running around diaper-less long enough to discover the wonders of being a boy and urinating outside worked like a charm.
At home, the bottom drawers in the kitchen were all yours. However, the idea of sharing came innately to you. One night we were all watching a movie, and you went to the kitchen, climbed up on a chair and got three plums. You walked back and handed one to me, one to your dad, and kept one for yourself. You were like a magic fairy enchanting us all. Of course, I do have fond memories of you utilizing the concept of sharing as a negotiating tool to get what you wanted as well, “Mommy, would you like a popsicle?
Your first haircut, your first day at school, your first best friend, your first band concert, your first play, your first jujitsu competition, your first big idea, your first love, your first car drive – are all still vivid in my mind. Our first big trip together was to Paris. At only 11 or 12, you enjoyed going to museums and seemed so taken by the artwork. Your favorite at the time was Rodin. Getting the chance to see just how many times he sculpted a hand or foot to “get it right” fascinated us both. For your high school graduation trip, we went to Seville. It was such fun, from witnessing the passion behind the art, dance, and other crafts of the area to giggling over “monkey butt” remedies. Our most recent trip to India seemed daunting compared to our other excursions. I felt less in control on many levels. It became a demarcation line marking your independence. Though you’d already gone to college at Clemson, our trip made it clear to me that you were now your own man. I attended the Geeta Iyengar Birthday Yoga Intensive, and you found a Sitar teacher to study something you wanted to learn. Our days held vastly different experiences, but in the evenings we would share them along with an adventure together at a restaurant, a cave or museum. However, our connection felt more like two adults than mother and son.
Needless to say, it’s still an adjustment for me. We did do a few walkabouts together in India, and I cherish those. They have been our ritual since you were very little. Our first ones began as an adventure and a time to use our imaginations. We created a parade of dinosaurs that followed us. Every walk we made up fun stories where a dinosaur got out of line or had an issue where we helped them. When you got older, our talks changed. You shared your ideas about a software company, which you later began in 5th or 6th grade developing software games. You told me about your ideas for inventions for everything from cars and rail systems to an intriguing plan for a better educational system (one that teaches based on the student and not a one-size-fits-all curriculum - I wish you had that available to you now).
I’ve watched you become such an amazing guy. You have an analytical mind, a creative soul, and a warm heart. You have so many talents you enjoy already from barista, banjo, guitar, and sitar playing to cooking inventive gourmet. I know that no matter what you do or where you go you will make a difference in the lives you touch.
My most profound moment with you was when you were just a toddler and unfortunately caught me crying after I’d experienced a great loss. You patted my knee and said, “Mommy, don’t lose yourself. Don’t lose yourself.” You were only two and a half and your wise words resonated so strongly with me, I shifted immediately to a better place. For that reason, every Valentines Day I want to send those beautiful words back to you. Don’t ever lose yourself, because as you can see you are a precious, magical soul, my dear King Cole and you are loved very much.
Happy Valentines Day!
Love, Mom
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