Dear Austin

Dear Austin,

Before Will was born, I stressed, I mean really, really stressed about how I was ever going to possibly be able to love him as much as I love you.    I mean, I actually worried about it.    Because I didn’t think it would ever be possible to ever love anyone in my life as much as I loved you.   And you were only three then.   And then, I couldn’t imagine that I would even love you so much more now, than I even did then.   

I quickly learned after Will was born a concept that I never quite understood before.    Love is infinite.   There is no shortage, it doesn’t run out.   It just grows and grows.   And when you need to come up with more of it, you just do.    Once I held Will in my arms I realized I’d never have to ration love, or worry about running out and having to share a limited supply, because when it came to my sons, my love would just grow and grow to the point that I would simply overwhelm them with it at times.  

So I was shocked tonight when you said that.   When I held Will in my arms and tried to comfort him because he was crying his eyes out because he couldn’t play Wii, a really silly reason to cry, admittedly, but his broken heart was made obvious by the tears, my natural response as a mother was to hold him and try to stop the crying.    

Remember he had been given a really big job to do, pickup all the Legos, all over the living room.   We don’t play Wii on school nights, but I told him if he could manage to do that before bedtime I’d let him play.   It probably wasn’t fair of me.   Like I said, it was a really big job.   And he became distracted, of course, and started building things as he cleaned up, so I felt really bad, like I’d set him up to fail.   So then, when he cried . . .  I just felt worse.   

When you said, “that proves you care more about him than me,”  I was totally shocked.   I had no idea where that was coming from.    And I could see how hurt you looked.    When I asked for an explanation, you couldn’t even put it into words.    

But then I realized, and said it:  it’s not just this one thing, it’s having to sit there and watch him being babied and comforted your whole life.   When as the oldest child, you’ve been pushed forward, pushed away faster, encouraged to do things for yourself, get over your tears a little faster, meet your milestones a little faster as we have been fascinated by watching you grow and seeing what you could accomplish next.    

Will, as the youngest, has had a bit of an opposite reaction from us.   We’ve held him back.   We HAVE babied him more.   We’ve tried to hold on to those last fleeting moments of every stage that we’ve watched you fly through.   Because we learned with you how fast little boys grow up.   And it’s so totally unfair.    

I tried to explain what it’s like from Will’s perspective, as the youngest.   He watches you do things he can’t - master new skills quickly, run faster, ride the over 48 inches rides at the amusement park, lift and push heavier items, take off with your friends, read and write, sing and dance, sleep all night without occasionally peeing the bed -  I could write a long list of things that you can do that he can’t - all of which frustrate and sadden him.    

But none of that is really important right now.   I remember once when we still lived in Virginia, and Will was just an infant, and you, of course, were only four, a moment when you reached me with a heartbreaking clarity that I’ll never forget.    Will had fallen down, and was crying, and I rushed to him to comfort him, and you said, “why don’t you ever do that when I cry?”   Tonight reminded me of that moment.   

Nevermind that you’ve deserved an Academy Award for your dramatic moments after every small injury since the time you were small, and we have spent a lot of time trying to get you to simply, ahem, get over things.    You were still four, and you needed hugs and kisses when you fell, and I, of course then and now refuse to believe you didn’t get them, though perhaps we did make a bigger deal when the four month old fell over and cried.   

Now, you’re ten.   And even though you still need hugs and kisses, as you slowly pull away from me in that way you are so naturally inclined to do, I’m not sure how to best comfort you.    You never bawl your eyes out over a Wii game.   You never bawl your eyes out over anything anymore.    But you do have a distant, hurt, raw look in your eyes sometimes when you become upset that I’m not sure how to best handle.    

I think I do overcompensate with Will a little, too, because I spend so much more time with you.    When you are in a show, I’m off with you, and Will is left here with Dad.    When you are rehearsing and I’m watching, Will comes into the room, and I immediately shush him, so that you aren’t disturbed.   I worry about how that makes him feel.   You and I have discussions, sometimes long ones, about things that he doesn’t understand.   I know he feels left out a lot.    And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I tend to make a big deal, a REALLY big deal, of your talents.    I’m often afraid Will is left to feel like he doesn’t quite measure up.   

The result of all of this is that I’m still pushing you to stand on your own a bit in places where I tend to baby him a little.    I’m sorry if this makes you feel unloved, because nothing could be farther from the truth.    

All I can say is that you were wrong tonight.    I don’t and have never cared more about your brother than you.    And I never will.    I told you before about what your mere existence means to me, and to quote another friend of mine who spoke of her son: when you were born I realized for the first time in my life there was a boy that I’d never be able to live without.    

I’m just sorry I haven’t done a better show of showing you all of that.   

Love,

Mom