Beatrix: Seven and a half

Hey kid,

This letter is late. I kept thinking that a good time to write it would be after this thing or that thing was done. When there would be a little bit of space. But the end of the school year, the start of summer camps, some travel mixed in there — there kept being a next thing after the next thing. Anyway, I’m sorry I’m late.

Re-reading my last letter to you, what hits me is how much has changed in the last six months. In the world around you, sure, but I mean specifically with you. Six months ago you were worried about kids and their gender nonsense, worried about being weird. Now you are so clear on all that, which pieces you have time for and which pieces you absolutely do not.

You’ve grown a lot. Not enough to be free of your booster seat, which you resent. But somewhere along the line you formed the idea that it wasn’t cool to be walked to a friend’s house by parents and, like a light switch, that was over. There have been several of those, where your mom and I are caught off-guard by the quickness with which you outgrow a thing. You came out of your room a while ago with a pile of books saying, “these can go to the little library, they’re too young for me.” And as you make each of those decisions, there’s no hesitation or second-guessing. They’re final. That’s new.

Speaking of new things, if you’re wondering when we, your parents, became mortifying, it was about 3 months ago. If we must walk you somewhere you ask us to stand on the sidewalk, or behind a tree or something. And last month, when we were walking downtown and you realized that the shortest path to get where we were going was past OCAD — the art college — you stopped dead on the sidewalk and refused. Refused! Those people were artists. The idea that you would be seen, being walked by your parents, in front of artists was an unmitigated horror. We went around.

Art. Kiddo, I don’t know what you will be when you grow up and I don’t think you do either, but the degree to which art infuses your every day is intense. We’ve noticed that all the arty adults in our life gravitate towards you. They talk with you, and then make eye contact with us like, “are you aware?” Oh yes. We’re aware. As a parent, it’s always a treat to have other people really see your kid. And you — we always tell them you’re like a cat. You can’t force B to engage with you, all you can do is hang out and put out vibes and see if B comes to you. The art people get it right away, and chatting with you brings out the art in them, which is really… well it’s just beautiful, B.

The other thing the adults in our life love about you is your unrelenting, deadpan dunks on your parents. You’re a funny, funny kid, but you’re also unafraid to say so when you disagree with a parent, and it’s a brutal combination. Earlier today we were in a thrift shop and I tried on a denim jacket. You said, “No daddy, that doesn’t look right. It looks like a rock star.” And I said, “I could be a rock star!” And you, flat affect, like you were commenting on the weather, hit me with, “No. You’re more… management.” I think I heard the cashier snort. Brutalized. By a seven and a half year old.

You took your first ever trip to Europe because RSG had work in Spain. I wonder, as an adult, what you’ll remember from that trip. We didn’t have formal childcare, but half a dozen friends and colleagues and strangers all helped out. You told them all that your name means “traveller.” You made them art, and they made you art back. I think you loved it.

I feel like a lot of this letter is about the community of adults around you. Maybe that’s what happens when an adult is writing it. There are plenty of kids in your life, of course, to say nothing of your sis (whom you adore, and who is still permitted to walk you places). But right now your mom and I both have this sense that communities need some repair and reconnection — that we need that, too. And so it’s been really special to feel them around us, and around you, and I guess — whenever and wherever you are when you read this — I just want to remind you of how essential and simple and amazing community can be.

Goodnight B. Love you. Even from the sidewalk, or behind a tree.

Daddy