“Mom, don’t you know, I have a sweet exterior and a crusty core.”
After I’d finished laughing, I made sure to jot this down so as not to forget such an insightful self-assessment. Now ten years old Cash, your awareness of both your strengths and shortcomings — and sense of humor! — has grown with you. I remember once reading about the joys and challenges of raising a gifted child. How from an early age, your child may demonstrate extreme independence: "I'll do it myself!" But, as time goes on, that desire to be in control can lead to perceived "bossiness" as well as a fear of taking risks. Yup, that’s a pretty accurate Cash summary. Conversations routinely turn into Matlock episodes as you valiantly defend your case, exposing any hypocrisies at the hands of grownups, namely me and Daddy. A tireless seeker of justice, fairness and equity is not always easy to parent, but out there in the world those will be your strengths.
Your internal fire ignited the moment you became an older brother, smoldering beneath the surface, sometimes burning into a five alarm blaze. Left unchanneled, my therapist warned, as you stand at the precipice of puberty, would not be ideal. “Have you ever heard of art therapy?” she said. “It might be a really good fit for Cash.” With my background in art therapy, I told her I had pondered the idea for some time.
Over the summer you started working with a creative arts therapist and it’s been amazing so far. An artist in your own rite, you’ve shown great insight and creativity when talking about yourself and your emotions, adding, “you’re right, it’s actually nice to have someone to talk to Mom. I feel really good afterwards. Plus she’s an oldest so she gets it.”
Even Grey, often the target of your wrath, has taken notice. “I’m actually glad Cash had me come into this world,” he whispered in my ear during bedtime. “I’m glad he’s my brother ‘cause he does some nice things for me … like with games.”
The next morning, Grey asked for a few pieces of paper “to make Cash a birthday card.” While you slept soundly, he taped two pieces of white paper together on which he made a drawing of you guys playing Nintendo, written with the words, “Cash I know that I have been angry. So I got you something.” Then, rummaging as quietly as he could through his piggy bank, he gathered enough quarters to make several stacks, taping them to the inside of the card. “I want to give Cash some of my money.” You know you don’t have to do that Grey, I said, knowing the piggy bank’s limited contents. “No, I want to give it to him so he can use it for something.”
It’s hard to believe you’re now ten Cash— double digits! And while you say you have a crusty core, there’s also an achingly sweet center. Like the time during quarantine when you opened up about your love for your best friend Thomas, and your sadness around not seeing him. Or the time you helped a nervous Grey with his Taekwondo forms the night before his belt test. Or Mother’s Day when you set your watch alarm for 3:00 a.m. so you could sneak into my room and place a handmade box on my bedside table. Inside was a poem titled, “My Mother” that I couldn’t read aloud without crying. “I wanted it to be the first thing you saw when you woke up in the morning Mommy.”
The truth is you’re a quintessential New Yorker: a little sweet and a little sour — with the perfect dose of snark. Evidenced by your response when I called you “Joe it All” after you’d corrected me for the umpteenth time. “Whatever Mom, that’s a good thing. ‘Cause that just means I have a lot of knowledge. And if it was meant as an insult, I’ll just ignore it.”
Touché my dear! That’s what you like to call a “sick burn”.
So Cash, on this 10th birthday, I wish for you to hold fast to that fiery assertion, the confidence to defend your case, the sweet along with the crusty, and the skill of a well-crafted New York comeback. But especially, most exceptionally, your big heart.
Happy birthday son! I love you.
Always and forever, Mom