Reflection & Unironic Love Poem to my 17-Year-Old

Baking a brownie-cake, setting up gifts and a sign, working on a poem, listening to a “17” playlist, dancing, cleaning…, circling through activities this morning elated, grateful, and relieved. I’m happy for this milestone in which to nod a bye to the past and begin anew. I suspect many configurations of this year, June-June, might’ve made me nostalgic, even wistful, this morning — my last year with a child at home (as opposed to an adult child). Time means little in many ways and I certainly think the 18 start to adulthood is better understood as flexible; but a landmark in our culture regardless. This year… I would never have imagined such a hard 16th year for my kid. Mine was brilliant! — license, independence, first love, dancing at the Spectrum. Coley’s was pretty great too, with friends and theatre, minus the last ⅙ when the pandemic shut down the world. Quinn’s 16th year was brutal! I pause this morning, having woken to pouring rain that’s since shifted to sun, literally, to reflect and give thanks.

Last summer, Quinn had all four wisdom teeth out at once. I asked them not to, but… They didn’t regret the month of pain, thinking it was better than less pain over more time. As their Mom, I’d have preferred the less pain option for them, but I’ve been respecting their choices for years already. They are wicked smaht. We did have some great adventures before and after. Quinn drove many miles between Massachusetts and Florida. Quinn and Coley both agree that the worst place for driving is my hometown, Lynn. Lynn Lynn the city of sin makes for good training, I say. As I recall now, the year has been far from a washout. Quinn suffered migraines through the fall that were sometimes debilitating, but they played the beggar in The Beggar and the King, one of 3 one-act plays put on at their high school and, true to style, played it down. They played it down so successfully that I didn’t even invite people. Then they blew me away! So tragic and powerful! Excellent job.

I wrote my New Year’s Eve post from Children’s Hospital. That was the start of really hard. It would be almost unthinkable that our children could die so young, but that my dear friend lost her son, Baeley, to an accident in October, has had the fragile state of life at the forefront of my thoughts. 

Quinn came near death a couple of times — three ER visits, three Urgent Care visits, three hospital stays — between fighting with insurance and sometimes even doctors, doing all I could for their comfort, and praying, praying, praying. They’re near-good now. A bleed from surgery went undiscovered too long to do much about it. It left them in pain that slowly, slowly subsides. They’re about 69.7% back to normal now. Believe me, every .5, sometimes .05, percent has been a celebration! But don’t they get tired as hell of my asking!

Out of the woods, so to speak, Quinn’s not back to their regular schedule yet, but good enough to do what they need and some of what they want. Good enough for me to feel joyous in celebrating a 17 day countdown to their 17th birthday! I look forward to Quinn waking up to their new bass amp, assorted other treasures, treats, decorations, and all the love I can fill in this home. It’s really quite a lot. 

Quinn’s birthday used to mark the end of Birthday Season for our little family. It used to be shorter, with Coley’s birthday being in May and sometimes a month-long extravaganza that left less enthusiasm for more birthday celebrations. But this year – Quinn’s taking all the birthday space! That they got to 17 seems a heroic feat after such a harrowing 16th year. Join me in wishing Quinn a Happy Birthday, full recovery, and health, comfort, and fulfillment through the next year and beyond. Thanks! 

Unironic Love Poem to my 17-Year-Old

The you is in the magic

that dance-like twisted my

swollen postpartum body

to keep you sky face up 

when the dog pulled us

tripping down over wires.

The you is in superhero suits,

haunted houses in June, ironic

poems still true, nonsensical

essential laughs, courage in

a world of judge-ophiles, in-

your-own-timeness, in your

being proof of miracles.

I don’t care if you’re boy

or girl or other, straight

or gay, if you listen or 

ignore everything I say.

You choose any name, I’ll

love them all. You fall 

anywhere, on any spectrum —

left, further left, quirky, quiet,

perceptive, bright  — the point

of my devotion. The you 

is protected in the parts of me

I most cherish, I revere.