Birthday Wishes

On Sunday we celebrated our son John's 8th birthday, and the Sunday before that we celebrated Henry's 11th. And for the first time ever, each boy had their own party and made their own decisions about what to do and how to do it. I've heard other parents say that their kids like to have the say-so on such things and since they are not me, I listened to them.

I don't really believe that John is eight years old, because he still sounds like he's only three. He says "guhls" instead of girls, "wobbahs" instead of robbers. Perhaps foolishly, and certainly selfishly, I've let that one go because I don't want to see it gone. As long as he sounds like he's three, then he is still three. Still my beautiful little Johnny the Wonder Bee.

And Henry...ah, Henry.

In comparison to my 11 year old self, Henry feels like a newborn. Is he smoking yet? No. Has he heavy petted? I should say not. Does he still walk on tip-toes and play imaginary games with his siblings? Of course he does. His childhood is very much intact. How can he be freaking 11 years old when he's so innocent?

Both boys made their own guest lists for their parties. John checked his over once and then he checked it over twice, just like Santa weighing who'd been naughty and who'd been nice. It was hard for him to put a limit on the number, and so the list grew from just five boys to all the boys in his class plus boys from his class last year.

And like his brother, it was hard for Henry to create the guest list for his own party. And his, also, grew to be double in size. Surprisingly (and sweetly), he took a risk and invited a few boys outside his little band of geek brothers, each of whom nonetheless march to their own tune as well.

As the hour grew nearer to each boy's party, each boy grew more and more anxious. John's anxiety manifested in his prowling the house, drifting from one activity to the next in an endless search for someplace to hold his restlessness. Totally exasperating and totally exhausting, but also easy to help him manage. Henry's anxiety is more painful for me to watch. He collapses into himself, gets broody, becomes clingy, acts oddly.

We sat each boy down in turn to chat about what was troubling them. John's concerns tumbled out one after the other: Would everybody have fun? Who would he play with first? How would he make everybody happy, make everybody feel welcomed, make time to be with everybody. Henry's worry was different; his greatest concern was what his friends would think of him, of his house, of his family, of the party itself. Not whether they would have fun but whether they would make fun.

I, too, worry about what people will think of him. He's been rejected so many times and I am sensitive to it. I don't know what to do about my anxiousness for Henry. I flip back and forth from acting as his champion to sadly being his critic. There are weeks where I think everything is fine, and then weeks where I feel discouraged and even hopeless. The good weeks convince me to let it be, and the bad weeks prove that I need to step it up. For as long as I can remember, I have tried to help Henry understand his anxieties and create strategies to manage them, but I don't know that I've helped.

I freaking wish I knew. I hate not knowing.