Yoda Grows Up: Jukie at 18

For my special son on his 18th birthday. 

Today, sweet Jukie, you turn 18 years old. It’s almost as if I thought this day would never arrive, for when I held you and rocked you in my arms all those uncertain days and long nights so many years ago, the road ahead felt so daunting that I couldn’t imagine you ever growing up. 

Soon after your birth, people commented on your unusual look. They told me you looked wise, like Yoda from Star Wars. You were my silent Buddha, taking everything in, withholding your smiles, like you were rationing them for special occasions. You spent your time looking narrowly and deeply into my eyes. What do you know, I wondered. 

You have always kept your own timetable — you grew and developed on your own schedule. You cautiously waited 17 months to walk. Three days after your first step, you took off running. Running was your favorite, I used to say. It’s still your favorite. 

The countless hours we spent at physical, occupational, and speech therapy each week throughout your early childhood felt overwhelming, but they also made us hopeful. So many people loved and nurtured you along the way. When I felt anxious about your development, I borrowed from the hope and enthusiasm expressed by your therapists and teachers. I depended upon them as your cheerleading squad. Maybe I needed them even more than you did; they helped get us through those tough years. Even as you lost your language, you found your way. 

Your early elementary school teacher became my friend. She and I communicated in notebooks and then via email, filling each other in on your home and school life so that you’d have consistency going back and forth between these realms of love. With our letters, we took turns strategizing for you and speaking for you. Giving me her strength and her encouragement, your teacher told me to publish my stories. When I became a writer, you were my first subject.

Our last few years haven’t been easy. Adolescence rocked your equilibrium, caused you great frustration, and triggered your truculent impulses. Still you look into my eyes, and still you can’t tell me why you’re upset. We do our best to communicate with each other, often failing to understand. But we never stop trying. 

And now you are my teacher. Every day in your Zen way, you show me how to slow down, and how to focus mindfully on the small things in our lives. You draw my attention to a single leaf falling from the towering sycamore tree in our backyard, the sound of the wind chimes blowing in the breeze, a tiny droplet of condensation in the corner of a copper table, or the scent of curry coming from a neighbor’s home. I’m grateful to see the world the way you see it and through your eyes. That is my gift on your birthday.

My mercurial little adult, my beloved, take my hand. We will continue together.