On raising a boy who never quiets — and never stops loving
Some children enter your life softly.
Caleb did.
He is my calm. My gentle. My quiet observer who follows every rule and never wants to disappoint. He’s the kid who raises his hand before speaking, who teachers call “a joy to have in class.” If he were a sound, he’d be the hush that follows a snowfall.
Then came Holden, the storm and the wind that kicked up the the snow and sent it swirling again.
He crashed into our family like a firework: bright, loud, and impossible to contain. If his eyes are open, his mouth is moving. He has never met a stranger, only future friends. He talks to cashiers, janitors, passersby, anyone within earshot — and sometimes, those well beyond it.
He’s the one teachers pull you aside to discuss. The one who’s “bright, but struggles to stay on task.” The one who “just can’t sit still.” The one who laughs at his own jokes before anyone else gets the punchline. He’s joy in motion, chaos wrapped in charm.
Take Your Kid to Work Day this year nearly did me in.
He started the morning with a meltdown over the missing cream cheese for the bagels, and the rest of the day never quite recovered. I must have scolded him ten different times for flipping his chair around or leaning too far back in it, whispering his name through clenched teeth more times than I can count. By the end of the day, I was wrung out: tired, frustrated, teetering on the edge of tears. He’s just… so much. All the time.
But just as quickly as he unravels me, he stitches me back together.
He reaches for my hand in parking lots. He tells me he had “the best day ever,” even on days I half spend whisper-yelling his name. He tapes old toys into “gifts” for people just because he likes to make them smile. He cleans the bedroom and waits for me to notice, beaming when I do. His heart is as big as his energy.... sometimes bigger.
Holden is both the hurricane and the heart of this family. My spirited one. The one who exhausts me and delights me in equal measure. He reminds me that chaos and joy can live in the same moment.
He doesn’t do quiet love. He does love that shouts across a room, love that forgets to stay in its seat, love that takes up space and dares you to make room for it.
And maybe that’s the lesson.
Not every good thing comes softly. Not every child fits the mold we imagined when we pictured motherhood. Some love you loudly. Some teach you patience in real time.
He may wear me down, but he also lifts me up.
He reminds me that joy can be wild, that tenderness doesn’t have to whisper, and that the hardest kids to raise often have the brightest light inside them.
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