Dear Matteo,
Happy 9th birthday! Somehow, you're already halfway to adulthood.
Instead of a Happy Birthday sing-along, let's put on a Michael Jackson track.
"Ah-hee-hee!" has been jumping out of you throughout these first days of being nine. It's like you caught a Michael Jackson cold, but instead of a surprise sneeze, you belt out a vintage MJ vocal flourish. I get it. I was raised on the Off the Wall album, which Grandma Vicki claims put me to sleep many nights with headphones on. Now that I think about it, maybe that was the beginning of my hearing loss?
Speaking of things that haven't aged well, Michael Jackson's legacy has gotten... complicated. But if you separate the art from the artist, it's hard to deny the music. The songs have once again proven timeless now that they're appealing to you.
Some of your favorites are "Human Nature," "Man in the Mirror," and, of course, "Billie Jean." I can still manage a passable moonwalk, and I've taught you and Eliza the mechanics. You two now practice regularly on the hardwood floors with your socks on.
In addition to catching that Michael Jackson cold, you also came down with a bad attitude cold (not to be confused with the song Bad). The pre-adolescent eye rolls and backtalk seemed to appear out of nowhere. You've been talking back a little more and not listening to Mom and me the first time.
We eventually decided that your new summertime habit of waking up and heading straight to the TV probably wasn't helping. So we introduced a new morning routine. Before any screens or playing, you and Eliza need to get yourselves ready, make breakfast, and write a short paragraph of reflection to start the day.
On the very first day, you dug in your heels. You absolutely refused to do the writing exercise, which meant no fun activities. I was gone for most of the day at work, so Mom had to carry the burden of this standoff herself, which wasn't fair to her.
You called me on my drive home to air your grievances, including your complaint that "Mom won't let me touch the Earth." I reminded you that you'd spent hours avoiding a writing exercise that should only take a few minutes. You may not love writing, but you're pretty good at math, so run the numbers. A few minutes of writing would exercise your brain, improve your penmanship (which definitely needs the practice), and, most importantly, show respect to Mom and me while giving you a better start to your day.
I felt pretty good when we hung up. I had even suggested that if you were frustrated, you could simply write about how you felt about the assignment itself.
When I walked through the front door, Mom gave me a look that said, "Do you realize what you've done?"
"I think I really got through to Matteo," I replied confidently.
She silently handed me the paper you had written.
You had completed the assignment... but with a shocking number of A-word and F-word references sprinkled throughout. I laughed so hard I felt like I was watching my own family sitcom.
I walked upstairs holding the paper and asked what had happened.
"You said I could use cuss words, Dad," you answered.
Now, while my hearing isn't what it used to be, I'm fairly certain I never said anything of the sort. You had taken some significant artistic liberties.
To your credit, you did revise the paper. You crossed out every cuss word with the thinnest possible line—leaving each one perfectly legible—and replaced them with the word "stupid."
That revised masterpiece is now worthy of our refrigerator and has officially earned its place in the family history books.
So naughty. So funny.
Thankfully, Mom and I were right about the new morning routine. Since we started it, your attitude has been much better. You now write thoughtful responses to prompts like, "What's your favorite place to visit?" You finish them quickly, head outside to finally touch the Earth, and spend the rest of the day playing, occasionally belting out an enthusiastic "Ah-hee-hee!" that we can hear from inside our calm-once-again house.
It's good to have your singing self back.
This is nine.
Love,
Dad