colleen & carl
a post dedicated to wesley michael walker
hey hi hello,
Me again! I knowwww I don’t *need* to explain my absence or inability to form coherent sentences at this point, but my anxiety feels obligated to inform you that I have been tryyyying to get back in touch with you and with myself.
It’s really hard out here, y’all. Parenting a toddler + working with people who are experiencing unbearable suffering + experiencing your own shit + being hiiiiighly sensitive + war + trying to find slightly baggy but tight-ish boyfriend jeans that cover your ankles is… A LOT. But I’m also trying to do this thing where I just do things…when I can. And I don’t beat myself up about it, too much. It feels pretty revolutionary, tbh. I’ll just check in, when I can. I’ll just clean that mess, when I can. I’ll just shower, when I can. I’ll just process, when I can. And that’s that!
So here I am, with a few minutes to myself, feeling like I can share a little something about my son, Wes.
I realized that since I left instagram in June (hold the applause), that the (only?) thing I miss from that pure chaos-aesthetically pleasing dumpster fire- compare and despair, brand influencers for social justice wait what? - fake belonging grifter campaigns — app, is showing off Wes. Call it exploitive, or narcissism by proxy, or just annoying as hell, but I can’t help myself. I love showing off my kid. This creation. This personality. This being who drives me to the edge of the cliff of despair and self-doubt, and just before I jump, does something so simultaneously small and incredible that forces me to step back, and reckon with the fact that it is, in fact, possible to love someone to the edge of the universe and back.
And it feels important to name this love, explicitly. For myself, and for Wes. Because sharing a love that makes me feel whole at a time when there is so much hatred and division is crucial for my survival. I guess you could say I’m choosing love as an act of resistance, or something.
I’ve also realized how few people truly know about Wes’s (and by extension, my) life these days. How much I relied on instagram to be my personal PR rep. Wowwww. I don’t feel great about writing that sentence! How gross it feels to think that some filtered photo reel could convey a full life. I’ve always had sneaky suspicions that this society is not set up for communities to stay connected in a meaningful way, but I am now experiencing that ugly truth. There are so many people I love and care deeply for who I haven’t spoken to in months, even years. That so much of maintaining relationships these days feels like playing a card game with half the deck missing, and you have to just sort of make up the rules while you play, but every time you stop playing, the game completely changes and you have to start all over again.
There are so many people I love who don’t even know that Wes is eating with a fork now, or that he prefers using his left hand, or that I started- then stopped - and think I’m going to start up again dyeing my multiplying gray hairs, or what my favorite color currently is (moss green). So many people I love who I know so little about these days. I guess none of this is new, but there’s something about being responsible for a child in this dying world that just hits different.
So while I have no real solutions or wise words or notes of comfort today, I do have some updates about Wes that I’d love to share with you:
We have reason to believe that Wes has just met his first invisible friends, Colleen and Carl. Yes, you read that correctly. A few nights ago, Wes brought up Colleen and Carl, casually, and told us that they were all having lunch together next week. Sam and I double checked Wes’s daycare roster to make sure we didn’t miss the memo about an elderly couples exchange student program in Petite Scholars Toddler B Class. Nope. No Colleen and no Carl. I wonder where they’ll go for lunch.
Wes loves Paris, moms in yoga pants, big boys, Miss Rachel (or as he calls her, “Mitchell”) and ecstatic dance.
Wes prefers bananas to apples, trader joes waffles to cheerios and sparkling water to still (oops).
As of ten days ago, Wes became OBSESSED with Santa Claus and all he wants for Christmas is: eggs.
Wes is learning how to apologize. He now says “you okay, Mama?” and “I sorry, Dada” approximately 20 minutes after the offense. Maybe I’m just trying to justify his behavior, but I think it’s kind of nice receiving an apology totally out of the blue.
Wes is currently the size of an average 3.5 year old. I’d be lying and a better person if I said we haven’t made several jokes about sending Wes to Catholic School for their sports programs. In all seriousness, though, it has been both very fascinating and a little bit heartbreaking watching our gigantic (that’s the politically correct term) toddler navigate the playground with some of the meanest kids I’ve ever met. The other day I overheard some five year old bitch (sorry but if you’re talking shit about my son, I don’t care how old you are, you’re a bitch as far as I’m concerned) say, “ewwww, that kid is still in diapers!” The mama bear/cannibal in me wanted to eat that girl for breakfast and in between bites scream, “He’s not even two yet, you monster!!!” but I decided instead to privately cry in the shower during Wes’s naptime later that day. And I know that, because nothing is fair, that one day Wes’s height will probably serve as a (Jacob Elordi) status symbol, but holding onto that future idea doesn’t really fix the problem or make me feel that better. Most kids assume Wes is a developmentally delayed four year old when they first interact with him, and I’m getting the smallest, most privileged window into how cruel kids can be to those they perceive as different. Wonder where they learned how to be so mean….
All of Wes’s “I love yous” are obviously on his terms, and as much as it feels a little withholding, we love him for living his truth.
If you ask Wes what his name is, nine out of ten times he will respond with “Nick.” A former nanny told us she is positive in a past life, during the depression era, Wes was a history professor named Nicholas. So there you have it.
In Wes’s culture, it is extremely rude to not say “hi!!!” to every single person, or inanimate holiday decoration, you pass on the street.
In just under two years, Wes has already taught us so much about reveling in life’s simple pleasures. To compliment the smoothie you’re drinking, and tell it “mmmm. you’re yummy.” To take a break, mid dinner, and rest on the couch for a few minutes. To stand completely still in the shower and count the water droplets that trickle from your knees down to your toes. To give Santa Claus a quick call when you need a pick me up. To put on a blue beret and pretend you’re in Paris fashion week. To ask for what you really want. To make time for that lunch with your dear friends Colleen and Carl, who you don’t see nearly enough of.
I love you,
Jesse