You Deserve an Award

On the day that we came, you smiled at me. Your class filed into the gym in a neat row, hair neatly combed for pictures, all on their best behavior for the rows of parents sitting with cell phone cameras poised and ready. Your teacher stood at the podium and welcomed us. I leaned into the aisle to make sure that you saw me. You did. You smiled. You knew I was there for you. Me, your dad, your grandparents — we all came for you. We are so incredibly proud of you.

You deserve an award.

You could get an award for being the funniest kid in the room. You have some strange little boy sense of humor that this grown up woman can’t quite wrap my head around, but I know little boys flock to you. You make funny faces and say random things and act goofy; anything to get a laugh. When you see someone upset, you make them laugh. You’re hilarious, and I’m so proud of you.

You could get an award for your athleticism — playing jackpot on the playground with a borrowed football, shooting hoops with a kickball because it’s the only thing your teacher has, or juking everybody playing tag. You’re a stellar athlete, and all your classmates know it. You’re crazy competitive, but you also cheer for your friends when they do well, because more than you like being great, you like having friends, and I’m so proud of you.

You could get an award for being a great friend. Sometimes I tell you to stop hanging out with kids who tempt you to goof off in class, but you can’t just walk away like that. Even though I want you to impress teachers with good behavior, if I’m honest, I really want you to be friends with tough kids no matter what anyone thinks, even teachers. You don’t care what someone’s background is or who their parents are or what grades they make; you want to be friends with everyone, and I’m so proud of you.

You could get an award for your tenderness, the heart that feels so much. You think so much more deeply and thoroughly than most kids your age; every decision is calculated, even the bad ones. But you evaluate information, weigh consequences, and make choices that you feel are right, even when sometimes you’re wrong. But when that happens, you listen and you learn, and I’m so proud of you.

You could get an award for your curiosity. You want to know how everything works, why they work that way, and if there’s a better way. You respond better to correction when you understand why you were wrong. You respond better to encouragement when you understand why it is right. You are brilliant and inquisitive and logical and thoughtful, and I’m so proud of you.

You could get an award for growing so much this year. You have learned about your classmates, your teachers, your siblings. You have learned about relationships, social cues, and emotional strength. You have learned so much about your own value, and you’re still learning. You have stood up for yourself, made good choices, and learned from your mistakes, and I’m so proud of you.

You are more than a number on a page, and I am proud of everything that you are, everything that makes you so uniquely you.

On the day that we came, you didn’t stand in front of your classmates and teachers and parents, being recognized for excellence in work habits or the highest grade point average or perfect attendance. They didn’t give an award for being you. They gave awards for other things, fine things, admirable things. But they’re not everything. You don’t have to be good at those things to be good. You don’t need a piece of paper to impress me. Your worth does not come from a teacher or a grade or an award. You are good. You are loved. You are worthy. You are mine.

And I am so, so, so proud of you.