Frankie, this one's for you.
As most of you know, I have two sons, Ben (34) and Frankie (32).
Although they were born in the same week (September 16 and 10 respectively), under the same astrological sign (if you believe in that stuff), they're as different as night and day.
Growing up, Ben was focused and driven; Frankie was carefree and fun loving.
Ben always did his homework, with projects turned in early.
Frankie's used to say, "Mom, you know I know how to do this. My teacher knows I know how to do this, so why do I have to do it?"
Yeah, getting Frankie to do his homework was always a struggle.
There was no doubt in my mind that Frankie was innately smarter than Ben, but Ben worked harder, so his grades were better.
In sports, Ben was a fierce competitor, disappointed with every loss, no matter how strong his performance was. Frankie was equally competitive, but he kept it in perspective. He'd say, "Mom, the coach is taking this way too seriously."
They played soccer, football, basketball, baseball, and in high school, Frankie wrestled and played rugby.
Ben was neat and Frankie, not so much.
Back then, OK maybe even now, I was the queen of nagging.
I used to ride Ben and Frankie all the time about everything it seems, but I especially got on Frankie about his hair ( that's another message for another day) and his messy room.
His room was in a constant state of disarray, until finally, after hearing me complain enough, he'd clean it.
And I mean he'd really clean it from top to bottom.
In fact, no one cleans and organizes better than Frankie; he just doesn't do it often.
And now, as I sit in my apartment, surrounded by empty boxes (under the pretense of saving them to ship things back to the US), cabinets and drawers pulled out and not returned to their rightful places when I was searching for something, where dust bunnies have found a home and keep adding to their spread, where piles of wind-blown sand are making mini pyramids near the doors and windows, where clothes are hanging on every door instead of returned to the closet, where the floors haven't been swept or mopped in forever, I realize even more that Frankie is just like me.
I, too, am that messy person who is content to live in the mess, until I'm not, who then goes in like a storm, scrubbing, purging, and making it clean again.
The apple truly doesn't fall far from the tree.
So Frankie, for all the times I was on your case, I'm sorry.
Maybe even then, I realized you were just like me, and as I worked overtime in trying to correct your bad habits, I should have used some of that time to fix my own.
Know this.
I love you.
I love your thoughtfulness, your kindness, and your unique way of seeing the world. I love how you wear your intelligence, not as a badge of honor, but as a tool to better understand those around you.
And most of all, I love the man you have become, mess and all. I could not be prouder of the husband, father, and man you've grown up to be.
