Letters to My Son

My sweet boy,

Just now, I let the door to your bedroom (slash, Daddy’s office and the way to the bathroom) fall closed a little abruptly and I woke you up with a cry. I cringed and scolded myself for being so careless but you sucked your binkie back into your mouth and fell back asleep within a few seconds. Disaster averted.

We’ve been having a rough go of it the last couple of days, you and me. You’ve been a tired and cranky boy who doesn’t want to eat and doesn’t want to sleep. So unlike you. I think you may finally be getting ready to pop out a couple of teeth like you’ve been threatening to do for two months now.

But here is what I want you to know: your “rough” day is another baby’s great day. You are literally the easiest, happiest little boy I have ever met. If you fuss at me for a minute or two before getting to eat, I’m shocked at you. That’s unheard of, my son. You, in all your perfection, are a rarity on this earth.

I’m going to tell you something that maybe some moms would not: your Dad and I were not trying to have kids when I got pregnant with you. Don’t get me wrong! We wanted kids; we just didn’t think we were ready. But God obviously knew what he was doing. Within moments of knowing you were inside me, my greatest fear was that something would happen to you. Within moments of seeing you for the first time, I loved you more than I have ever loved anyone on this earth. Within a few short weeks, I could no longer imagine my life without you. Over the past six months, I’ve almost forgotten what life was like before you.

You are my whole world.

There are so many things that I want for you, my son, but more than anything I want you to know that you are loved and supported. Always and in everything. Sometimes, when I’m sitting with you on the couch or cuddling with you in bed, I get a little heart achey for a second because I know that you won’t remember any of this – these moments that are so special to me will only be known to you through these letters and pictures and stories I tell. But I console myself with the thought that you will come away from it knowing how much I love you. You will emerge into awareness – that magical barrier you cross into memory making years – knowing that I love you. You won’t be able to put your finger on where that knowledge came from originally; you won’t be able to point at the time you first knew it. But you’ll know it. I’m going to make sure of that.

I love you, my handsome.

Always and Forever,

Mom