Dear Son,
Anytime you feel down or lost, please remember one thing.
Every difficulty, every challenge, every black moment-- every tear and every minute of suffering I experienced was worth it, because it brought me to you.
I can't change the choices I've made, can't take back any of my mistakes. Neither can you. But you can steer your ship toward safe harbor, and believe me son, you will make it there.
The most perfect moment of my entire life was this afternoon, sitting and holding you as you fell asleep. You were snuggled under my chin and happy to be close to me. I knew that someday you wouldn't want to cuddle me like that, and I was determined to appreciate every second of being with you. I realized then that there was nothing else I could possibly ask for. You make me so happy I think I could burst.
Life won't always be this amazing, my little one. I know that there are challenges ahead for me, because that is the nature of living. Hopefully with strength and your Daddy's companionship, I will weather them all. And anytime I feel down, I will look back on how I felt being with you, loving you, in this perfect moment.
I love you. You'll never know how much.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
My Sweet Boy
Dear Archer,
It's the day after your birthday, and I'm sitting here holding you at bedtime. You've had an ear infection this week, so it hurts for you to lie down. So I'm holding you as you snuggle up, with your head under my chin, and fall asleep clinging to my cheek. You just had a bath and your head smells sweet. It's pretty wonderful just sitting here, rocking you, listening to your little sighs. Sometimes you giggle in your sleep. That's pretty wonderful too.
As I sit here a thousand thoughts go through my head. When you grow up and have a child of your own, will you think of me as you rock him to sleep? Will you know how happy I was to sit there and rock you and be your safe warm place in that moment in time? If time is anything like it has been for me, these years will pass quickly, too quickly. You won't be my snuggly baby for long. Soon you'll have ideas of your own, you'll argue with me, I'll try to be as patient as I can with you, try not to lose my temper. I'm sure I'll fail. But I'll try.
I'll do my best to remember our journey we've had so far together. I'll remember how much I wished for you, every day. I'll think of the day that I discovered I was pregnant, and how my heart started beating fast and my vision became bright and watery as I looked down at that little sign that said you were coming to be with us. I'll think of the days that I wondered about how you were doing in there, and how happy I was when I could finally feel you, fluttering around inside me, your little kicks a constant reminder of your presence.
When it came time to give birth to you, I was scared, baby. I've never been more scared in my life. At first I thought I could handle it, but then it became painful and the hours dragged on and I knew I wasn't going to be able to get you out the usual way. They wheeled me into the operating room with your Daddy at my side, and I was crying and shaking and then I was terrified as they numbed my body for the operation. I was so, so scared. I was afraid I would feel it, or something would happen and I would die, right there, and never get to meet you.
But then something wonderful happened. I heard your voice, your cry. And all of sudden I wasn't a just me anymore. I didn't care about what was happening. I heard you and I wanted to see you, wanted to go to you and hold you and kiss you.
I saw them bring you over to the table and I told your Daddy to go and get you, because I couldn't. I wanted him to make sure you were okay. Of course you were, and soon they brought you over so I could see you too. You were wrinkled and wet and unhappy, but beautiful and all mine. I loved you even then, loved how in a single instant I forgot what it was like to be scared for myself, and instead I was just happy to see you.
Your Daddy and I have been so happy to watch you grow since then. Of course we've loved every small milestone you hit: when you recognized our faces, followed us with your eyes; when you smiled at my peek-a-boos, when you laughed at your Uncle Matt blowing raspberries on your tummy; when you reached for your block and finally managed a crawl; when you pulled yourself up to stand on me. Now you learn a million things a second-- just today you learned to blow kisses. This month you've learned to sign for more food, for Daddy, for Mommy, for water, and for "all done." You've started pushing furniture around. You like it when I put you on my back and pack you around like a little papoose. Your laugh is so perfect and sweet. You are a happy cheerful boy most of the time, and don't cry and carry on when you fall down just a little bit.
For now, everything is perfect. Even the worst days are just dirty diapers or crabby sleepy boys who want Momma to cuddle them. I know someday things will be much more complicated. You will see me and Daddy as we are, and realize we can't fix everything or even respond well to everything. You might get angry with me for not understanding the world as you do. I may even let you down or embarrass you sometimes.
But what really nags at me, what bothers me is thinking that you might not understand how wonderful you are. You might have people pick on you, or you might look in the mirror and not like what you see. That would absolutely break my heart, baby. Please know always how wonderful and perfect and wanted you are. You're the most wonderful thing I've ever made and there's nothing I'm more proud of. Please always be filled and protected by my love, as much as you can be.
There's a lot ahead of us, little one, and part of your journey will be made without me. I won't be able to fight your battles and I will send you into the world with as much help as I can muster and just have to hope that it's enough. You will take my love with you always and everywhere, and I hope that will be enough.
I love you so much my little one. No one in the world has ever been loved more than you are.
Happy Birthday, my sweet. I hope next year is even better than this one has been.
My love always,
Mommy
It's the day after your birthday, and I'm sitting here holding you at bedtime. You've had an ear infection this week, so it hurts for you to lie down. So I'm holding you as you snuggle up, with your head under my chin, and fall asleep clinging to my cheek. You just had a bath and your head smells sweet. It's pretty wonderful just sitting here, rocking you, listening to your little sighs. Sometimes you giggle in your sleep. That's pretty wonderful too.
As I sit here a thousand thoughts go through my head. When you grow up and have a child of your own, will you think of me as you rock him to sleep? Will you know how happy I was to sit there and rock you and be your safe warm place in that moment in time? If time is anything like it has been for me, these years will pass quickly, too quickly. You won't be my snuggly baby for long. Soon you'll have ideas of your own, you'll argue with me, I'll try to be as patient as I can with you, try not to lose my temper. I'm sure I'll fail. But I'll try.
I'll do my best to remember our journey we've had so far together. I'll remember how much I wished for you, every day. I'll think of the day that I discovered I was pregnant, and how my heart started beating fast and my vision became bright and watery as I looked down at that little sign that said you were coming to be with us. I'll think of the days that I wondered about how you were doing in there, and how happy I was when I could finally feel you, fluttering around inside me, your little kicks a constant reminder of your presence.
When it came time to give birth to you, I was scared, baby. I've never been more scared in my life. At first I thought I could handle it, but then it became painful and the hours dragged on and I knew I wasn't going to be able to get you out the usual way. They wheeled me into the operating room with your Daddy at my side, and I was crying and shaking and then I was terrified as they numbed my body for the operation. I was so, so scared. I was afraid I would feel it, or something would happen and I would die, right there, and never get to meet you.
But then something wonderful happened. I heard your voice, your cry. And all of sudden I wasn't a just me anymore. I didn't care about what was happening. I heard you and I wanted to see you, wanted to go to you and hold you and kiss you.
I saw them bring you over to the table and I told your Daddy to go and get you, because I couldn't. I wanted him to make sure you were okay. Of course you were, and soon they brought you over so I could see you too. You were wrinkled and wet and unhappy, but beautiful and all mine. I loved you even then, loved how in a single instant I forgot what it was like to be scared for myself, and instead I was just happy to see you.
Your Daddy and I have been so happy to watch you grow since then. Of course we've loved every small milestone you hit: when you recognized our faces, followed us with your eyes; when you smiled at my peek-a-boos, when you laughed at your Uncle Matt blowing raspberries on your tummy; when you reached for your block and finally managed a crawl; when you pulled yourself up to stand on me. Now you learn a million things a second-- just today you learned to blow kisses. This month you've learned to sign for more food, for Daddy, for Mommy, for water, and for "all done." You've started pushing furniture around. You like it when I put you on my back and pack you around like a little papoose. Your laugh is so perfect and sweet. You are a happy cheerful boy most of the time, and don't cry and carry on when you fall down just a little bit.
For now, everything is perfect. Even the worst days are just dirty diapers or crabby sleepy boys who want Momma to cuddle them. I know someday things will be much more complicated. You will see me and Daddy as we are, and realize we can't fix everything or even respond well to everything. You might get angry with me for not understanding the world as you do. I may even let you down or embarrass you sometimes.
But what really nags at me, what bothers me is thinking that you might not understand how wonderful you are. You might have people pick on you, or you might look in the mirror and not like what you see. That would absolutely break my heart, baby. Please know always how wonderful and perfect and wanted you are. You're the most wonderful thing I've ever made and there's nothing I'm more proud of. Please always be filled and protected by my love, as much as you can be.
There's a lot ahead of us, little one, and part of your journey will be made without me. I won't be able to fight your battles and I will send you into the world with as much help as I can muster and just have to hope that it's enough. You will take my love with you always and everywhere, and I hope that will be enough.
I love you so much my little one. No one in the world has ever been loved more than you are.
Happy Birthday, my sweet. I hope next year is even better than this one has been.
My love always,
Mommy
Monday, January 28, 2013
To Breathe
I wrote a poem once, probably the best poem I've ever written, about a girl who is underwater. She's sitting there, just below the surface, looking at everything through the cloudy, rippled lens of the water. Everything looks soft and pretty from her point of view, light and comfortable. It's beautiful.
But the point of the poem is that regardless of how pretty it is, she's still underwater. Which means she either has to come up and take a breath, face reality, or she's going to die. This has been a metaphor for my life for as long as I can remember. I've always felt like I haven't started fighting for air yet. Like I'm someone who is content to just float there until I die.
Fighting is hard. Fighting means coming up for air, breaking the surface and seeing things the way they actually are, rather than the way I'd like to see them. Seeing myself for my flaws, seeing that despite my insistence that I'm doing my best with my gifts, I am actually wasting them. I am actively wasting my time. I am filling it up with everything except my deepest desires, because it's easier and because I'm afraid.
What am I afraid of you may ask? The same thing I've always been afraid of. Failure. There's a line from the Joy Luck Club. She says, "What a shame, you fall down. No one push you." I always think of that when I start thinking these thoughts, start letting myself have a taste of reality. I'm afraid that I've talked myself up for so long, said I was a writer and then when I actually go to put words on the page I will suck. I have the thinnest skin for critique in my writing group. I clam up and get angry when people give me honest feedback. And it's because of my insecurity. My flagrant, pathetic insecurity.
Do I have the potential for greatness? This is a question I've always answered with a loud OF COURSE. I am great. But the thing that really scares me is that when all is said and done I will not measure up. I will be mediocre, at best. I know when writing is good and I know that mine is not on par right now. I don't have the magic I want to have. I am in the middle ground between recognizing what is good and knowing that for now, I don't cut it.
But I have to fail in order to succeed. I can't be afraid to suck because this writing, these experiences will lead me to enlightenment. I will practice until the hard work becomes a second nature to me, until the words flow like they do on those rare occasions when I'm inspired. I can't sit around and wait for the flighty bite of that inspiration. I've got to make it my work ethic. And I have to do it soon.
My self-worth is completely tied up in this. In my insecurity, in my fear of failure, in my paralyzing inability to even try.
I've got to get free of this somehow. It starts tonight. I'm sitting here, in front of this computer until I find the path. I need to know where I'm going with this book, my direction and make a map. I need to follow it to its end. And I need to move on.
Mostly I need to decide if I'm going to give this up or not. I feel like I would explode into a million pieces if I do. But I know that if I keep waiting, keep deferring my dream, it will be even worse. It will rot inside of me, and nothing good will be left.
Take a breath. Come see what it looks like in the sun.
But the point of the poem is that regardless of how pretty it is, she's still underwater. Which means she either has to come up and take a breath, face reality, or she's going to die. This has been a metaphor for my life for as long as I can remember. I've always felt like I haven't started fighting for air yet. Like I'm someone who is content to just float there until I die.
Fighting is hard. Fighting means coming up for air, breaking the surface and seeing things the way they actually are, rather than the way I'd like to see them. Seeing myself for my flaws, seeing that despite my insistence that I'm doing my best with my gifts, I am actually wasting them. I am actively wasting my time. I am filling it up with everything except my deepest desires, because it's easier and because I'm afraid.
What am I afraid of you may ask? The same thing I've always been afraid of. Failure. There's a line from the Joy Luck Club. She says, "What a shame, you fall down. No one push you." I always think of that when I start thinking these thoughts, start letting myself have a taste of reality. I'm afraid that I've talked myself up for so long, said I was a writer and then when I actually go to put words on the page I will suck. I have the thinnest skin for critique in my writing group. I clam up and get angry when people give me honest feedback. And it's because of my insecurity. My flagrant, pathetic insecurity.
Do I have the potential for greatness? This is a question I've always answered with a loud OF COURSE. I am great. But the thing that really scares me is that when all is said and done I will not measure up. I will be mediocre, at best. I know when writing is good and I know that mine is not on par right now. I don't have the magic I want to have. I am in the middle ground between recognizing what is good and knowing that for now, I don't cut it.
But I have to fail in order to succeed. I can't be afraid to suck because this writing, these experiences will lead me to enlightenment. I will practice until the hard work becomes a second nature to me, until the words flow like they do on those rare occasions when I'm inspired. I can't sit around and wait for the flighty bite of that inspiration. I've got to make it my work ethic. And I have to do it soon.
My self-worth is completely tied up in this. In my insecurity, in my fear of failure, in my paralyzing inability to even try.
I've got to get free of this somehow. It starts tonight. I'm sitting here, in front of this computer until I find the path. I need to know where I'm going with this book, my direction and make a map. I need to follow it to its end. And I need to move on.
Mostly I need to decide if I'm going to give this up or not. I feel like I would explode into a million pieces if I do. But I know that if I keep waiting, keep deferring my dream, it will be even worse. It will rot inside of me, and nothing good will be left.
Take a breath. Come see what it looks like in the sun.
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