To the Boy that Made Me a Mother
I dreamt of you, you know.
I was a slip of a girl when I wrote about the baby I hoped to have, a blond hair girl baby. Only I got you, a dark headed son, five pounds, one ounce and five weeks early. My heart would never be the same.
I feared for you, you know.
I cradled you in my arms and thought to myself as we got ready to take you home, this just doesn’t seem safe. For good reason, our big old furnace had run out of oil and I held you, wrapped in a fleece blanket, and handed over a credit card to warm you up that cold December day.
I nursed you, you know.
Every two hours and throughout the night. Snippets of sleep were hard to come by, but you were my pot of gold.
I slept with you, you know.
Tucked between daddy and me, you cozy in that bright yellow fleece sleep sack, and every so often, we would get a nice long stretch of four hours or so.
I shed tears over you, you know.
Jaundice, dehydration, my milk hadn’t come in and I didn’t know. How was I supposed to know? We stood watch over the tiny incubator and your first Christmas was spent beneath blue light.
I worked for you, you know.
My dissertation beckoned me and so, the two of us hopped on a plane when you were just a month old and headed south, so your grandmother could help with your care while I typed and rewrote and typed some more.
I loved you, you know.
From the very second, I saw the double line on that stick, I fell head over heels and I never have recovered.
I was smitten with you, you know.
Your existence made me long for another and when your brother came along just a year and half later, big brotherhood suited you, diapers and all.
I was completed by you, you know.
The child that eclipsed my soul and made me wonder how I had lived so long and not known the depth of a mothering heart.
Happy 12th birthday, my son.