A love letter to my son
I have always wanted to write a letter to you. I am doing this before you ask me for the tenth biscuit. I wish I could ask the same question over and over again without getting tired, it really is an amazing feat. I have remembered to charge your iPad, the iPad to which you are currently attached to and at some point, I am going to ban you.
I am writing this to let you know that I am sorry. I am sorry if sometimes I am tired, or that I shout in the mornings. I understand that the morning routine can be traumatic. I guess in my own neurotic way I am trying to teach you punctuality, which ironically I am not the best at.
You were nine days late, and large, at 9lb 5oz you burst into my world. Maybe not burst, more persuaded by forceps and that Hoover thing. You arrived on that sunny September morning and all I could think was “help”. I was unable to really look after myself let alone a whole human being. Baby boy you seemed to know me, nine months of listening to me talk, sing, talk…a lot, moan, argue, eat, belch, and hear my heartbeat. You knew me, as you looked at me with one eye, you knew me.
You are Eight now, and all I seem to worry about is if I am teaching you well. Will you grow into a respected individual? Is your environment settled? Do I love you enough? How many other parents have asked the same questions, kept themselves up at night worrying if they have paid the dinner money or if the homework has been completed?
I am sorry that I brought things, people, insecurities, and my own self-doubt between us. You are too young to understand that I am a flawed character. Although you see me as a superwoman who gives you chips, I am far from the perfect person you see when you look at me. I am lost, I am glad that you found me.
I am glad that you still love to hold my hand. Touch is so difficult for me, I struggle with even the smallest of hugs. I love to hug you, kiss your smudged face, wipe your nose with my hand because I can’t find a tissue, and smell your tangled hair that you won’t let me comb.
Did I tell you that your hugs are medicine to my soul? I dread the day when our hugs will be few and far between. Soon, I will look at you and I see a bearded mountain of hormones, full of teenage angst and accusing eyes. Until then your touch, your little hugs are medicine to my fragile soul. God knew what she was doing when she blessed my womb with you.
Did I tell you that I appreciate silence? I always have. However when the air is touched with your sweet singing, I find myself listening to you. The songs and words are mixed up, and on occasion out of tune. Your love is laced on the very notes you sing to me and I appreciate it.
Did I say thank you for being my teacher? Patience was the first lesson. I listen now without jumping off at the deep end, YOU taught me that. I have learned to juggle supermarket bags, plus all of your bags by myself. I can join a circus now.
I am careful who walks into our lives, who of the many will stand the test of time. I pray each night for discernment. I pray for the sixth sense that will protect us both in this heartless world. I pray for a superhuman power that can see the contents of the heart. My mother says we have that gift, passed down by the ancestors, I hope you have that gift too. So little man this is for you. If I have ever failed you I am sorry. I am a work in progress, and you darling are my best work. Nothing compares.